let’s go

I bring you my heart
all tied up in knots impossible to undo.
I place them into your kind hands
and my heart falls down like dew.
Your hands, like little green leaves
in the sweet morning light,
scoop me up safe from the air,
tangled strings to unwind.

You hold my freed heart,
a waterfall fluttering wild.
I dream of being the frost
on the grass of your smile,
hardening into one happy whole
no hot sun could ever steal.
Let’s stay, fluttering frozen forever here.
Let’s go, flying forward with no fear.

el poder de una palabra

“La angustia abate el corazón del hombre, pero una palabra amable lo alegra.” Proverbios 12:25

La angustia (noun): anxiety, concern, distress, anguish, sickness

Abate (verb): shoots down, brings down, knocks to the ground, demolishes, defeats, depresses, disheartens

El corazón (noun): the heart, the core, the center

De (preposition): of, in, from, with

El hombre (noun): a man, mankind

Pero (conjunction): but

Una palabra (noun): a word, a promise

Amable (adjective): gentle, kind, friendly, nice

Lo alegra (verb): cheers it up, makes it happy, livens it up, brightens it up.

3D printer

Filament unwinds
as some new object comes to life.
Some new plastic fascination,
some new cause for celebration.
If you could make me over-
could draw up a plan to make me better
then watch it come together,
layer by each perfect layer,
what would you design?
Tell me, what would I be like?

the guitar

He sits in an old case
in another room.
He slowly gathers dust.
He sleeps alone.

He finds his heart
is always out of tune,
like six limp strings,
a pain to have to strum.

I try to lift him
from his chosen tomb,
twist the pegs and stretch the strings
to make brighter sounds.

But when the song is done
and I am gone
and he sits once again
in his faraway room

I'll miss the music,
but he will forget the song.
I wonder if I've held onto him
too long.

Maybe he'd be better off
in other hands-
with someone who could make
those tired strings truly dance.

raspberry jam strips

My mother grabs ingredients
from the shelves of her soul, an abundant pantry.
She knows that all will be well
as long as she follows the old, old recipe.

She beats together butter and sugar
in a large bowl on medium speed.
She cracks an egg and blends it in
with delightful drops of vanilla and almond.

Then she whisks together flour and salt
and adds it slowly to make dough,
turns the oven on to heat
and sprinkles flour on the counter like snow.

She divides the dough into pieces.
Then, with her hand or a rolling pin
shapes them into long flat strips
that she dusts with flour again.

She places the strips onto baking sheets,
then takes the back end of a wooden spoon
to carve like a river a line through the middle
that she fills with red raspberry jam.

The cookies go in the oven
until the edges turn light brown.
She lets them cool, then drizzles
a sweet almond glaze o'er the raspberry canyon.

She cuts the strips diagonally
and puts them on a plate
for all the family to enjoy-
our favorite Christmas treat.

My mother's love is Christmas love.
She is fluent in the language of "give."
Her heart blooms in the red center
of each raspberry jam strip.

humble heart

I don't think I actually want to die,
I'm just overwhelmed by living.
I used to turn to cutting
as a craved way of escaping.

Now I drive home in the dark.
I hit myself. It doesn't work.

In the car, a new song starts.
I want a humble heart.
The words hurt, my spirit burns
Oh, how I have so much to learn.

I don't know if I have the will to try,
at least I cry instead of bleeding.
I don't think I actually want to die,
I'm just a teacher in need of teaching.

procrastination

When my head is full of poems,
little graspings at unknowns,
and worries rise like waves
to toss about my ship of faith,
it is so easy to talk
about standing on the rock,
and so easy to write
about fighting the good fight.

It is harder to put down the pen
of my numb procrastination,
that desperately yearns and aches
to put the unknowns in their place,
while the knowns, the things I need to do,
are piling up and overdue.
I think of God and think of you
and write until my hand turns blue.

sickness

“I’m feeling like myself again”

is often said in relief,
a happy reassurance

after some prolonged sickness or grief.

