She Looks Like Her

 

She's a dancer
Speaker in motion
Tender gliding on hardwood floors,
stirring lithium,
coming to life

Spectacle for the dead
A resurrection of hope and a silhouette
through the day
and unknown to many climates

"I am missing
I'm gonna start posting pictures
if you don't let me see myself"
she says

That was a glimmer of real time in public
when stripped to the bare bone
Collecting her objects like thoughts
and cradling them in her hands
so carefully like a child 
and rigidly putting them back down again

Through the car window,
she appears to be one of us
with a serious discussion
Who is around, matters not

Look closer,
you will see the Norma Jeane Mortenson
in her face
Storytelling eyes
that pierce a moment in time.

~Tina Meeks

A Snippet of the Morning

 

I must be a daydreamer.

Wandering under the sun and longing 

to be back to the cold mornings

with birds welcoming me.

The stillness roaming the streets like a drone,

soring to capture the moments that are craved.

In a daze time and time again

and putting everything into it

by being present enough to see the clouds exploring

and evolving

and changing.

Where's the ground now a days?

Only concrete swamps surface the city

and I belong in the dirt.

Unfinished Dreams

 

Trying to dive deep into dreams,
I only get so far with the Z's
Resurfacing every few hours for a breath
Check my pulse, I'm still here,
and how do I get back to where I was?

How can I remember that it's okay
to drift and let go?
To feel like a shooting star
amongst those seeming to stand still?
It's like I wanna dance in the night
and don't know how,
even with all my shedding of shrapnel

~Tina Meeks

Man Pt. I

 

It was enticing to see this man

with tight pants on

Pulled all the way up

with belt through every loop

Form fitting denim giving the best hug

to his legs and friends

This man smirks-

I hope my eye gaze didn't give me away

~Tina Meeks 

Dreams Pt. I

 

Dreams seem like isolated bubbles until we
wake up from the flow state
Or
Staying afloat on water, strolling downstream 
Being tickled by touches of droplets and burbles
Dreams sometimes have this way
of making life occur in another dimension
Painting happenings
the way I like to with words,
or
revealing details and make them believable 
before the story ends
Dreams are like the exodus of a journey
between worlds
If only brains were really dreamcatchers 
If only some dreams were fueled by steam trains
so they don't have to go up in smoke,
rather seep into our pores
Seems like only the good ones get revived,
along with the terrifying ones and their
summarized plots
and the rest
fall through the cracks
like crumbs
So, where in the depths of our dreams do we lie,
aside from the surface
next to out fingertips?
Where do the bubbles go the moment they pop?
And how can dreams be resinned to be something 
to go in the back pocket?

~Tina Meeks

A Loud Voice

 

Sometimes pieces break 

before the needle is threaded all the way through,

like popcorn strung sentences.

He sounds and moves words that give me goosebumps

and make them go away

again.

Rings on the right pinky and ring finger,

he can fist bump from the soul.

He'll never be lost under the sun.

Breath going in and out like everyone does.

Tormented like on elementary school playgrounds

mounted on a calendar to never

be forgotten, but marked

of that preserved time for when 

someone thought less of him...

~Tina Meeks

Perseverance Pt. I

I don't pedestal you

Easy on the eyes and so suave

Your voice itself

each time you speak,

you speak accolades

A voice with paragraphs between breaths 

spilling memories with father telling

stories with intimate details

I don't pedestal you

I admire

the pureness in your voice

The uncontrollable urge to

speak with hands and sway to convey

energy, feeling, time

You bend those things with emotion

and conviction

I don't kneel down to you, trust me

but I like the way you speak on paper

and now that you've shared your echoing tone

it's all I hear when reading your voice

~Tina Meeks