by Rachel Toalson | Poetry
Author
Every book I write
contains pieces of me, my
mark on the wide world.
Know, How to
If you want to know
who I am, all you have to
do is read my books.
Write
I am learning how
to bleed on a page for you
So be kind, reader
These are excerpts from Life: a definition of terms, a book of haiku poetry. For more of Rachel’s poems, visit her Reader Library page, where you can get a couple of volumes for free.
(Photo by rawpixel.com on Unsplash)
by Rachel Toalson | Poetry
they will tell you
who you should be
what you should do
how to be someone
they all like
someone the world
accepts
someone who
won’t cause
problems
inconvenience
challenge
they will tell you
how to be successful
and why their dream
is so much better
than your own
don’t listen
walk your own way
forge your own path
be kind
hold courage
keep dreaming
this is how
to be you
This is an excerpt from This is How You Know: a book of poetry. For more poetry, visit my starter library, where you can get some for free.
(Photo by Marion Michele on Unsplash)
by Rachel Toalson | Poetry
4:15:49
The early morning
hours, when the house sleeps still—
these are life-giving.
4:16:00
At times, alone can
be a breath of fresh air—when
one is a parent.
4:17:02
The scratch of a pen
against paper is one of
my favorite sounds.
These are excerpts from The Book of Uncommon Hours, a book of haiku poetry. For more of Rachel’s poems, visit her Reader Library page, where you can get a few volumes for free.
(Photo by Brooke Campbell on Unsplash)
by Rachel Toalson | Poetry
Shopping
Everything takes twice
as long when you bring with you
a parcel of kids.
Not Listening
He talks nonstop of
Minecraft; I find attention
quite hard to give him.
Rule-breakers
They jump rope in the
house, which makes me want to trip
them up and then laugh.
These are excerpts from Life: a definition of terms, a book of haiku poetry. For more of Rachel’s poems, visit her Reader Library page, where you can get a couple of volumes for free.
(Photo by This is Now Photography.)
by Rachel Toalson | Poetry
I am an artist
I create
for the world
for you
for free
please
value what I do
see what it’s worth
dip your hand
in my well
and then appreciate
the beauty
instead of
taking, taking, taking
expecting what
isn’t really yours
an artist gives
but that
does not mean
you deserve
what they give
so let them know
what their words
their pictures
their songs
have meant to you
and give them back
your open hands
this is how
you love an artist
This is an excerpt from This is How You Know: a book of poetry. For more poetry, visit my starter library, where you can get some for free.
(Photo by Tim Marshall on Unsplash)
by Rachel Toalson | Poetry
It’s hard to know
what will break us
and what will glue us whole.
That tiny patch of wet,
insignificant and unnoticed
and misjudged,
broke your car and you
and all those who love.
Tray drove the way
to your sleeping place,
and we wait and wait
and wait beneath those
too-bright lights in those
too-cold chairs by those
too-unknown people,
who watch and
stare and gape.
Your mother walks in,
eyes red and swollen,
and then your dad behind her,
face spotted and splotched.
They hold me while they weep,
and Tray stands aside,
his eyes on the ceiling,
where tiles stretch
their straight lines
from one end of the
room to another.
Men in white appear suddenly,
saying all those words
I don’t understand except
for the two that mean
everything and nothing
at the same time.
Still breathing.
They let us in to see what’s left,
and I stare at you, small and pale
and wrapped in bindings.
I sit and wait
and watch and wait
and grip and wait.
Tray leaves to find
everyone food,
and still I wait.
Your mother’s eyes
drop closed
and still I wait.
The blood on my shirt
turns black
and still I wait.
Your mother leans close
after a time, smelling
of sweat and tears
and traces of citrus.
It’s been days. Weeks.
I don’t know.
He was always a
late sleeper, she says.
He preferred his dreams
to what the world offered.
She smiles, her lips
thinning like tightropes,
and her eyes, the ones
she gave you, blink sad.
He’s dreaming now.
She looks at the broken you,
then down at her hands.
Maybe we should
leave him to dream.
I shake my head,
back and forth,
back and forth,
a thousand times.
No, I say. No. No.
I will not leave
my beloved.
Do you hear me?
I will not leave you,
my beloved.
I am waiting
for our begin.
This is an excerpt from The Lovely After. Visit my Reader Library page, where you can get it and a couple of volumes for free.
