San Francisco in July

Towards the ending weeks of last month, I went out to San Francisco for a work trip; after work hours I wandered on-foot into local bookstores, hiked upon hills, came across community gardens, and watched out onto the city. I was fully entertained, though requesting dinner reservations for one.  

I remember how I use to pull away from solitude, how it was a space to abuse my body and cycle the cognition my mind would stammer about my existence. I didn’t know then what I know now, as time and age often matures into a sweeter standing.

Present day dwellings, solitude is an opportunity to take an unfiltered open-eyed look at my intentions and actions, the habits that my mind instantly acts upon. This is the act in which has enabled me to grow comfortable with being alone, for this practice is one that I try to often pulse. I find enjoyment in analyzing how and why I react to circumstances, and its realignment. 

Since I was away for a little over a week, this ensued as a fluid flow throughout the trip's duration. Several traits that I didn’t know that I had surfaced to eye-level—both the beautiful and the brutal. 

I discovered that I love on others more than I think that I do, and that I always aim to stay in a state of stillness. I also found that I had subconsciously linked the contrast of my life from yesterday to today as a currency to salvation; a fraudulent thought that had been utilized to chip away at forgiveness for myself for the past few months. 

I’m sitting next to myself, a mirror—black kerchief folded and knotted around my neck, brown hair slighting spilling over my shoulders.

My heart is pooling in grace and mercy, forgiveness and favor. I will always be in a state of gratitude, giving thanks for conviction, and the stillness that softly speaks truth. 

• • •

j u l y   2 3

Misson & 18th

I sit among the street vendors
selling soggy dried books and soiled t-shirts, 
we engage in conversation. 

I look out and watch; 
each passerby
engaging in this air, 
traveling towards their next destination. 

The younger man with
baggy jeans, and black sunglasses
tugging at the collar of his shirt. 

The older woman crossing the street,
pushing her daughter in her stroller, 
dodging the street’s cracks and holes. 

The ‘clean fuel bus’ slides across the skyward strings, 
holding several hundred hearts a day, 
their heads jounce in unison
to the awry asphalt. 

The stranger wandering, 
not familiar to a smile, 
though we smile anyways.  

Melted posters paper-mâché 
the sides of the telephone poles, 
and wooden walls are covered
in metal diamond patterns,

akin to all, 
foreign to none.

• • •

j u l y   2 5

Atop a red rocked hill, 
overlooking San Francisco in July, 
where cities and sky intertwine; 
pastel houses stacked, 
buildings climb high. 

The wind is heavy here, 
eager to even take this pen and paper away, 
to have me only captivated by its whirl, 
for it has a jealous mind. 

City shaded, 
fog rolling in, 
dust becomes unsettled. 

Neither weak are the mountains
nor my bones; 
the red rocks
and my blue blood.

• • •

j u l y   2 7

This week has been
gold purified by fire; 
tried and tested— 
results revealing, 
conviction gentle, 
grace abounding.

Nothing on this earth
can touch
or take away
your obedience.

We will always be guided to light, 
as long as we open our eyes.
 

My Dreams

Dominique Rispoli is a bright spirit. She writes to us from Wilmington, Delaware, where the yellow spring bedstraw and white clover bloom. I'd highly recommend reading her work on Hello Poetry. I'm honored to share her words on this site, with this piece titled, My Dreams. 

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My Dreams

by dominique rispoli

You only visit me in my dreams
Soft, the outline of you hazy
Whispers and shadows
We waltz around each other
Twirling, you hold me close
Ornate designs on the walls
And a sparkling crystal floor
The scene shifts and we are in a meadow
you put a flower behind my ear and grab my hand
Pulling me close and planting a kiss on my forehead
Suddenly, the world melts away and I am awoken
I am left with only a feeling
An echo of you
And as my memory of us together fades
I start my day with a murmur of your presence surrounding me
And holding me

---

Dominique is a 21 year old poet & vintage clothing shop owner. When she is not writing she is either eating pasta, watching too many old movies, or dreaming of Disney World.

She currently resides in Wilmington, Delaware, with her words accessible through her Instagram, The Little Dove poems. 

