About Angela

I write. I'm no professional, I'm not published, aside from a few poems, and I don't write for money or fame. I write because I must. In my younger years I wrote. I feel like I'd only just begun to exercise that passion when life expected me to become, and I let it. A college student, career woman, wife, mother, small business owner, friend, neighbor. And on. For years I didn't pick up a pen. I was too busy becoming what I thought I should become. My heart was overflowing - it was breathing and I wasn't listening. About four years ago, I began the process of unbecoming, of shedding the layers of expectation. Of getting lost so I could be found, of asking the right questions so I could find comfort in the being lost. Of just being me. I began to listen to my heart. I picked up my pen, and unbecame a poet. I'm inviting you to listen, too. Welcome, Angela Kay 💜

she may


she may always ask if you’re angry with her,
because she’s been ignored so many times before

she may always ask if she’s disappointed you,
because she’s been led to believe things are her fault

she may always wonder if you think she’s beautiful,
because she can’t really comprehend her worth

she may always wonder if you still love her,
because she’s felt so empty so many times before 

she may always fear you might walk away,
because no one has ever stuck around 

she may always need your reassurance,
even though you’re the one she trusts most in this world

she may always need your patience,
because she offers you all she is
 
she will always need you,
for your love is where she’s home 

-image via Pixabay

Rented Sin


sitting in a row of ducks and gooses,
feeling out of place, 
squarely obtrusive,
amid the proud peacocks with their
never-ending pretending,
whitewashed souls dipping fingers 
in a bath of masks,
hiding flasks,
seeking absolution solution,
pocketful of beads,
conveniently erasing greed,
living in flashy suits of rented sin

come on in

-image via Pixabay

Transparent

she’s imperfect in a world that strives for perfection,
instead seeking connection,
while embracing those ill-fitting grooves,
nothing left to prove,
challenging the rerun tapes,
and trashing the old capes

alive in her willingness to be free,
as she

finally able to see with clarity,
who it is she’s meant to be,
exposing her heart,
whole, not just part,
embracing her vulnerability,
and the risk that accompanies

for, that is her true self,
an open book, no longer on the shelf

yet there are days when weighted tears streak the menacing mirror,
when her heart is tired, sadness deeply spearing her

when the looking glass seems transparent,
and others’ stares are overwhelmingly apparent,
when she feels trapped on the inside,
desperate to hide

while others peer in

-image found via Pinterest, artwork by SAUL LANDELL 

Bringers of the Light

some would say we’re too sensitive
call us sissies or say we’re too frail
some would call us drama queens 
and erect walls for us to scale

some would say we’re broken 
angles and edges that just don’t fit
but I see cracks made by growth
where love was free to sift

I see expression, fearlessly 
when some wish to tuck it away
truth tellers in a world of omission
seekers, willing to bend and fray

because, we aren’t afraid of darkness
for our hearts shine too bright
and we have the most amazing job –
we are the bringers of the light

-image via free lighthiuse wallpapers

Pickle Jar

she snuggled into him,
resting her head in the nook of his shoulder,
finding it was made just for her

here, her soul was at rest,
a rest she hadn’t ever known before,
and closing her eyes,
she savored

the way his palm delicately glided over her curls,
fingers grasping in silky handfuls and lifting,
each individual strand falling to a goose-fleshed tickle against her back 

the whispered words, warm against her cheek, 
swelling her heart and causing her lip to quiver,
the gentleness of his soft lips against her forehead,
and arms which drew her so close, 
she could no longer tell where he ended 
and she began

she couldn’t imagine ever forgetting –
she wanted to preserve each breath  as she breathed it,
every feeling as it overtook her

scooping each fluttering second into an old pickle jar,
she filled it to the rim,
illuminating like a warm summer night’s fireflies

alive,
and forever lighting 
the way home 

-image found via keywordsuggests.com

Fifth of July

bang, pop, whoosh
sizzle, snap, crack
fizz, hiss, BOOM, BOOM

BOOM

in a haze, after the initial phone call, 
she rushed to be by his side,
tunnel vision guiding her there –
she couldn’t think, see, feel anything else,
nothing else registered, 
none of her surroundings, 
nothing at all

all she thought was – I need to hurry, 
I need to hurry,
I need to hurry

after the doctor had delivered the news, 
she stood there, stunned

in her peripheral, she could see the colors exploding in the sky just outside the large window next to his bed,
and it registered in her that it was the 4th,
the rumbling vibration of each detonation feeling as if it were exploding inside her

