Andi Leigh Writes

A parade of ghosts Know love, have known Hate, and have had regret ​In hearts once full of blood. ​The parade is loud With the songs and tales ​Of long lives—of short ones Too, and celebration Never rests once the body Is put to rest.

The darkness in us Reaches out To find common ground Among the masks.

Window— There are no windows. Only walls, Only peepholes, With simple slivers of sun Through paperboard wounds.

I will share my ink And hope I'll get New shades in return. Don't leave me With a blank page, Or a book That's incomplete; I want to leave you With shelves of words— I hope the ink does speak. Don't burn the bridge To your bookcase; We can trade our paper And our pens and see If our ink meets.

Should I step into the sea And grow fins to swim away? There are monsters out In unseen waters But are they any worse Than the ones I'll leave behind On the crumbling cliffside? I'll take my chances And see what I've never seen.

When the raven sings The autumn leaves follow. My car stays idle while It perches on the roof. I hear its voice and love Its company. Loneliness is smothered by The raven's wing And I am left with courage When it takes flight.

We'll watch each other's ghosts And knit cocoons around them Made of memories we share; We'll stay warm in the winter That won't tell us what's impending And our ghosts will go from there.

There is no Freedom Like the Pendulous branches Of a Weeping willow— Or perhaps The cattails That make their beds On balletic winds Are a close contender.

Let me drink coffee at night And I'll stay up with your words. I'll sleep when they fade And wait for new ones to wake me.

When a shadow is small And has big round eyes, Do you go near to see If they're as blue as the skies? But when you get closer And see ruby red, in the eyes Of the shadow—does the Soft exterior shed? That's just an imaginary tale After I saw a cat outside. I hope there's a home In which the shadow resides.

When the fire dies, Where do we go? We must be left With our reflections In a house of mirrors That forces us To stare Into our own truth Until we can find the light in our eyes.

A butterfly with Misshapen wings Is worth as much As one that flies. It will spend its days Drinking sugar water And be safe From the harsh and Rough outside.

If they let me stay To rot Like a grass-bound Apple core, It is my fault For missing out on The crisping leaves. I may be plucked From the tree But I am not fixed To a chewed and spat-out Fate. Maybe I'll slip between The unsatiated fingers That stole me from What I'm accustomed to, And roll away instead; Becoming more Than just an apple core With broken seeds.

We are soft like a cork tree And we are harvested Periodically—ready to give When others are ready To take, but we are not shaken; We recover—taking on Different shapes.

I received a letter in the mail. It contained your smile. It contained the world— Which has your eyes and your Hard-earned pain, but also Your illustrious joy. I'll write back to you, hoping My world can live up to yours.

A train's whistle can be heard Echoing through late hours— Filling the emptiness that Late-night passersby can't fill With their everyday engines. It disappears down the track; Our car hums—welcoming back The uneventful drive home.

The forest makes its way inside. I don't have a pot of tea ready. At least it will bring the leaves; I do have water to boil. Sharing the moment with a cup— The forest will never want to go. A greenhouse breathes and I'll always have drinks prepared. I dream of harmonious things. Would the forest agree? I'm not so sure I'll ever know.

Chalk lines in October rain Never stay in such a way— Cascading pigment On a concrete base, With pastel forms Living in the space. Rain later laughed The scene Away—at least the lines Partly colored Monday.

We can sink underwater And speak Into bubbles that will carry Our voices— Like glass bottles Carrying secrets on the waves Or ocean floors. If those bubbles are found, Will they be popped and Listened to? Or will our voices Burst in the air and go Unnoticed? We can at least send off Our sorrows. It doesn't matter who listens.

I can't hear the song Some claim to hear— The one that answers All of their prayers. So, I'll make up a tune And see how that goes.

Are we broken like a wicker basket With splits in woven twigs, With wear from dedication, or perhaps From burdened ribs? Can we weave ourselves together; Adding what we're worth with new Pieces we have found, allowing A restorative breakthrough.

There is a glow in your heart, Like a fire on a cold night— You flicker past the hardships That the world throws. I want to be there with you. We can be two determined fires That burn into one—bracing Many cold nights for years And years.

The caterpillar Sleeps—a chrysalis Takes its color, Replacing vibrancy With soft earth tones. And when the butterfly Emerges—vibrant again— It will take your colors To wherever it may fly.

I hear the highway and see the lights Race by—no one ever wants to take The long way. Some are not allowed. Some don't see the point, But some of us are still here, tracing The winding roads that are ignored— Feeling the point in our souls.

The paper I grip Holds no lines— Barely touching my Nails, the sheet May as well ride To the floor. The page is as blank As my stare—it stares Right back And is hopeful for ink To touch its surface But there is no ink. Not right now. Maybe later.

I am a leaf Being crunched Between the sidewalk And an excited shoe. My skin shatters. My web-like veins Are bare and brittle. I'm crunched Further Into autumn confetti, Then the shoe Moves on.

We had no reason to ignore The shimmer—we smiled, We laughed at knickknacks We would never buy. My collection of quarters Was put to use. We don't have these days often; They are a rarity, But when our hearts fight The cold— We can see the future.

Lights on the roadway, Neon arrows Point away From the rage— From the catatonic heartbreak That makes you say, "I don't know about the anchors, Are they present for my sake?" Neon arrows spin your colors And counts your Endless powers—there's no Chance For the road To take you home.

Green and black, Green and Black—stripes Horizontal Across their backs With yellow spots, With stubby legs, The urge to munch On parsley sprigs. Green and black, yes, Green and black, Larval stage Black swallowtails Enjoy their snack.

Have you checked Your shadow today? I hope it's doing well, With everything that Swings your way— I hope you've cracked The shell.

We love each other's terrible scars And we walk with our shoes untied. We send our strength in matching letters To open at another time.