Part 1: Above a Town

I cannot tell the street
from rivers, streams, or brooks.
Highways are distinct.
Their surveyed lines
run from point to and fro,
but roads
are reminiscent
of long 'go trodden foot-paths
a foreign foot once tread.
They whined like rivers,
and cut sharp like fallen trees.

The steeple
tops the church
pointing upwards.
Through me,
sinners' penances
travel to the Lord;
I am unimportant.

In Flight

Propellers cut fast through the
ever increasing
always outpacing
clouds of human
corruption.

Thick white smog
rains down upon
civilians,
but passengers
in flight
are spared
least they glance
the real axis
on which the world rotates.

Fed on fear
of heights.

Fed on worries
higher than reach.

Fed from care:
caring too much
about pebbles in entirety.

Until we lift ourselves with curiosity
above the trap of life,
we cannot know why birds spend
more time in flight
than foraging on earth.
They don't want to eat
the garbage that humans cycle.

Celestial Dance

Cascades-
ember streaks-
meteor tails of reason
fade quickly.

Save The Life of a Child

**title inspired by a Simon and Garfunkel tune

Writers should never father children. Likewise, a woman should never put down her pen in order to push a child into the world. Similarly, if two writers choose to marry, may they be blessed by infertility. Writing warrants wombs of words, those who write aren't ready for wobbly limbs. Writers teach lessons that bypass toddlers' minds. They spend more time properly punctuating parenting advice than they do pushing their child to potty train. It's messy.

Novelists never get to the point of punishments. The progeny sent to time out will remember the 12 minute anecdote over the three minutes spent in the corner.

The short-storiest leaves off the important bits: socks then shoes, don't swallow tooth paste, and never speak with a mouth-full of anything. Every preschool teacher prepares for these children. They identify the child who gets off the bus wearing two pairs of pants (one not on his legs) and socks on his hands as being from the home of a writer, specifically the short story kind.

Poeticians leaves their families hanging, metaphorically at least. They speak a dialect of babble-ish, sounds too strange for forming minds. Children who hear such language are lost between baby talk and the far sweeping sounds of the sea.

Columnists like their writing to be neat. While cleaning house, they are known to arrange small children on bookshelves and put others in the corner. Children don't need to be dusted!

I know too many children of memoir-ists who have been defeated. Their white flags of surrender read, "My Parent is a Writer and She Writes About Me."

Please, writers, consider twice before becoming a child-rearer. You wouldn't send an unbound book into the world, what makes a child any different.

Writers have the chance to send their genes to future generation through writing. They have enough trouble forming headlines and remembering deadlines; they don't need to add birthdays to their list. Imagine the child who gets a report on the economy and the editor to opens his mail to find a card with singing bears.

Parents are profound influences on their children. In the arms of any parent, children squirm for words. Let those words be "I Love You" or "Dream Big" and not the words from the first line of the first page of the book you think are writing.

Enrapture

Poetry has curly hair.
It cascades in loose ringlets
from the crown of her head
past her shoulders
and down her back.
In the light it shines all colors,
chestnut, brown, and gold.
Each movement of her head
is another line
in the ballad she sings.
I follow her words,
a sunflower to the sun.

When she stretches her neck,
I peer around the bend,
looking to see where her desires travel.
Her eyes are fleeting,
and leave no indication
of where they may land.
Even her ears
register different decibels;
her body moves to these sounds.
Toes, feet, ankles, knees, hips
Fingers, hands, elbows, shoulders, neck
Something pulses just underneath her skin,
I've heard it beat between the rhythmic timing of her heart,
when I searched her body for the answers.

Taste and Style

A verse-
recreating itself within a new meter-
falls on a different page
but never leaves the book.

A Poem Cannot Lie

Any illusions that one throws
are always juxtaposed
to life as it arose
from experience: start to close.

Skipping Stones

Words thrown to the world
Sit on water
Before falling through

Bodies of Fallen Leaves

Sunk are the spirits of the living.
Every step desecrates a noble memorial
for what we race against.

