Sunday, August 21, 2016

Bullet Point

Bullet Point 


Bullet point pen, I
love the sensation of your
words, your scratch and stroke.





Rocking Chair

Rocking Chair 

We used to make forts in our room out of anything we could find. Pushed our beds closer together, draped a sheet across their frames, a rocking chair serving as an unstable wall. From the fort we would run strings, connecting the corners of the room so our toys never had to touch the ground. The tiny world in the sky at our eye level, rocking with the chair, adding a bit of danger with a comforting object. I always wondered why rocking chairs were so nice, why we enjoyed the sensation of rocking when in reality rocking is just falling. I watched our tiny world rock, fall, and then catch and then fall again, and my 6 year old self wondered why we find comfort in falling.







Cowboy

Cowboy


Cowboy, I’ve always loved you.
From your image on my childhood bed sheets,
playing your guitar for the Indian woman and her baby,
I saw your sensitive side.
When we went out west on a month long family trip,
I saw you everywhere.
In the shuffle of old leather boots and the warmth of denim.
I bought a cowboy hat so I could be closer to you.
And now I’m grown, and you’re still here,
or there in my imagination.
You ride up to my office door,
lasso a man on a Segway and you call to me.
After all these years, you’ve not changed one bit.
I reach for your stubbled face and try to wipe the prairie dirt off your cheek,
but only leave a smear.
Your green eyes lock onto me and you are suddenly much more real than my bed sheets.
Pulling me close my skin collides with your long sleeves,
your too-warm-for-this-August-heat outfit,
and you remind me why it’s important to daydream.
I rip a slit in my pencil skirt and you hoist me onto your horse and we’re off.
I wonder when you’ll play your guitar for me,

and when I’ll ever be back again.




Molasses

Molasses 

My mom cooks with molasses
as a substitute for something.
I can't remember what, but I
know it's probably because of
my brother, somehow. Family
sticky sweetness, for unknown
reasons.



Paris

Paris 


Museums vs walking
History vs coffee
Architecture vs street art







Ghost

Ghost 

Ghosts were not just people; a name- 
places can haunt you just the same. 




Tuesday, August 9, 2016

Expiration

Expiration

I will think of you.
Till it's beating stops, my heart
will not expire.



Monday, August 8, 2016

Storm Clouds

Storm Clouds

Storm clouds do not just produce rain.
We see clouds form every day

with talk of walls and hate,
with acts of senseless violence,
with intolerance in all forms,
with an angry look on the street.

We can all make storm clouds,

but who likes storms?




Blueberry

Blueberry


Blueberries are my favorite fruit,
but I know they taste like nothing.

They remind me of summers
in Virginia, picking berries in
my neighbors yard, as many as
we wanted.

They make me think of
Lip Smackers (blueberry pancake),
locker notes, Gel Pens and girl friend
sleepovers.  

They were barely an ingredient
in Oxford Blue ice cream,
my usual at G&Ds. Window
seat and spires.

And they were a vital part
of our silly plan, you and me.
Blueberry farm: because you knew
they’re my favorite.  

Blueberries are my favorite fruit,

but I know they taste like nothing.




Saturday, August 6, 2016

Happened

Happened

It happened one night,
and again and again till
she forgot her name. 







Friday, August 5, 2016

Rain

Rain


There once was a city where rain
caused folks considerable pain.
But they grinned and bore it
and never abhorred it
for they know not all pain is in vain.




Thursday, August 4, 2016

Mimosa

Mimosa

The only time when
bubbles and pulp make for a
good combination.






Wednesday, August 3, 2016

Ink

Ink

If we follow the path between me 
and you it will be paved in ink not gold. 
The viscous swirls in blue or black
sketch meaning, etched with red. 
We edit our conversations to death,
as guilt sinks into our pages
and we ask how this has happened. 



Tuesday, August 2, 2016

Charity

Charity


I learned that my great grandmother
watched over her neighborhood.

She cared for her own family,
but also kept her eyes on her block.
She raised her own children,
but also knew the kids on her street.
She loved her own family,
but also spread her love around.

I learned that my great grandmother
noticed when a child needed something.

She noticed when her sons needed
help with their homework.
She noticed when the child next door
didn’t have a school uniform.
She noticed when a little girl across the street
needed a little attention.

I learned that my great grandmother
gave what she could to every child she could.

She bought school uniforms,
she baked cookies,
she listened.
If a child was not getting what they needed,
my great grandmother would help. 

It’s so simple. It’s so vital.
It’s not charity. It’s just love.
I hope there’s enough of her in me

to see the world and not lose hope.