Saturday, July 30, 2016

Unread Novel

My mind is a list
and everything I need to do
builds and builds and builds.
And I'm trying to keep up.
Pages turn,
and I've got a book,
but I'm not done with chapter one.
Always over. over. overwhelmed.

Riley Welch

Wednesday, July 27, 2016


It's sunny. 
Really sunny. 
Now that's what I call sunny.  
Super bright and sunny. 
I definitely need sunglasses sunny. 
And maybe even a hat sunny. 
Crazy sunny. 
Not a single cloud in the sky sunny. 
Grass turning away from green sunny. 
It's sunny. 

Riley Welch

Monday, July 25, 2016


Forcing myself to write
on especially tiring days
exhausts me.
I have little want to spit out anything.
I find sometimes,
even the thought of looping words
becomes one of repulsion.
Not repulsion.
Wrong word.
More like:
getting lost in trying to find a starting point.
But I do also feel, pretty strongly,
that the act of practicing,
especially when you don't want to
holds power.

Riley Welch

Saturday, July 23, 2016


Beauty collapsed into moments.
Remember them,
quick and loving.
Sometimes they expand again,
like a memory,
but nothing sticks the same as the first time.
How many times do I feel butterflies in my stomach
when reliving a moment,
silently in my head?
It flip flops over itself,
time and time again.

Riley Welch

Wednesday, July 20, 2016


Cool windows reflected wrapping branches
knocking noises,
pink, cream, green.
It feels like they shouldn't,
but - to me -
they fit together so sweet.

Riley Welch

Monday, July 18, 2016


I probably couldn't request a nicer morning,
up early,
soft sunlight hitting. 
Cold, crisp coffee. 
Words scribbled as always. 
Backpackers came in first,
rolling through town.
Looking for a hot coffee. 
Business men followed them
probably on their way to the office. 
I sat in the corner and watched silently.  
Not because of my quiet nature -
because my nature is not really quiet.  
But because I was sitting alone and it felt odd to be talking with no one next to me.
I kept writing,
because it felt like it had been a while since I sat 
and relieved 6-8 poems of pressure off whichever lobe of my brain those come from. 
I'm always more fresh and ready to write 
bright and early. 
If only,
more often,
I could get myself up. 
At night I try to write
and it comes out a jumbled,
but satisfying, mess. 
As I finished my coffee,
I was ready to leave, 
and answer to obligation instead of myself. 

Riley Welch

Saturday, July 16, 2016

One More, Many More

I realized I stopped writing poems about you
and your death
and what it did to our family. 
Was the distance making grief easier,
or just making me forget faster?
I can't believe I stopped,
spaces between thoughts grew greater and sometimes so did guilt. 
I was going to change things
to make it up,
I just wasn't sure when. 

Riley Welch 

Wednesday, July 13, 2016


And it glowed, lit up the sky.
I knew the answer.
It didn't feel like sand in my fingertips this time.
The fear of falling lessened,
only slightly.
But surely, it did.
Much more afraid to drop it,
but knowing that,
if I did.
I would be alright.

Riley Welch

Monday, July 11, 2016


Trying to
write more more more.
Remember last summer?
I wrote
so, so, so
Someday I predict I will again.
One a day,
or three a week,
Keep it up, up, up.
Oh the privilege of thinking only one thought at a time.

Riley Welch

Saturday, July 9, 2016

Ms. Smith

One foot carried over the other
and her shoulder tinged a gentle red from the sun.
A breeze blew hair into her face and she shook her head
-chin to collarbone-
a few times, until it straightened itself out.

Riley Welch

Wednesday, July 6, 2016


Rounded soft curls,
piled on her crown.
She wrapped them like a promise.
Heels clinked on stairs,
step, step, step.
We always heard her coming.

Nails glossy and strong
rapping them on the table.
As an act of impatience or routine,
we could not tell.
She walked like a mystery,
in that we knew little of her,
except how she moved.

Like the way her wrist flicked the key in the door
and how she threw her purse to her shoulder as
she turned to leave.

We saw her glance to her watch
as she stepped on her bus
and waited for the next day to
to see her leave again.

Riley Welch

Monday, July 4, 2016


I feel as if we don't spend enough time being grateful.
For loving.
For looking up through green shaded leaves,
sun barely peeking.
For breezes igniting goosebumps down our stomachs in sweltering heat
and twisting armed branches
that mimic dancing bodies.

Riley Welch

Saturday, July 2, 2016

The Red (Root) Collection

You know the drill - I title each notebook I use according to the color of the color and binding, this one was red and covered in root vegetables. 

This is the poem dedicated to my time with this notebook. 

I feel like I'm learning.
Like the lessons of being surrounded by writers
are greater than my 45,000 dollar,
4 year

Should I feel guilty about that?
Maybe not.
It shows commitment at least.

I fill up books a bit slower now.
And spend more time on edits.
I haven't figured out how to become perfect yet,
but I have doubts I ever will.
And at the very least,
I am becoming

content with that.

Riley Welch