SARAH MITCHELL
RANDOM THOUGHTS
where the ocean
meets the sky,
deep thoughts lie.
NAKED
When did
Naked
Become a plastic beauty
Less adorned with glory
And moreÂ
Something to grasp for
And grip fingernails into an internet search to find
When did it stop being art
That took the mind back to
The baths of antiquity
Or a mysterious quest
That two bound and innocent lovers
Could discover
Under covers
Together
When did it stop
Being introduced to the soft lappings of saltwater
Without a fire ring of beers in the bushes
As an audience
Or the judgementsÂ
Of squiggly lines
On the stomach
That document that other bodies have become existed
When did naked’s reflection in a mirror
Start inhaling demons
Or magnifying glasses inspecting flaws and imperfections
Where did that standard come from anyway of what perfect naked is
Naked has been vaporized
And categorized
And sent
And taken
And memorized
Until what is fantasized
Is never real
Naked is to be enjoyed
To be nourished and flourished
And surprised with new eyes
Of acceptance
And love
And admiration
WHITE PAPER RESUMES
Started that job application
Where you fill outÂ
repeated blanks
That make blanks inÂ
your muttered self speechÂ
And I noticedÂ
That they kept saying
It wasn’t required to tell them
What color I am
But they keep asking
20 different ways
And highlighting fields
I keep missing
So I accidentallyÂ
Fill it out
In frustration and submit
And I’m wondering why
What color I am
Matters so deeply
To someone
Who only prints out
White paper resumes
LOOKING FOR SCANDINAVIAN CHIQUE
Can’t wait
To have my little loft
Of Scandinavian chiqueÂ
Where I pour over pages
And burn the edges
So they look vintage
Hang them on the vines of my window
With clothes pins
And feel his breath behind me
Wondering why
I’ve chosen to immortalize him among others
And put him in the sunlightÂ
A contrast to my foes
COPING WITH DEATH
In the basement
I heard that distinct laugh
And it echoed forward
40 years
Where your face was invisible
But the walls around me screamedÂ
Your existence
...
For some
Love flows from the pen
Like a hand softly brushes waist high wheat
And for others, hate tumbles out
Like loose rocks
From the mouth of the mountain
Cracking branches as they go
MOONSHINE
Choose old Waterford Crystal to put her in
or even a Mason Jar
and she'll be the Moonshine,
the torn fire of unfiltered sunshine
percolating down the throat
and saturating the belly
If Spontaneous Combustion
is the preferred method of death
then drink her in
take it slow
or consume her faster than a bullet's spiral to the heart
She'll fill your every crack with flames
and you'll be the living water
to an oil-based fire
exhumed in the fuel of each other's
passions
Both blistered when turning away
both letting smoke scallop off cold surfaces
Let the alcohol mixed with mysterious backgrounds suck up every vapor of uncertain emotion like a hungered parasite
let it absorb little microorganism doubts
and let it numb you
to the anxieties, the depressions, and the chaotic fears inferred in scattered historical scripts
SICKNESS IN ANTIQUITY
There you are
In Greek mythology
Ancient antiquity
Twisted in marble
Like a wise tree trunk
Bending for the crowds
And shining under the sun
Soaking up whispers of awe
The visitors will soon leave your cathedral empty
Sickened
Clouded by art much more enticing and polluted
And the stained glass’s shadow will be the only thing to tuck you in before sunset
In your current moment’s glory
Linger in returned awe
At the chiseled expressions
The veins pulsating with curiosity
Before you crumble under
The lack of love and admiration
That will befall you
With time
And with the rise of virtual renditions of your magnificence.
BONE HUNTERS
Some want to know
Where the scars come from
And they reach outÂ
To touch them
To kiss them
To love themÂ
Others see he scars
And cut deeper
Until they see bones
They want to see
How far they can get
Even if it is to human foundations
Before you stop them
Or before you bleed out
And they can walk away
SOMEONE VAPED IN THE BATHROOM
Someone vaped in the bathroom
We have to find out who
It’s smells like strawberry cupcakes
But they have made a huge mistake
Someone vaped in the bathroom
They were laughing in the hall
When they whispered in the classroom
Their secrets told us all
Someone vaped in the bathroom
And we know who
There shoes are bright yellow
And today the skin near their eye
Is bright blue
Someone vaped in the bathroom
They hung their head low
When expecting words of judgment
All they heard was we believe in you
THREADS
Some days are for changes
the Sunday afternoons
where you realize that your life's sweater
has a snag that will unravel
everything if you don't address it.
