Hands

She has the most beautiful hands I believe I have ever seen. They are small, as small as a dolls. And they are not soft hands. They are rough from her hours in the garden. She keeps her fingernails short and clean. She does not use lotion, says it isn’t good for the skin. I have bought her all natural, unscented lotion but she never opened the bottle. She says her hands should speak of the work and the weather, just like God made them to do. I do not argue with her. I stopped as soon as I left my teenage years behind and developed half a mind. She may look like a china doll, but my mother is an iron ox. Once her mind is made up, there is no changing it. But either way, sometimes I can’t help wishing she would take better care of her little hands. 

~~

She had to leave art school because she bought booze for the cute guy next door with her fake I.D. She looked like trouble, shaved hair, belly pierced and undeniably cool. She made horny jokes and wore dark lipstick. She had long lovely legs and she was overtly comfortable with her hips. She was a film student and she was good at it. She had her own camera and she cared it proudly around, slung over her round strong shoulders. You could tell by looking at her that she was into guys...mostly. When she was kicked out none of us were surprised but we still all cried. Especially when we saw her cry. The night she left we watched her film on the wall while sitting on the lawn. It was of hands, hands moving slowly, hands touching and holding and melding, the curves and lines and palms. They pressed and kissed, for yes, hands can kiss. They moved over each other and under each other and I had to turn away, for up to that moment, I had not known that hands could be so sensual, so sexual. But she had, which was why she was the sort of student to be kicked out of art school, while I barely made any friends. 

~~

He likes to pick up my hands, compare sizes. He always has, since he began to grow taller, till I could no longer wrestle him and pin him to the ground. He is in complete marvel of his body, watching his arms and chest strengthen. He takes his shirt off whenever he can, the proud peacock. He struts with the plumage of a teenage boy. And he picks up my hands whenever I sit next to them. He peers at their tininess,wraps his fingers over mine, exclaims in delight every time. His hands are long and thin. His hands help him dribble the balls, carry his surfboard, he hangs car keys from them loosely. My hands serve their purposes too, but they do not reach a scale on a piano and he wonders at this fact, proud of his growing body. He is proud to watch himself tower over me. I try to remain silent to the fact.

Wish Tree

I want a tree to hang secrets and poems from
huddle warm bodies around
so they breath in its scent
read the words and paper returning 
to original form
find twine and wrap it round its boughs
write in bold ink
I wish to always love myself
come to appreciate my body’s soft nature
the squeaks that fall into my voice
my wild eyebrows
wrinkled fingers
I wish to look at people and really look at them
pull them inside
and feel their heart beats
know why they continue to wonder
and are their souls intact?
I want a tree to age gently with me
four years, it’s not a very long time in our lives
but still, we may grow taller, grow more concentric circles
drop leaves, stretch into other trees and trunks
I want a tree who keeps my secrets
who accepts vague poetry
and abstract concepts
who understands sometimes wishing on stars
is just too impractical
and I need some grounding 

Trees Around My Bones

I have roots growing from my feet

I have roots growing from my feet

I have trees twisting around my bones

I have roots growing inward

coming in, making way

I have roots spreading like new veins

leaves flowing through this blood

I have a forest growing inward

trees twisting round my bones

All this new growth and its finally

making its way home

all this new beauty 

and it's finally making its way home

roots growing from my feet

roots growing in my bones 

Look inside

You can see it all happening 

look in my eyes

you can see it all happening

a new body system in here

a baby jungle growing up

You could get lost in here

in this body

thoughts could curl up into the branches

and sleep, sleep, sleep

I get lost in here

in this body

in these new sprouts

I can smell dew and dirt

and me

I can smell me

And if feels good

it feels like home

I’m finally filling up this body with trees

filtering the oxygen in here

this feels like home

trunks wrapped around my skull

I look at the mirror 

and I see a home

because I have a forest growing inside

this body

I have trees to climb

and touch

and feel

and even cut

I have places to explore in here

and trees wrapped around my bones 

So welcome home

It’s about time

you let it grow in here 

let trees wrap around your soul

As It Concerns

As it concerns

Bring me the sunset in a cup

bring your stories and the misplaced eye glances

give me your insecurities and I will wear them gently

around my neck

wrapped along the tip of my fingers

quietly, I won’t let them speak

I promise that my depths are reachable

that I’m equal part scared

to brave

I don’t know what it is that

attracts me

to your glass jar contents

your cloudy days

I’m not quite sure who you are

But I know that I want you

to bring me your whispers in warm canisters

your songs in willow reeds

Tell me the first time you realized

how wonderfully imperfect this world is

Tell me what part of yourself you find beautiful

and what you try to hide from mirrors and probing thoughts

And have you ever taken hold of the moon, held it in your hands

and wondered why it looks so sad?