But sickness is my natural state,

I would rather feel like You

than ever feel like myself again.

Lord, change me through and through.

near and far

If I were a floating cloud
looking down upon the world,
I would make whimsical, wonderful shapes
to open your imagination like drapes.

To cause you to look up to the sky
I would make glorious pictures on high.
To cause you to ponder its deep mystery,
I would point like a sign to eternity.

But if you were still drawn to the earth,
walking with your face to the ground and the dirt,
I would make myself a dark rain cloud
flashing bright and rumbling loud.

To teach you the wonder of love divine,
I would reach down from heaven and touch you with rain.
I would let pain thunder in your ear
to bring you low, to bring God near.

child of God

Last night you held me close to you-

I let you see my flaws.

You told me I was beautiful,

a precious child of God.

This morning I looked in the mirror

and your words came to mind-

words able to alter vision,

words with power to define.

"A child of God,"

the most important part of who I am.
I start the day, His child by grace,
ever growing to look more like Him.

speak

Speak to me
in any language that you can.
There is no dictionary
that can translate total silence.

Hold me
in the bandage of your hands.
There is no substitute
for physical presence.

I'm listening
with moth-like ears, this love's mutation,
silently waiting with every power
of translation.

I'm bleeding
from a wound that never heals.
How sweet a blessing, how cruel a curse
to deeply feel.

reflections on love and conjugating verbs

Love is a verb,
conjugated differently depending on its subject,
a treasure box of a word
that holds some cherished object.

When I speak of conjugations
I mean I love differently than he loves,
but we love in the same direction,
holding treasure boxes open.

Love is a noun,
too big to fit in any single poem-
big enough for all the singing,
shining anthologies of heaven.

Too far, too high to submit
to our small earthly powers of description.
Close enough to cover
our deepest darkest direst distance.

deliver us (part 1)

Deliver us, O God who sees
our bondage, hears our cries,
from slavery in Egypt
to the promised paradise.

Pass over us, O Lord, we pray
and paint our doors with blood.
Let not the destroyer strike us down
along with Egypt's sons.

Go before us, split the sea,
make us walk on dry land,
that we may know the mighty power
of Your saving hand.

Give us this day our daily bread,
paint the ground with manna white.
Make us hungry for Your Word-
be our souls' greatest delight.

Be near to us, be Thou our guide
by fire through the night
and cloud by day, that all may see
You are with the Israelites.

And when we grumble and we stray,
forget not Your promises.
Bring us safely to that land-
for You are compassionate and gracious.

You are faithful when we are faithless.
Help us trust you day by day
as we wander through this wilderness,
and for your salvation wait.

pantoum 2

I glided gold across a cloud of gloom

and skated silver on an icy pond

imagining the fish below entombed

like pictures in a dream, making no sound.

I skated silver on an icy pond

of memories, the life I knew before.

Like pictures in a dream, making no sound,

they dodged my reach, vanished into the air.

To memories, the life I knew before,

I do not cling, but rather float above.

They dodged my reach, vanished into the air

‘Til my hands were empty, ready to hold love.

I do not cling, but rather float above,

Imagining the fish below entombed.

‘Til my hands were empty, ready to hold love,

I glided gold across a cloud of gloom.

perseverance

You are the author, the author of me-
so on the subject, you must be the prime authority.

You are my creator, the potter who molds the clay.
So tell me who I am, Lord. Teach me my frame.

The author of my faith, you created faith in me.
To be your servant is the only way I can be free.

Let me run with perseverance whatever race you've marked for me.
Let me fix my eyes upon your Son, my gaze on Calvary.

cinderella

When the clock strikes midnight
in the castle of despair,
she is a Cinderella
running promptly down the stairs.

She speeds back home to safety-
never leaves behind a shoe.
No dark prince can follow where she goes,
far from the halls of gloom.

Far from the ballroom's lofty music,
she now hums a simple tune-
sheds her costume, feeds the mice,
bends to pick up a broom.

elsie

Elsie is a quiet dragon
aching to explode,
a poet in the corner
striking fear into her foes.