BOOM, BOOM, BOOM

once she arrived home, 
though she’d desperately needed sleep, 
there was very little

she tossed and turned,
and tossed and turned,
finally giving in to it and getting up early, 
dressing and returning to him

as she walked down the stark, institutional green hall,
each step bringing her closer to seeing with her own eyes that which had been conveyed in words the day before, 
the weight of those words sunk like quicksand to the pit of her stomach

today, she was acutely aware of the clinical smell surrounding her, 
the smell of sickness, 
the stench of sadness filling first her lungs, 
then permeating outward, 
finding an unwelcome home in her veins, 
thick like sludge, 
coursing and thumping

she could hear the cries of sorrow in the bated breath wafting from some of the doors she passed,
she could taste its metallic tang on the tip of her tongue,
and as she arrived at the doorway of the room to which she needed to enter, 
she felt it in her bones,
in her marrow

when she opened the door, 
she became its embodiment

the few steps to the bed took her years:

she passed herself snuggled on his lap as he read to her for the millionth time, Put Me in the Zoo

she watched as she sat between he and her mother on the yellow paisley couch, 
as they tried to explain why they would no longer be a family

she saw the desperation on his face as he finally allowed her to call her mother,
but would not yet let her go home to be with her

she remembered tearing open the Christmas wrap to see the purple down coat she’d wanted so badly, 
the yolk-only egg sandwiches on Sunday mornings, 
and stove-popped popcorn with a rented movie on their every-other Saturday nights

she saw his suntanned, orange-tinted left arm that was darker than the rest of him from hanging out his truck window, 
his splashing in the pool and volleyball in the summer,
and helping her step-brother with homework at the kitchen table while he looked on drinking Pepsi from a two liter bottle

she remembered the wishing she belonged, 
that she fit with them differently, 
more

the coughing, 
she remembered the coughing that just kept getting worse, 
the constant handkerchiefs in his pockets and on the end table with his Winstons next to his armchair, 
the red-faced breathlessness and the wheezing,
the fear in his eyes

she remembered the devastating, life-altering heartbreak,
the disappearing and the wondering, 
the worry and the doubt,
the reconnecting and the doctors and the testing

and finally, the hope,
the hope which had fizzled away the night before with every sizzle and crack, 
hiss and bang and pop

standing next to the impersonal-feeling bed, 
she gripped the cold, stark metal of the railing with both hands, 
trying to take in all that she saw,
the blinking and the beeping in the semi-darkness, 
the machine whose trepidus noise filled the room

suck, push, suck, push,

SUCK, PUSH

eerily loud and unwelcome, 
it was reminiscent of the sounds heard outside the window the night before

her eyes ran the length of the shiny metal pole on which the machine was mounted, 
down to the swiveling wheels which allowed it to be maneuvered to where it was needed,
noticing the simple black cord which extended to the wall

how could such an ordinary-looking plug hold life in the balance?

letting loose her grip a bit, 
she became deftly aware of her own breath, 
in and out, 
of her own heart beating, 
ga-gong, ga-gong, 
so loudly in her chest that it rang in her ears

reaching out, she rested her hand on his chest, 
feeling the unfamiliar, robotic rise and fall,
deftly aware of the cool absence, 
the force of what would not be

she looked up, nodded her head, 
and closing her water-filled eyes, 
she felt with the length of her fingers, 
with the lifeline in the palm of her hand,
with her very soul

the robotic gave way to an arrhythmic slowing:

rise..fall….rise…..fall…….rise……..fall,

fall

beneath her palm there was only stillness,
in the tips of her fingers, 
there was only the thump of her own heartbeat, 
the trembling cry of her core

BOOM

and he was gone

-image via Pixabay; older prose made to poetry and shared as part of dVerse’s Open Link Night

Dare to Dream


I dare close my eyes,
to be still and content,
despite the blackness,
threatening ascent,
almost instantaneously,
feeling rapid descent,
but it’s not black,
where was I sent?
it’s all so bold,
and lines are bent,
in technicolor,
with vivid accent,
non-linear and sharp,
the not-shapes torment,
rippling hues spinning,
a vortex of dissent,
hands and fingers paw at me,
a sea of malcontent,
a sensory kaleidoscope,
I’m overwhelmed, spent,
rapid breath in all blues,
but it’s stuck like cement,
I can’t feel my skin,
is this going to relent?
am I still sleeping?
where have I went?
if this is dreaming,
I don’t give my consent,
bring back the blackness,
this is not what I meant

-image via Pixabay

Fly 

‘Those mountains you’re carrying,
you were meant to climb’, they said

But they built the mountains,
which weren’t made of mole hills

And climbing is commendable,
But I’m meant to fly

-image found via google used in many places, image credit unknown