Time has turned these bodies brown
It proceeds at will.
Just wait, time is merciless.
It will show no patience.

The seasons rush us onwards.
Water, rake, shelter, prune
Did I stop and share in nature's communal solitude?
Was I in deep slumber at the awakening?

Every drop of remorse
lingers in the dehydrated leaves.
Pledge with each crunching footstep
that the bodies of fallen leaves
will receive a dignified burial.

Spoken of the Woods

Converse with the trees.
Wooden chambers, human thoughts
Behold, rings of time.

Conversation of the Natural Sort

Speak freely to the air
for all it throws back-
whether it be a breeze, a gust, or a tempest-
is void of ill-wishes
and cannot pose any harm.

When spoken to
the water will sing back
with an orchestrated rain
or a metered undulation.
Do not fear the depths of placidity,
it wants nothing but to make buoyant your soul.

Fire will not think to scorch
least the embers glow
and more than words are thrown into the flames.
Heed where feet pirouette
when felicitating nature's eloquence.

It's only the human tongue,
with its eons of phonations
that hastens from serenity to blasphemy
without forecast.

Unearthing Conversation

Is it now that my turn has come
to weigh in with my shoulders,
bend from the knees,
and lift my point to the sky?

Is it time to plow the fields,
sew the seeds,
and tenderly pluck
at the root of my thoughts?

In the mind of an afterthought
I wipe my brow in worry.
Have I planted much too late?

Will the frost hold off
while the autumn sun shines
on a harvest hoping not to spoil?

Essential Seasons

I.
Verdant
The sprite of springtime flower
lands and roots
anew.

II.
Sun tramples
Come quench
an arid persistence
breathes dust

III.
Grown for humble earth
Supple leaves
curl
in autumn decay

IV.
Whisper
growth renew
refresh from last year's
desecration.

Body at Rest

Her body fills the spaces between springs.

It's been two hours

since her muscles

tensed against the sheets;

two hours,

and pain still lingers.

Nothing but a real sigh will take her into slumber.

Afterlife

Otherwise known as: Margaret recognizes her afterlife and wonders if she should put any reliance into faith.

I will be sent to hell
rather than receive
the nectar of heaven,
for I was heathen.

I will perish
for believing
that solid bounds of earth
touch the infinity of the sky,
in universes.


I will cry at my funeral
for having found myself reincarnated
and realizing that our beautiful planet
was the prophetical destination
all along.

Reunion

I apologize
if I have forgotten
how our hands glide together
in the steady beat
of our stride.

I'm out of practice
of where to place
my lips when I whisper
the things not for parents to hear.

They don't let on
that i should believe
in love-
not at sixteen or ever-
They won't encourage "it"
but they won't stop
"it" either.

By "it"
I mean what you mean
and if that not "it"
please stop me now,
because I don't want to start off
with lies.

Remember
how we played truth or dare
And you were so true
I dared you to kiss me?
Remember,
you did so with honesty.

I felt "it"
when your fingers traced
my tears,
and later
as you told me what makes
your world black.

"It's" dark out now,
but tomorrow I will see you
for the first time in months.
I will be nervous like it is
the first day of school,
but it's been longer than summer vacation.
What if the other kids don't like me?
Will you trade the topic of sweaty palms
for our teacher's French styled mustache?
I need a good laugh
and a good smile.
It's been a while,
and the wight of this time
needs to be lifted
from our shoulders.

Best Friend

I remember
how we had show and tell
and you told
that in your new house
your walls were painted yellow.
You were happy.
Yellow looked so good on you.

I remember
in fifth grade
how your walls started to speckle.
The paint was chipping,
it was a long time
since kindergarten.

I remember
when I came to your house
and you had changed your walls to green.
You were happy with the color.
It was my favorite back-drop
for slumber parties.

I remember
how one night
you told me
that you wanted your casket
to be black.
In the flight light's glow
I reasoned for cremation.

I remember
when I got pulled from English class,
and was told the news.
The fumes from your
wounded red walls
had leaked into your brain.
I never got to help you
with the rest of the decorating.