She speaks so softly
all the class leans forward, listens close,
but neither hears her silent screams
nor detects the scent of smoke.

What hides inside that muted mind?
I work to crack the code.
I sense a little light of mine
beneath bushels of woe.

A strong voice snuffed and smothered
by some burning in the throat.
Dear Elsie, I am listening.
Read me the riddle of your soul.

ascension

Can a poem sprout in a dark room-
doors locked,
curtains closed
to every golden drop of sunshine?

Can a poem alone,
from the meager warmth of words,
summon up enough strength
to pull itself from the earth?

No.
The cannibal poem cannot grow.
Open the curtains- place it close to a window
where it can swim an endless sunny lane,
from stagnant circles
to sparkling pilgrim chain.

Better yet,
plant the poem careful in the ground.
Watch it burst into flower
and quickly ascend-
See it link the unlikely,
the foreign befriend.

Let it spread its roots deep
in a world that is wide.
Feel with it small
and never satisfied.

campfire

Autumn calls and sends a lovely chill
down my sleepy spine, against the waves of will.
An orange campfire wakes under my skin,

and when you’re near it glows with oxygen.

Come, gather round with marshmallows and sticks!

I am warm and wonderful and full of tricks-

could walk a tightrope stretched across the town,

or toast you to an expert golden brown.

But sadly, you escape my trembling hands

and shoot up like a spark into the wind.

You carve a quick orange trail into the sky,
a trail I cannot walk, nor can I fly.

So I let the marshmallows burn to total ash.

and learn the taste of fire, reckless, rash.
I sing familiar campfire songs under the stars,
and welcome the inevitable winter with my inevitable guitar.

waiting

I remember lying in the grass,
waiting for rain to come-
for ideas to flow
like droplets from the sky
or grass up from the ground
into my skull.

I remember lying
with my back in the snow
and my face to the white sky,
soaking in the blank,
waiting to fall asleep
and wake up frozen
in a snow bank.

I remember walking
down the sidewalk
and in aimless circles
around the cul-de-sac,
waiting for someone
to suddenly appear
and save the day
or listen to me talk.

I remember sitting
silent on a rock,
listening to the trees'
roaring applause.
The wind had given them
a sensational show.
I could not see a single act,
although I felt him bow.

I turned into a little leaf
scooped up by a gust
and carried to your feet.
You were there in the rain
and the grass and the snow
all that time I waited blind,
oblivious to the show.

soul

Your arms around me
are curling, splashing ocean waves of joy,
ever shadowed by the dark clouds
that I'm sad to call "goodbye."

Remembered waves of your embrace
wash over me at night.
I wait for the sweet someday
when you will be always, only mine.

When I will rest safe in your arms
and never fear again.
When I will give myself to you
more honest than the pen in my hand.

The deep, black ink of my feeling
will spill at once
into your clear blue love,
and not pollute it at all.

Your arms around me
are like a promise-
a direct link
to your eternal soul.

thanksgiving

If I were a pumpkin,
would you pick me from the patch?
Would you scoop out my seeds,
carve a smile onto my face,
and fill me up with light?
Would I sit with you on the front porch
every night?
If that’s where I grew old,
I wouldn’t mind.

If I were a pumpkin,
would you bake me into a pie?
Would you mix me up with cinnamon,
place me gently in the oven,
and watch me rise?
Would you top me with the whipped cream
of your delight?
If that’s what you had in mind,
it would be alright.

If I were a person
and not a pumpkin,
would you choose me just the same-
if I were not always sweet and smiling,
and took much longer to decay?
By grace, in the wonders of the night
and the long labor of the day,
would we join an eternal Thanksgiving
and daily give ourselves away?

september

September stands shyly

in the doorway of a school.
She sings in her head

"Give me something to aspire to-

Some beautiful change,

some standing on truth,

some person to show me around-"

she is new.