Surrender

m a y   8

With a quiet mind, 
and soft spirit, 
either you will show me or teach me; 
though they are synonymous.

• • •

m a y   15

Just take a moment—
I tell myself—
to lay and look up at the sky;
see how small you are, 
beneath the myriad of the white billow’s bloom. 

Oh, how our woes,
could never crumble the clouds—
my eyes are drawn and drift, 
along their lull. 

All else evaporates. 

• • •

m a y   25

I hear the red cardinal call, singing the song of today with the occasional hum of a modern day machine. I’m practicing open awareness, the simplest form of gratitude. To acknowledge everything in existence, and to soak in all surroundings. I look at what’s ahead, along with each fuzzy-faint fragment happening within my peripherals. I’m amidst a stagnant scene—neighbor boy, not even four years of age, playing with airplanes while a maintenance man fixes another’s air conditioning. 

Recognizing it all, without label or thought. Solely existing, inevitably followed by gratitude. 

Little pieces of tree pollen fall on my head and tangle in my hair. Alternating bees linger around my yellow mug, filled to the brim with hot tumeric, ginger tea. The breeze picks up and releases more pollen, gravity pulling it to ground. 

This is where serenity dwells, within the stillness. My tired mind has finally been emptied of its clutter and clamor, and now is solely taking up space. I get lost in this space, buried in gratitude. Amidst this space, this blank scene, anxiety isn’t able to erupt in any form nor capacity. For I am breathing freely, standing still with a wide-lens view, encompassed by my surroundings. I’m allowing myself to hear, feel, breathe. 

• • •

j u n e   8

It’s a pause of a page turn, 
mid-way. 

A thin piece of paper wavering; 
no camaraderie nor support from either ends of the book; 
rather stagnant, enveloped only by air, 
connected, only through the shared spine. 

The pages which lay left are known, 
their words well read, 
though the words on the right, remain unrevealed—
though a few catch my eye; 
terms recognized, 
restless to be read, 

but it’s a pause of a page-turn, mid-way.

• • •

j u l y   4

My shaky knees sit together, 
with feet on the wall, 
propping me back into the posture-failing chair, 
a few feet away from my mother-in-law in the hospital bed. 

I peer out the blinds onto the small-town city, 
saturated in the sunset’s glow. 
It’s harsh light glares through the blinds, 
onto the wall that’s been begging for its light. 

My mind is a mixed up ball of yarn, 
a thread of thought that’s been tumbled and knotted—
stature matching my stomach. 

A low quality audio recording plays to her in the background, 
along with the occasional gurgle from obstruction in her lungs, 
accompanied by the throat humidifier’s hum that moonlights as a white noise machine.  

My hummingbird heart and half open head tosses confusion, 
fights with frustration; 
I ache for her bones that have been touched by pressure ulcers, 
I have sorrow for her skin that feels the fabric of the hospital gown, 
of every pinch and every needle, 
though isn’t able to move a muscle. 
I pray for her mind that working in full capacity, 
but can’t communicate verbally. 

I breathe deep.

God’s never left us,
and hasn’t now. 

He hasn’t vanished for even a second within this all-enduring wait; 
though we wonder when this hour will be over. 

He’s in the humidified air,
alongside the shoulders holding a cinderblock weight, 
and in the bright blue eyes of my mother-in-law. 

He’s there when our hearts lay so heavy, 
when the diagnosis offers months, 
when doctors share the prognosis with tears welling, 
when my soul feels shattered.

He’s in these moments where her husband feels peace, 
one that surpasses all understanding; 
He’s in the hearts that the nurses carry, 
their patience and diligence. 

He’s holding us, 
calming our minds, 
holding our hearts, 

even amidst the mess.

Unveiling

Joni Bonney is a dear friend of mine. We connect weekly over muggy cups of tea and read excerpts of books aloud to one another. She is my counterpart in co-hosting Poetry Nights, and we are currently planning another for July. She truly emulates the heart of Christ in every fashion; she's always reminding me to be mindful, for gratitude abounds when mindfulness is held. These virtues are laced into her writing and linger in my mind for days. 

