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

Thoughts On Heart Shaped Rocks

If I were to take this little heart shaped rock

bury it under this beach

deep, deep

Who would find it?

Place it in their pocket,

hold it in their palm

post a notice

Found:

On Bolinas beach

a heart shaped rock

sturdy and skippable

quiet rock

perfect size for holding (if you have small, gentle palms)

seems to like getting lost

excellent at tumbling

appreciates saltwater and mud

As far as rocks go, doesn't say much

But who can blame it?

It's really a very young rock.

A Begrudged Manifesto

I've been trying to write a manifesto

a, hail the glory of my petaled frame potential

a watch me bloom and burst

turn my sunflower face to the sun and kiss my sunshine kin

I've been trying to build my poem around the stem spine of a sturdy rose

grow roots down deep, deep

and around the homes of sleepy breath mice and busy body gophers

grow so deep, I poke out on the other side

so deep, that I can never be weeded out, never pulled from this soil strong earth

But I'm not really a flower, not really a tiger lily or lion rose

I'm not even a geranium or clover

I'm just begrudgingly a human

And yes, I'm fragile

I need rain, water, sun

but I have no roots, no simple petal patterns

And as much as I'd like to spend days conversing with ivy and chattering with sparrows

I've been signed on for a human life

And I'm not sure how it happened

I don't think any nurse ever stood over my baby body and

asked me to pick my form

“Flower or little girl?”

And I would like to imagine my first thought would to be some sort of daisy or honeysuckle variety

as she listed all the drawbacks of being human

“Of course, your parents hope you will remain a little girl. But humans are a horribly confused species. They have wars and ailments and lost shoes. They often go out without umbrellas and get very wet. They are often lost and build ugly things. But of course, they have their pluses too. For example, they usually make very good muffins. So what will it be, flower or little girl?”

And I would like to think I'd waiver

But I know in the end, I'd always pick to be

begrudgingly human

with my not quite straight teeth and barely clean room

dusty shelves and disorganized binders

So yes, I'd been trying to write a manifesto

convince myself that this human thing is absolutely right for me

I've been trying to find the glory and majesty in my worn bed sheets, naïve giggles, ill fated and ill timed swoons, poorly structured poetry, math scribbles and inked out existence

But really, all I've done so far is tie up a bundle of words and thrown it out to sea, hoping it finds lands

sorted out a couple questions

and prayed an awful lot

prayed I end up on the other side

So today, instead of writing my manifesto

I've opted to keep praying

praying there is something in this little heart, these shelved up dreams and gypsy thoughts

I'm not sure what yet,

But I just keep praying they all end up on the other side

praying they find some place in my

begrudging human existence

Moon Shell

Stepping stone year
buttoned down hatches
cleaned windows and heart scrubbing
not brilliant
but flicker fire, gentle ember
tired, tired, bone tired nights

future planning and head picking
digging up dead roots, trying to appreciate
worn edges and scuffed shoes
"Solitude, says the Moonshell."

And I'm learning rose pucker and blaze dreams
will never leave my cheeks
but my dry baby hands
work better with raw dirt and a shovel
my heart better with time against a pillow and spring breaths

strength has strong kin with silence
loudest voices rarely say the most

 gathering inner solitude
and facing loneliness to call its bluff

And I've spent much of this year in shells
drawing maps for my next oceans
and I thought I'd store some regrets in clench canisters
but I've run out of  room

 I've turned my voice down to the outside
to hear my ocean roar inside

 simply grateful
for this flawed, fragile, stepping stone year
with its crooked path into the next
ocean tears and sunset, sunrises

And as this new year places its porcelain feet across my crooked track
I find I'm ready to sort what I've found inside
and maybe even a little of what lies ahead

Thank the good Lord that roads are made to curve
Because Lord knows I don't walk straight

Sunrise this morning 12/31/2013



"Solitude says the Moon Shell"-Gift From The Sea by Anne Lindbergh

Ocean Children

Dear cityscape children,

note that I will never be as bright or as blaze as you

I know ocean better than I know concrete

sand better than I know gravel

Does it surprise you?

Does it surprise you that the fog here is natural

an extra cloud, a wet blanket

What surprises you bright lights?

I'm much quieter, you see

Do you see me?

Right.

Yes, right

Between all the stardust in your eyes

I guess your music is just a little louder than mine

But I'm not afraid

of your jagged edges and neon ways

heart beat tunes and metal trees

just right now

I find my fingertips do better with sand

and my ears hear better with waves

                        Bolinas Beach 

Owl Eyes

She used to be louder. She used to be full of costume jewelry and bright clothing. She used fill her lungs with notes, push laughter out a little too high, a little too hard, red cheeks.

But she's grown. She's grown quieter, softer. She's afraid of being lonely, but knows her solitude is not the same as being alone. She has a world inside herself, shelves of other world's, word worlds, for the times her head is silent. She knows her own heart beat, she knows the strength of her eyes. Big eyes, owl eyes. Always watching. And sometimes she's afraid.

She's afraid of those big eyes and that heavy heartbeat. She is afraid of her own quiet strength. She is afraid of what she knows. She knows her sensitivity, her all encompassing sensitivity, is her greatest strength. Her ability to feel everything in all its sun sharp blaze, that is what makes her strong.

But what if, that isn't enough? What if it turns out in the long run, the sensitive artists never win? What if the loud, if the flashy, if the brilliant beauties are the ones who make the real impact?

She doesn't belong in high school, she never did. She is afraid that her quiet strength, her deep soul, that does not belong in these adolescent walls will never belong. What if she's always a bit lost, always too strong, always this?

She worries she will always be seen as a stone flower, instead of a vital living precious being. When does the time come when she will stop being labeled as confidant and seen for her flaws, the ones she thinks are beautiful in their own right. Do the quiet ones become heard, is there a real place for them? It's not that she doesn't speak up, she always does. But she isn't a blaze, she's a thinker.  When will she be able to bloom in a garden instead of being watered in a classroom?

And what if she is always lovable, everyone's friend, but never really loved?

 So she's afraid of her own quiet strength, of her own silent battles. She's afraid they keep her from being heard as she really is, seen for anything besides her quiet resilience, her owl eyes.