Blue Hands

My finger are always covered in blue

flaked with blue paint and ocean water

wild wind and brush strokes

I used to think my eyes were gold

yellow specks gently mixed into the hazel green

but they've turned blue

two peering creatures

hungry, curious

starring

always starring

When I watch people

my mouth is often a little open

as if trying to swallow their reflections

breathe in their essence

so I can capture them on paper

cover them with my paintbrushes

know each of their lines

Don't you know?

I'm not shy

I'm not scared

I just have big blue eyes

And I'm sorting through too many shades in my mind

trying to mix the right color

the one that is welcoming and warm and right

just right

But I have no knack for organization

So I wonder if I come off as too bright

or too solemn

I can never find the perfect hue

always muddling up color charts

And I don't know whether I'm impressionistic

or abstract

or just bland

I just hope there are some walls out there

willing to hang this mess

Artist willing to teach me their color charts

Ones who look at my blue stained fingers

and hold up their own color stained palms  

You Don't Owe This Poem A Title (Future Advice)

Be bold

but learn to walk in quiet grace,

never let blaze overshadow forgiveness

Burn bright

but grow sacred roots

always let prayers seed

Desire the Divine

But learn to respect your doubt

invite it to dinner, feed it books and questions

allow it to live alongside faith

But don't be afraid of that which seems irrational

Seek solicitude

But create community

you are not a single stem

learn to love all roses

and even some weeds

Soak your skin

dip your toes in ocean salt

let rain slip down your eyelids

walk through storms, aimlessly and lost

But when the time comes, always

set intentions

and if you must set them in sand

that's better than never setting them at all

Lose yourself in bookstores

collect stories arches

and fairytales

But get rid of your narrative

there is no shame in living a life

that isn't a poem

Seed, Sprout, Flower

grow fierce and overgrown gardens

But sculpt your wild heart

keep it firmly in your hands

to shape and mold

a heart is a terrible thing to loose in a winter freeze

Dance with winds

Let your limbs know ocean breezes

and wet dirt

But walk statuesque

And don't be afraid to ask for directions

once the wind has subsided.

But most importantly,

when you find edges and broken bottles

when sentences grow brittle and break

when sections of books fall off

and are lost under beds

When you can't find a way to end

Embrace cliffhangers

I'm Publishing My Book, Flower Songs!

When I was a silly, naive*, thirteen year old, I promised myself I would have a book written by the time I was 16. And so I reached age sixteen with about half a dozen burned and broken half drafts, that never got anywhere.

But along the way, I wrote and wrote and wrote. And when I reached 17, I realized I had hundreds upon hundreds of writing-much of it poetry, which I've come to love with every bone in my body. And I sifted through my work, I noticed that much of the poetry I loved and wanted to share with this funny, lovely little Earth. 

And so I began working and something began forming.
A book.
A book entitled "Flower Songs."
My first book of poetry.

And it's now being published by Bolinas Books next month.
Right around my 18th birthday, two years late, but a book nonetheless.

The inside has charming illustrations by young artist, Jackie Files.
The beautiful cover is created by talented children's book illustrator, Hillary Moore. 

And it is filled with 70+ pages of original poem full of my questions, fears, musings and faith. It's inspired by my coastal landscape, my confusion with my teenage body and mind, my sprout thoughts, the little seeds inside me and my wild heart and wild hopes.

If you'd like, and I hope you will, you may reserve a copy by commenting below, sending me a message or an email (hyerington@gmail.com).
It's printed on 100% recycled paper in California and a tree is planted for each book. 
It is 15.00 dollars, 18.00 with shipping.

And it's filled with lots of love and sticky little sentences guaranteed to find some little nook in your heart.

*I'm still silly and naive, I'm just not thirteen.

Cover By Hillary Moore