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Unveiling

by joni bonney

Existence, experience and the need to feel.

Interlaced progression

Underneath my calm state of being.

I see myself as a memory
Dancing in the fine lines that show across my cheeks.

I see myself hidden in the evergreen
Invisible to what I could previously see.

Brushed up gently to everything that could be.

Instinctively melting into you.

Soft conversation and slow-paced walks
Stirring connectedness.

Whispers and hair brushed delicately to the side of my shoulder.

I can breathe easy
I inhale the breath you have exhaled.

Out of nothing, I am created once more.
Fostered by love.

Focused on a time and a place

I exist in the moments between rain storms.
Slowly, I allow my face to soak.

I lift my arms and finally live in all corners of myself.
Drawn in, graciously, no part withheld.

Undergoing a change in speed, but not in direction.

Deconstructing habitual motions.
Extending my exposure.

---

Joni Bonney's goal is to spread love and to emphasize the beautiful things that we miss most of the time in this life.

She grew up on the East Coast and is now living and growing in Nashville, Tennessee, and always planning trips to places around the country. She walks forward as a wanderer through this lovely journey called life and hope to grasp all she can. 

Joni is the author of Songs of Her, and her work can be found through her site, Lovely Wanderer. 

White Stag

Photo by Joanna Lampa

I met Jane when she began dating her now husband, Jeremy. We laughed together in the parking lot, while our partners were inside practicing rock music; on their show days, we'd sell their merch, counting bills and tallying sales. She was there for me when Ricky was hospitalized, and drove with us when we visited Nashville for the first time–this gift of a friend. We've written poetry and painted together. Her writing is always such a delight to read for it's always honest and real.

She holds a floodlight personality, soul bursting in yellow blooms. 

---

White Stag

by jane claudio

What a wild story this is
That cancer that came to destroy me
But instead has gifted me with something
Irreplaceable, Irreversible

I should have been shattered
So why do I feel myself becoming invincible?

My hair has been washed down the drain
My breasts are in the garbage behind the hospital
Next to a half-finished ranch salad

Twenty-five pounds of my body have melted off
Eight months of my life have come and gone while I was sleeping
So yes, I do find it strange that I am feeling so powerful

It’s because I saw with my own eyes what we all are asking for

I saw proof that God is kind
And that if I fall, someone will catch me
If I was an empty well, people would still gather
Not to take, but to give

I saw with my eyes
The white stag that we all stubbornly hope for
What we muster up the strength to believe in
Unconditional Love

Now that I have fallen farther than I thought possible
And never hit the ground
I cannot return to being who I was before
I have seen too much

---

Photo by Joanna Lampa

Jane Claudio is a future cancer survivor in Nashville, Tennessee. She uses writing as a cure for loneliness and a magnifying glass for the beauty we experience every day. She is also shares her words through songwriting, with her work being accessible at www.nightbirde.com. 

Jane also has a GoFundMe account, #seejanewin. 

Sisters

Baby blue stitches, 
little crossed threads creating denim patterns; 
though fading in the elbows. 

She paints oranges, develops photos of her sisters, 
and captures footage of the Cinquefoil flowers. 

She wraps her arms around her brothers, 
and laughs loudly; 
honeydew hope is held in her eyes.

On a basking blanket between two Cottonwood trees,   
with a short story collection between her palms, 
her face begins to freckle—
beneath her full eyebrows,
and on her soft shoulders. 

She is in the wind, and will grow weary, 
belly swells as baby grows—
resting her spine on the bed, 
as she pulls splinters from her fingers.

Gray strands emerge from her scalp, 
woven throughout her cocoa curls;  
it holds the air of the forest, 
and unravels beneath streams of warm water. 

A lively life looms, 
indigenous to encouragement. 

Her heart is held, 
familiar to a full mind—
but not foreign to today. 

I think she understates, 
how many good traits she received from her mother; 
how they both speak with words that break the bones of death, 
and shift tides with a whisper.

---

Credits
Poem, written + read: Regan Smith
Music, written + recorded: Ricky Smith
Cover photo, courtesy of Elizabeth Miller