​
I've spent time in my sweater snuggled in suffocating anger
until today when that orange sun peeking through
showed the snag
your arm the distant thread
and so I reached out to sew mends into our fingertips
to grasp at peace
​
This doesn't mean there are no scars on my sweater
but it means I remember
and wrap these threads
as armor for the future
​
​
MELODY'S TALE
Singing Siren
on the sea
luring men
to set her free
cliffs ahead
stab air for treasures
Hearts of Gold
her hands can hold
and carry deep
into heavy green waters
where corals end
and monsters creep.
​
A mirror sits
beneath his feet
Distractions
of Love
which if he chooses
could reverse
the musical reflection.
​
In his hesitation,
rocks below
settle splinters with tension
and he will drown
beneath sweet Melody's tale
which buries him in a flaming emerald veil.
DISSCONECT
is it possible
to write beautiful things
in order to incubate emotionalÂ
experiences
and still be disconnected
or is it the figurative images
on paper
in random word combinations
that convince one
that realtiy
is just an illusion
of our own creation?
THE ATTIC
I'll be one of the few,
who takes an unrequited love
(or a few)
and braids it into candle wicks
that feed amber diaphragms
breathing golden moods
into an attic.
Don't be shocked when I say I'll never marry
Jane Austen made wonders
out of the flame
of aÂ
single
passionate
heart.
SALTY SOUL
​
The swift gaze of ocean eyes swirled with black speckles of green and brown pierce into my soul. The sweet salty breath of white water wrestles with the hair at the nape of my neck. I am wrapped in steady arms of pleasant smells of coconut and fresh flowers. This is the heart of a free soul. A soul that cannot be tamed. I press my lips to the sky drinking in the clouds and letting them sink into my throat in small waterfalls. I swallow the world in the tall drinks of paradise. My breathing is the tide that sighs as it crawls up the shore and falls back into itself. The music of the air seeps into my lungs and swallows sorrows softly. I drown in sunshine. My skin is turning into the sand around me, melting into the earth in pools the color of toasty brown. The small seashells float there like tiny carcasses pleasantly and evenly distributed. Since I have melted my spirit begins to rest here in the crumbling sands, beside the majestic waves, and among the critters that skitter. I live here in the salt of the earth and I am the salt of the earth.
DED
if you died
4 INCH SCREEN
What's real about a 4-inch screen
that claims it knows beauty?
If you could only see
The face on the other side
of that 4 inch screen
with a frown
and an insecurity
as tangible as orange peels
under fingernails
you would think a little less
about your Kraft single relationship status
or your acne-scarred skin
or that tree trunk of a selfie stick you used since no one else would take your picture
or the 95th edit you made to it
or the way you feel unnoticed in a roomful of people
all of that would be nonexistent if you saw behind the 4 inch screen.
​
​
RIPPLES
Everyone knows that a rock on a pond makes ripples. In my head, I sit on a little miniature floaty on the center and I can't see the end of them. I just see great big waves that I've caused and I try to relax but it is just not working. I'm telling myself positives about what I just can't see but if convincing others is hard then convincing myself is impossible.
GLUED PAGES
Sitting on the kitchen table is a familiar open book.
Pages are frayed at first look.
The ends of the chapters are crisp and clean,
and the bend in the spine is quite lean.
but in between
there are two or three pages here and there
that are glued shut.
Try to separate them if you dare
but you'll find the paper and the letters begin to tear
secrets and sadnesses are inside somewhere
but I'm the author of the pages that are bareÂ
and the pages that are beginning to tear
enslaved by the memories they share
Days pass where I'll take a knife in my hand
and try to get others, and even myself to open up and understand
but for now, the book sits
half written and some pages glued shut
until the knife in my hand makes splits.
CHICKEN SKIN
Can I sit for a moment, just me?
a rocking chair empty
step up a solemn staircase
harvest the breeze
wave a flag
build a newborn tree...
after the fire comes the free
airs slithering through my hair
dead branches start to breatheÂ
comprehension of a phoenix with power
red warriors underneath chicken skin