September steps into

a classroom of kind souls,

who hang peace like paintings

on every wall.

A hopeful stranger

standing on the edge of Fall-

She aspires to be like them,

candles all.

sunrise

I meet you the moment 

I open the curtains

and am surprised by the soft glow

of a lovely sunrise.

You greet me with warm colors

and gentle light-

a new, sweet hello each time

we've been parted by night.

Your smile illuminates the edges of clouds,

then slowly, all the world around,

offering every day an invitation

to be beautiful again.

I want to believe

that you really, truly could love me.

I want to know

your mercies, new each morning.

Your perfect peace

that passes understanding,

your faithfulness

that persistently keeps rising.

You know my need for sleep

and let me go into the dark,

if only so that when I wake

I may savor your light more.

I savor your light new

each precious time that I look through

the curtains and see your face,

knowing I only see by grace.

You call me from the shadows

and take away my grave clothes.

You speak with me

and draw me through the window

To the place where you are,

the embrace of your care.

I meet with you again

in the meadow of prayer.

seen

I’m pounding on the glass of my eyes,
waiting for you to reply
to a question I can’t verbalize,
to open the door
and find me sitting here outside,
knocking with silent hands,
spilling over with sighs.

I’m pounding on the glass of my brain,
searching for an answer
to the problem of pain,
for strength to move,
for words to speak-
knocking at the door of your love,
longing to be seen.

chickpeas

Let the chickpeas soak
for about one hour.
Spend some extra time
in the warm shower.

Watch them rise in the bowl
like bread in the oven
Watch yourself sink deeper
into the coffin.

Cook the bloated beans
in a bubbling pot.
Feel your soul float away
like steam from something hot.

Add salt and garlic-
a lemon freshly squeezed.
Wring your heart
until the parasite is pleased.

Grind it into a paste,
a creamy spread.
Dive into the taste
like pita bread.

Blend the orbs
of your confusion
into the corpse
of a conclusion.

Stir your vain
abstractions
into some simple,
tangible action.

anxiety

You are an ocean
I cannot keep from crashing
against the shore.
Thoughts pour endlessly
onto the sand,
rising, retreating, repeating
their attack on the ground.
How many castles
have you swallowed up?
I stand on the beach
with a bucket and a shovel,
trying to make something beautiful-
to make sense of the destruction
that’s become inevitable.
I cannot stop the pull of the moon.
I cannot stop you from taking everything
and knocking me down.
I cannot say “Peace, be still,”
and make the waves obey
I am powerless to part the sea
or break my bondage to decay.
Creation groans,
a bush thick with thorns.
I am pricked by your ocean,
continually warned
not to build my house
upon the sand-
on Christ the solid rock
I stand!

the cat

The cat has got my tongue again,
curled up on the soft red couch
of my mouth
like a close friend.
I bring food and water
for him to lap up
before any can reach
my own parched throat.
He stretches out to sleep
as I slowly starve for love,
staring blankly at a screen-
I could call you but I don’t.

The cat has got my tongue again
and I cannot complain.
I’ve built myself into a shelter
for animals in pain.
They wander in and out
and I try my best at healing.
To be a safer place
I’ve learned to mute
 my inward screaming.
Will you stay awhile?
My doors are open
whenever you need me,
but I’ll understand if afterwards
you have more important places to be.

the edge

The future is a dense, untraveled forest.
I imagine it full of beautiful creatures
and dangerous hunters.
Friendly ferns and flowers grow
alongside poisonous, shadowy foes.
I stand fearful at the edge,
holding only the misty map
of my dreams,
and a heavy string bag
filled with questions
and shards of faith.
Will you come with me
into the forest,
or will I take the journey alone?
Will you still love me
in the great wilderness
of the unknown?
I stand fearful at the edge
of the woods-
frozen at the edge of life,
searching for light
and God.

come

Let the little children come to me.
Let the little children shout and sing
to bring joy to their King.
Let the little children sit quietly
at His feet and listen.