Your walls were crimson.
Your face was white.
Now you sleep in a
seven by two and a half
solid mahogany
tomb stained night.

Don't Hold Back

Some people don't speak
Lest they jinx the future.

On partially cloudy days
I prepare my shadow:
Should I disappear,
I won't be gone for long.

Cloud's of uncertainty
Are impermanent.
Now is always Then
As if it never Were before.

The School System

It makes me sad to see
an ice-cube melt
before it reaches its potential.
Sometimes no one gives
an ice-cube a chance to
cool down a drink
or soothe a soar on a gym warrior's knee.

The system is selfish.
They choose only the top ice-cubes
from the bucket.
The bottom ones are left to
melt and deconstruct
the perfect lattice structures
of their neighboring cubes.

The system is not set at zero.
The weight of the upper ice-cubes,
should not be greater than
that of the students on the bottom.
Remember back in fifth grade
when you first balanced equations?

The system has failed.
Today, only part of the world drinks cool lemonade.
There are children left thirsty.
Have you thought about tomorrow?

a Curse

When you write enough fiction

you begin to forget

My memories

are of photographs

Mathematics

I fell asleep in my text book
and woke up with
plus signs
dividing the contours of my jawline
and numbers dotting my forehead.
As I reached for my pencil,
formulas, postulates, and theorems
unstuck from my unfurling body
and landed in my heap of unanswered questions:

Why does a universal language
accept erasers and calculators,
but when it comes to international relations,
not consider the numbers?

Comfort

I wonder:
Does silence get along with his neighbors?
Does he warmly welcome with
jello salad
and dishes of casserole?
I want to know his recipes for
mac-n-cheese,
brownies,
and mashed potatoes.
They're the kind of recipes
I'd pass on to my daughter
after her first break up,
when she has nothing to say at all,
but really
her thoughts are racing
and her only friend
-for the moment-
is cast in the air between us.

He Knows Who He Is (You Know Who You Are)

I'm sorry I described you
In such a manner
that you found out
that I noticed your spine.

I should have asked
Your permission
Before I tried to understand
the contours of your mind.

If I've gotten you wrong
or offended you so
please tell me, because I know
that assumption is blind.

"Love" Story

There was a young girl who was puzzled by her parents attitude. They did not fall anywhere on her scale of love. No touching, no smiles, and any laughter that escaped actually concealed her parents disgust with one another. Pleasant exchanges between the couple were staged. To make up for it, the girl started pretending.

She pretends that her father and mother met in their mid-twenties. They were introduced by a mutual friend who they did not want to disappoint. Despite an obvious lack of attraction, the couple continued to talk. On the first night, they discovered that they had something in common; they both were ready to settle down.

Without concern for their offsprings' futures, the man and the woman united in marriage and the bond's of children. The love they thought would grow from family did not. In its absence grew tension and this tale.

Validation

At birth,
you took up existance's hand.
He has yet to let go.

Take him up on his offer;

don't compromise your thoughts

for what to you is true.

There is no one world,
one way,
one thought...
Instead, there are a millions ways
to derive
the sights you see.
Choose one,
and believe.

Only one person needs to
wake up
in your head
to realize the sun rises.

The chocie needs to be made
on whether
to slip in as a whole
into a 'this way' warped society,
or to fall
-of our own accord-
holding onto the one cord that will pull us through:
Think.
Thoughts can never be
unthunk.
You were never not here.

Calloused Hands

Peace is the space between my thumb and pointer finger
I am at ease with a pencil poised there
Ready
At any moment
To preserve thought on paper
I wonder:
Is peace in my hand, my pencil, or
the world that lets me write
without compromise?

Simultaneous

To hold the future
Is to watch cupped water run
From impatient hands

Fears

I'm still afraid of vacuums. They pose a threat, sizing me up to suck in my existence. Actually, I may be more afraid of loosing this fear than I am of afraid of loosing myself. I'm not fearless.

