G. Z. Kieft

The sun can’t be bothered to rise this morning. I’m sitting in a café in old town and a cold cup of hot coffee next to me is creating rings on the wood table. I’ve been writing. So much poetry. Sometimes it’s hard. Like trying to press water from a sponge that has already been wrung dry. Other times it comes easy – like turning the faucet on and walking away to find your house flooded. I don’t know if that makes any sense. But that’s how it feels.
Just because it’s easy doesn’t mean it’s good. Like a flooded house. I’ll read over things I wrote yesterday and move everything into the discard pile. Sometimes I read old things I disregarded long ago and discover how good it is. My choices resonate differently with myself depending on where I am in life. That makes sense I guess.
But the things that stay good over time make it into the new project. I’m getting excited as I see this next collection come together. I’ve received some generous feedback about Bone Nuit and it thrills me to think that about a dozen strangers out there in the world have enjoyed my work. And then the eight to twelve of you who read my things on wordpress. Thank you to every one of you who read the things I write. I’d love to hear from you so if you ever have something to say, complimentary or especially critical, say it.
I often wonder what I should post on the wordpress but end up hoarding most of my work on my hard drive. Fear of rejection I suppose. I try to push myself to just post. There’s an audience for everyone. That’s what I tell myself.

What else. I’m going to hate this piece tomorrow. A look at me blog. Pray you’ll forgive me.

I’ll wrap this up with a little rhyme since the faucet is wide open and the house is pretty much flooded.

let me take you
to this poisoned well of mine
the descent into the dark
teases sparks along your spine
the contrast from the light is stark
but your eyes will adjust just fine
lower and lower and lower
still we go farther
but why?
we lower
until our toes meet
the cold water
and i cry
here at the base of the pit
in the depths of my ribcage
we fill our wine glasses with it
with every ripped page
and emotion i’ve spilt
and we drink it together
reader and writer
and cheers to bond we’ve built
our trauma sewn together
into a beautiful quilt