To them belong the kingdom-
those I've woven in the womb
and called by name.
Those who hear my voice
and follow me-
my precious little lambs.

I am their Good Shepherd,
and I know them thoroughly.
I listen to them pray,
and I hear each Spirit-groaning.
I know how they will stray,
and there's no distance
I will not cover
to bring them back safe.

I will bring you back safe.

Nothing can snatch you
from my hands.
I have engraved you there
upon my palms.

Oh little child, look,
look at my hands.
See my scars
and doubt no more
that you can be saved.
Take my hand-
believe.
Open up the gift of faith
I give to you in love.

Come,
like a little child come unto me.
Come with all your sin
and be made clean.
Cast all of your anxiety
on the One who cares for you.
Bring all of your burdens
and believe I care for you.

bed of swords

Alive and active
is God's word-
sharper than any
double-edged sword.

I pull out the weapon
when the battle seems hopeless
from where it's hidden in my heart-
the sword of the Spirit.

Yes, tonight I will sleep
on a whole bed of swords,
and rest in peace
within God's wonderful words.



"For I am convinced that neither death nor life, neither angels nor demons, neither the present nor the future, nor any powers, neither height nor depth, nor anything else in all creation, will be able to separate us from the love of God that is in Christ Jesus our Lord." Romans 8:38-39

torn

How do I let go
of my need for control?
How do I accept
that your actions
and your feelings
are not always my fault?
How can I forgive myself
for things that you have done?
I listen to the accuser's voice
and struggle to hang up the phone.
Broken, ugly, dirty, guilty,
never good enough-
undeserving of your pity,
your unrelenting love.
My mind is a prison tonight,
but I do not try to escape
or ask anyone else to help-
this is my rightful place.
How can I
make sense of grace
or comprehend
the pain in your face
when you see my scars?
I didn't mean
to break your heart.
I was only trying
to fix everything,
and in the process
I tore myself apart.

children singing

In heaven will we all be children singing,

unable to contain our joy or keep from dancing?

Will we gather around the throne of Jesus,

the little lost lambs He carried home with great rejoicing?

Will He welcome us in His arms

and look with love on His creation?

Will He answer our silly questions

with fatherly patience?

Will we miss the womb we came from

and the comforts of human love?

Will we remember them when eclipsed

by the far greater joys that await us?

Joys impossible to imagine,

like dazzling colors we've never seen-

Will we join into a painting,

a palette completely untouched by pain?

Each tear wiped tenderly away,

all thorns from flesh removed.

Will perfect love cast out all fear,

and every storm subdue?

Then on this stormy earth, shall we not bow

and trust the Artist's brush?

Weak and wounded sinners,

bent and broken by the curse?

As we groaning, wait and long

for Christ to come back for His bride,

we surround ourselves with children

to stay close to Jesus' side.

the bruise on my arm

The bruise on my arm
changes colors like a kaleidoscope.
Blue, then purple, then green,
my stained-glass skin.

I don't know how I got the toy-
perhaps it was a prize at a fair
or a clumsy bump
into a chair.

Maybe I am just a big fish
who has gone and swallowed too much ocean.
Maybe one night in a storm
I unknowingly scooped up a Jonah

who now sits just beneath my skin
and cries out to God to listen.
Over time the colors fade
and the voice grows dim.

The body heals itself with time,
for it was created quite clever,
but the soul cannot,
so I pray for the prophet's escape
from the bloody chamber.

madame librarian

The Friendship Series
Installment 8: Mom


laura lou,
on the mountain where he proposed to you
saying "marry me, or I'll drive off this cliff!"
did it ever cross your mind
that you could end up doing both?

the mirrors of heaven

The Friendship Series
Installment 7: Gladys



Grandpapa's spectacles cannot be found
He has searched all the rooms,
high and low, 'round and 'round.

I mastered this poem to recite in fourth grade-
the humorous tale
of an old man's mistake.

He gathered his grandchildren to scour the whole house,
unaware of the object
that perched on his nose.