I'm in constant worry over the sake of actually loosing my fears. They are all I have in connection to the freedom of youth. Nobody stops a child from believing. Since I've shed my baby fat and balled up fists of tears, you think it's right to take away my eyes of innocence? You tell me I am either right or wrong; there is no sense being creative.

I'm afraid of this darkness adulthood presses upon me. I hope my flashlight never goes out.

A Lot of Things Are Round (for Pi Day)

The penny from the ground
takes the shape of gold
in a child's palm.

The pupils in your eyes,
dare I tell you why,
entrance me.

The disk that is the sun
resumes it's earthly run
each morning.

From peace signs to shirt buttons
the circumference will always be
a function of 3.141592653.

Empty Nest

The room, like the cupcake tins, is dusted with flour. The surface has acquired that extra slick consistency that little particles add to shined granite. The island counter-top is gray speckled granite, or it was before it was assaulted by the baking weapons and heavy artillery. Now, it has the look of a light snow fall, one that would have disappointed her now grown children as they buttoned up for the bus stop. On top of the snow are metal sleds for cookies and a red ceramic bowl dripping with batter.

The bowl holds a spatula rather than swirls from a handheld mixer. That’s what you get with time. Hand mixed batter has settled in droplets into new area codes. They would have had a street named after them had the snow plow not come along and washed the slush away. The batter softens into the green checked washcloth as it is rinsed out into the large kitchen sink. The sink’s stainless steel sides are sprayed in the action. Eventually, water mixes with soap; some bubbles form and float to the ceiling.

The ceiling is masked with a fresh coat of white paint. There are not any cobwebs in the corners of the dark sea green walls, none that the bright lighting shows anyway. I am sure they are in attendance like the few crumbs that modestly hide from the broom. Some blend in well with the floor tiles of gray, black, and white. Others, the lady’s aging eyes just don’t see. She’s concentrating on her baking.

Found: a Stranger in a Friend

His spine curves over in an exaggerated arch. He is stretching for something. That something might as well be tucked somewhere in the texts of last nights trigonometry homework for that he is right now. Man he is smart. His head bends low, nose touching paper and his back rises like a cats.

His smooth liquid flowing shirt uncovers each vertebra. It is as if acid has run down his spine and eaten away every so often. Pools of sorrow and depression gather in the recesses. I would cry if it meant he’d show some happiness.

His eyes are livid with thirst. They roll in dark shadows. He’s stayed up late for the extra fulfillment of knowledge. Now, his tired body sags in a walking sleep, the arch of his back is restful.

I think he has abandoned himself. I do not know when the last time he brushed his hair was. I hope he doesn’t care that I noticed. Normally, he’ll just shrug off those things. His arched back will heave a sigh, shoulders will rise, and he will speak out of the side of his mouth in a nasally voice, “Oh well.” or “That’s okay.” He speaks simply, but I can’t figure him out. When he walks, his head is content with looking forward and his back is happy being straight. I envy his sub-confidence.

I say sub because I know when he sits he recoils into his mind where it is a less than happy place to be. It’s one of the only places he finds acceptance. It troubles him. On the inside, I know he chuckles at the world, but he can’t bring himself to do so out loud. I wish he would just laugh, because I know the world would take that chortle and smile upon it. All he needs is a smile. Maybe then, happiness can begin to fill the depressions in the arch of his back and his hair will untangle into brown curls. His eyes will fill in fuller the recesses of his waxed cheeks. The mumble that escapes past his skinny fingers resting up his chin may grow loud.

I want him to eat more out of life. He is terribly skinny. It’s unusual; I thought a master secret keeper would be fat and able to hide evils in the folds of his skin. Instead, this man is skinny. But this boy, riddle by enough tricks to be a man, hides his muffled thoughts between bona and the faint ripple of muscle. I suspect those evils also home in the mess of his hair. It takes two hands to reach up and brush it from his eyes. I hope he never cuts it. He’d have no where to hide behind. If he cuts his hair, I’ll see everything. I’ll see his neck. I don’t want to see that spine creep up off his back; it will mean he is no longer hiding and that I can no longer look.

