(originally published in Particle Magazine, Autumn 2015,
University of Nottingham)
Raging. Fear. Gray.
Some call it dreary or drab
despite the grab, the pull of the roots,
but it is your story,
your May Day,
Pit-pat. Thrush. Gush.
Youth finds you growing,
stretching your arms and fingertips
to reach a new sidewalk,
a new grass line,
a new curb.
Billow. Wisp. Sigh.
Retreat your Mother Sky,
and hopes rise.
Face reflecting people walk,
Still. Sun. Heat.
Father Time cups your soul
in his hands
The sidewalk is dry.
You are but a memory
the way we held hands.
(originally published in Particle Magazine, Spring 2016,
University of Nottingham)
Nobody wants to bare their heart—a whitewashed wall,
on which hang the faded memories of yesterday and the grand sketches of tomorrow
—not when it shows the dirty fingerprints of children,
the crumbling drywall from the fight, or the blood droplets from last Tuesday.
Even the loved are not safe from the cobwebs of time or the settling of dust on a lonely soul.
Society saunters in, sporting a suit and carrying a pail of touchup paint.
When she asks, “How are you?”, I follow protocol, dipping my brush
in the pail of cheery, yellow lies, dabble it over the latest spot of mold
and smile, saying, “I’m doing well. How are you?”
(originally published on Spillwords)
she’s the reminder that I need fresh air—
kiss of sharp needles, stabbing my feet as
they plunge in this icy green lakeside shore from
liquefied glaciers where old trunks sank and
stick up like a cross-stitch quilt; when you ask
me to listen, rest my head atop your
chest, please don’t ask me to relax, for still I
feel the avalanche, lifeblood of this sphere with its
veins of ash and fire pulsing to drumbeats
in the deep; she first stole my breath like a
pickpocket, making me double-check my
back. I can’t grasp hold of fear when it is
keeping me alive. this earth is my home—
my heart core in that cavern you call my
chest—I’ll hold my breath, dreading the next earth-
quake, because it’s more than shivers running up
my backside, making my hair stand on end;
it’s a reminder that this, my wild heart,
is only one organ in our world of
orchestras, setting the march with drums now
Most Read Poem of 2019
People romanticize the canals
and arching bridges of Venice,
but have you ever gotten yourself lost
in the sticky, humid heat
down an alley that stinks of urine?
Don’t get me wrong,
I enjoy the way I stumbled
across a bookstore with volume
after volume laid out in rows
within a bathtub, within a boat
for when the city floods.
I relished watching the glassblower
tug at the liquid fire and mold it
and pull until he set a little red horse, solid,
on the table.
But try finding a place to park
outside the city inside a garage
where your car is no longer a car
but a sardine packed among sardines.
I would rather take the train
and not have to worry about driving
with these maniacs who don’t signal—
I would rather be told to stand
at the wrong platform—
then rush back
down the tunnel, up to the right platform
and board a train with cracked windows
and humid air. Pounding hearts. Less stress.
Is it worth it all?
Taking the time to travel
to walk the trash-lined streets,
sail under the Bridge of Sighs
taste the bread topped with olive oil and rosemary
smell the salt of the Mediterranean,
feel the cool water lap at my feet
as we escaped the throngs of people and pigeons.
The towers are crooked here,
but even in leaning, there are blue skies.
More 2019 PoetryThe First Snow (January)
Thoughts of Place (February)
Ode to Winter (March)
At My Own Pace (June)
Concrete Forest, Paper Meadows (July)
At Night (November)
Copper Coated Autumn Leaves (December)
Silent Words (January)
Early Spring (April)
Still Life in Spring (May)
The To-Be-Read List (July)
Biking to Work (August)
Waking Up (September)
Weird Winter Weather (January)
In Season (February)
The Crow and the Heron (March)
The Muse (August)
The Christmas Market (December)