Andi Leigh Writes

Something in the lake. It wants to take my hand. Tears, Mix in lake water.

The wind blows strongly And bends the trees like dancers. Stiffness cuts some down.

Calm spicy sweetness Knocks the winds back into me. More tea in my cup.

Overturn darkness. Vanquish torn times, shining through With lights we carry.

Freshwater clam shell Found by a child on the shore. Tears are wiped away.

Sprinkle peppercorn to keep pests away. That’s at least what they say, But what happens if insects still dance? Wreaking havoc in the smallest corner Of the home. They had their chance. Now the peppercorn remedy will step up It’s game. So the house plants can thrive, That’s where we’ll aim. Mixed, sprayed, coated on leaves— Insects can’t go where they damn please. And if it happens, where they still dance, Insects adapt, they prove they’ve advanced. Poor house plants are owned by the bugs, No longer by me. I’ll set them outside, insects thrive, Leave them be.

The warmth around me doesn’t compare To the awakening cold, jolting me From my own comfort. A way to grow, to push; a challenge. A challenge that forces questions To be answered. I may not have them right away But the cold is encouraging.

The full moon; Like a big great eye, Watches from her tower. Witnessing the lights below, City lights, twinkle at her. A challenge we set, though, We are undeserving. For she can crash the tides And wash the city lights away.

Sometimes I like to sip on tea And stare at the blank space of the wall. I sip, and lean back on the couch, Counting the white painted cinder blocks. I’ll sit comfortably, with thoughtful gaze, Sipping what tastes like steamed black licorice; Since I know it’s good for me. But I’ll count the bricks and maybe pause, Thinking, I wish I could paint something there. But I cannot, since the wall is not my belonging. I rent. I sip. The tea is not my favorite. And neither is the plain white wall. And yet, I’m grateful for both.

I love the ocean but I fear it more. Deep in blindness, down Under pressure, What lurks? What rests— preying And living, Residing among boiling Hydrothermal vents. Mysteries we will never know. Never will name. What relentless, war-crying Serpents hide In seemingly bloodless Surface waters? And the sea is grim below, Yet haunting. An uncharted other world That surrounds us, Slowly consuming the Land we deplete. On the surface, beautiful And blue, But of its truest form In callous storms.

A sneaky bit of darkness Turns the heart cruel. May it be reversed? I truly hope so. There’s a lantern In these woods Though it seems So far away. All one can do is walk And play this Silly game.

A week of rain is plenty. I am tired of the gray. Tired of the fog, simply Keeping distances at bay. The temperatures are warmer, Though it’s been a little odd. Shouldn’t it be snowing? I guess not. Of course the World is flawed.

When you stand in the shower, Do you feel the dirt of the world Pour off your shoulders? Are you calmed by the hot water And left to breathe the steam? A few minutes of total aloneness, But a relaxing time— You begin to feel clean. Where the weight of the world That hides in your hair, Storms away and meets the drain. And after a few more moments You begin to feel like you again.

In the morgue they’re waiting. Ready for their honorable day. A full face of makeup and Their best clothing for decay. All stitched up and drained, Not a hair allowed to stray. Eyes glued shut, with a smile, They’re watching from the doorway.

Birdsong in The red warm sky, Toasting the air Before night veils. And crickets hum Orchestrating, Within swaying cattails. Lightning bugs Mirror the stars, While birdsong Fades to stillness In moonlit memoirs.

Ghosts that float around me Appear to my eye bearing gifts, Ones familiar from the past. Ones I do not wish to see. But they are there, wrapped neatly, Taunting my every move. So I do not wait any longer. I unwrap them all. I thank the gifting ghosts And they all leave me be.

I will love With a love Like winter petals; Colors preserved In the frostbitten snow. I will hate With a hate Like one thousand cicadas Bursting through The late spring crop soils.

I listened to the wind chimes. They tugged a sad song From the vault in my mind. A sweetly strange clutter Of metallic noise— From a young stranger dreaming Of who I’m meant to be. Feeling far and removed From the eyes that we share. And all I can hope Is that I’m someone worth The sprouting daydreams. A faded ghost As old as the chimes in the tree, Still strongly rooted and I think I may have done okay.

Cherry-picked love Not worth the harvest. In silence, in solitude, There is growth. True love. Watered grounds with Encouraged roots. One day, a love, Foundational and Stronger than anything Picked before.

Memories packed neatly Within a leather suitcase. Propped open with a book, While more memories pour in. A book of wedding pictures Scorched at the corners. And when the brass clasps lock, On the train they go. The leather suitcase sits Next to her polished heels.

Reluctant to kill, She sprints fierce through brush. Her breath, trembling Hot in the coolness of night. Gun carried at her wounded Porcelain fingertips. She had struggled one last time. Eyes behind her, hungry. Twigs crunching under Distinct work boots. Steel toes plastered in firm mud, The grain leather worn. Her bare soles cut on rocks; Numbness wrestles the sharp aches. Gun in hand and trigger on edge, She breathes. She aims. The forest leaves him breathless.

Daybreak glistens like a stream, Glittering the morning air. Refined moment like a dream, Sun and clouds make such a pair. A daily mural, envisioned new, There’s not a feeling quite the same. Mornings grant a pleasant hue, That no person could think to tame.

An end met With unsound hands. Some fear, while others Accept what is true. Fate— It seems to be. Unfaltering destiny, Should not hold fear Over; like water droplets Pitter-pattering on Wrinkled foreheads. Weaponize instead The motivation. Dance without fault, And when met with stars, Fulfillment remains.

Rippled ponds shine Under the daylit sky. Reflecting clouds and The pure blue, Shone like a mirror, turning to Inky night. Greeted by sinking pebbles And passing flat stones; Gliding across and finally Consumed by the stillness And the chirping crickets Hidden in grass. There’s a dance to it all. Thanks to the air. The breeze aiding restless hearts That stop to think And pass the time.

Control lost In roaring sands, Plunging heart To faster beats. Rocky breath Thick like glue, Ample waterfall tears— Tapped. A cycled snake, With tail in mouth, Doomed to repeat. Unless broken.

I will wait patient. The clouds will turn with hard times. Bold gardens will thrive.

Dullness creeps silent. Waiting to steal the sunlight. Scare it with music.

Dandelion breeze. Flowers gathered for spring wine. A nice winter thought.

A cherished ink well. Gifted through generations. Shattered on the floor.

Starlight twinkles down the hall. He is left mesmerized with a churning stomach. Starlight. Like eyes that see every wrongdoing. He has made mistakes but not like this. And a reminder stands firm down the hallway, Towering. It fills the stained doorframe, Looking at the deep stains, still splattered fresh. It stares and in fluidity, it turns to him. Revenge awaits him down the hall, Awaits a damned soul, a troubled man. It stands there protecting her, Protecting an empty vessel once filled. Her head, nicked on the doorframe. Stains. Those rosy stains. Her stains, On the doorframe and in her hair. Pooling on the hardwood floor. He’ll never get out this puddled reminder. And those starlight eyes beckon to him. Would it be better to make a call And go with cold and blaring police sirens? Or should he go with the starlight eyes? Those twinkling eyes tell him That he has no choice. It has chosen.

I fear the day’s end. Derailed thoughts can spin deceit. Look forward to dreams.