Grammy Porter

It was not just camera shyness, my grandmother always held her hands together against her body. I, too, walk that way. It was second nature. I think she needed to hold herself back. Otherwise, like I do, she would erupt in smiles and mouth covering giggles again and again and again. It's embedded in me.
I think she stitched something different into each of her 14 children and grandchildren that many times doubled. I, the sixth to last grandchild and fifth to last girl, got her hair, her dance, and her love of Scrabble.
Even at 80, her hair was never gray. It was brown and soft; it permed loosely at an iron's touch. I loved my grandmother's hair. She once held my own back as I spewed hot dog guts into her kitchen sink. I might have been four when I first fell for love.
My grandmother was endless Scrabble games with butter cookies. They were always homemade. Wobbly arms, once young and muscled now aged with the love of so many children, would press fork prongs and sprinkle colored sugar into the dough. Nobody has since done the same. She always as the best.
Not even my parents could beat Grammy in scrabble. Was I too young to challenge her words? Perhaps, I was not old enough to know the right words. No, I think she was just that wordy.
I have inherited my hair and impromptu dance skills from my grandmother. I have seen them age over twenty years of eight millimeter film and the fourteen years I knew her. Maybe I'll learn to play scrabble like her, someday.

Euneirophrenia

Hearts may wish in dreams,

But it is up to our heads

to act upon them.

I've Become

I have permanently bent big toes
from shoving them deep
into the shallowest of shoes.
I've always refused to grow up
even as I grew.

I've become my words
more often than my face
because I hear they speak better
than myself.

I search for knowledge
because
I've forgotten all the lessons
I was taught
when I was little.

I talk to strangers
because
they fascinate me,
and I like to hear their stories.

Anyway

I am someone
because
I've been before
and experience is a masterful artist.

Fifty-Five Fiction

Raphael
I was a Sunday before a big test. What was she to do, but sneak her art history notes into her bible. God would forgive, she was study his works, wasn't she? By the end of mass, the sleep deprived Ethna was snoring in the pew. The priest walked over, "Ah, a Last Judgment".

The Great Marker Incident

I still can't taste cheeseburgers on sesame seed buns without also tasting the concentrated chemicals that compose a certain Smelly's Blue Raspberry (Washable) Marker. Without realizing it, I once ate the tip off such a marker. Doing so warded off all future cravings of cheeseburgers. The worst part, it didn't even taste like raspberry.

Words on His-Story

When I think about words coming together to form a story, I wonder why our society doesn't congregate the same way. Lines of prose don't bicker over who begins a paragraph, because every point on the plot-line is equal. It's not about punctuation. It's never been about individualized verbs. There is only one standard held high above history's head; it's that nobody gets to spotlight on the cover.

Dive into Prose

Books and I are in a rough relationship. I read daily. I read because books are there, and that, my friend, is the devil. Reading is my ultimate temptation.

eehh? not titled yet

He was the most genuine person I had ever encountered. His character was possessed by the purest of substances. Because of that, I loved him. He was nothing other than himself. He was the being I wanted to be, or at least be part of and by some beneficiary I secured a place in his heart. Blessed be the loved, for they have reason to love.
We meshed like gears in play dough. It works, but not efficiently. That is, I am at fault. I take the blame. I am the goo that clogs his brain. I'm the poison that faults him. Genuine shakes his head at my hallucinations. You cannot be true by being false, I am contradiction. Blessed are those who can take blame for they have forgiven their blunders.

Expunge these Thoughts

I still have your t-sheet
Folded neatly
The same creases
Have stayed pressed in my hand
Since you last held it.

My stomach hurls these memories
Into the garbage.
You're something
I just can't handle.

Nymph

I booked a ticket
to ride a petal's flowers.
Raindrops follow me.

This week I've collected...

We've evolved from a hunter gatherer society
into
a wasteland for our own refuse.
Where is redemption
when you say
it's really all physiological?
If the possibility exists,
all habitually hoping humans
will fall for this little injustice
that we ourselves have provided.
Nature seeks a minimum.
Think about it.