Finally the youngest
looked up, smiled, and said:
There are the glasses, on Grandpapa’s head!

Now my grandmother's memories cannot be found.
We have searched all the rooms,
high and low, 'round and 'round.

I think of the poem and want to be the grandchild to shout
There they are, in your head!
and watch her shake them out.

But I'm met with a blank stare when I walk in the room,
and she asks me
if I've ever met my mom.

So turning over the house, the chambers of her mind,
we pick up the pieces
her life left behind.

Memories misplaced, our true selves temporarily hidden
until that glad day
when we look in the mirrors of heaven.

summer camp

The Friendship Series
Installment 5: (I don't remember her name)


Once a girl told me my name couldn't possibly be Sarah
because I wasn't blonde.
Do princesses only come in one color?
I asked myself and frowned.

Meeting your expectations
was like trying to spread cold butter on a piece of toast.
I later found crumbs of myself
all over the floor from the attempt.

In reality I've found it's difficult
to cut yourself with a butter knife.
I've since disassembled a lot of razors,
but that's beside the point.

When I worked retail in an amusement park,
some customers remarked ironically
"You're the happiest employee we've seen all day"
while I was thinking of ways to die.

Since birth it seems,
people have constantly told me just how happy I am,
commenting on my "contagious" smile
til I considered it a germ.

At summer camp, that girl who said
my parent's named me wrong
asked me how I was so happy all the time-
I probably grinned and shrugged.

She didn't see the tears
that had been streaming down my face
the whole time we'd been talking,
and that's probably what hurt the most.

I don't fault her though-
it was midnight when we walked back to the cabin.
For all she knew, I could have been blonde
in that early lack of lighting-

Could have actually deserved my name,
if someone would just stop to listen!
I might let him see me in the sun-
leave the butter out to soften.

motifs

The Friendship Series
Installment 4: Ben and Katie


I open up your rare, eclectic newsletter
and smile knowingly at a few of the photos.
I think I almost understand
the poem scribbled at the bottom.

I do not really know you,
but I know someone better than most
who knows you better than the heavenly host
and tells me everything.
And I think that must count
for something.

My best friend's core creed
is "to know and be known,"
even when the knowing
mostly happens over the phone.

In your endless "situation,"
certain items are motifs-
things like sunflowers and graveyards
and terrible timing.

In high school, I had a friend
with this obsessive need to be different.
We didn't talk that much in school,
but loads online, where it was safe to be real.
He grew up as a missionary kid in Turkey
where everything about him equaled anomaly.

Imagine the shock
when his family moved back to the States,
and suddenly he was just like everyone else.
Upon realizing he wasn't inherently extraordinary,
he dedicated himself to all kinds of obscurity,
distinguishing himself by his "eclecticity."

I don't think you have that same kind of need,
but I'm not sure what to make out of all your motifs.

Anyways, those are just the musings
of a mutual friend,
not the Someone
dedicated to total omniscience.

To Her, there's no such thing as
"more-than-a-friend."
How could there be,
when a friend's the highest good?

To sail away
on a great ship of motifs
and to take on the world
is the dream of a Peach.

the other side of the world

The Friendship Series
Installment 3: Courtney


Your house was different from mine.
There was more fighting,
but the casual kind-
the consequence of seven girls
vying for space,
to find themselves unique
in a crowded place.

The kind of fighting
that comes from closeness
was one I didn't know yet,
and even though it alarmed me,
I enjoyed it.

You were blonde with sharp blue eyes,
darker than mine, the cautious kind-
stained by grief
or something else divine.

I wouldn't be surprised to see you
in some subculture in heaven.
Before you went to Korea,
I swear you were already Korean.

Your piano-hands were angrier than mine,
pressing on the keys
like they were mines.
And if you dug down deep,
you'd find the gold
that'd buy you your escape
from the past's grip hold.

Is that what you found
on the other side of the world?

the giver

The poet is a collector
of people, places, words, and thoughts,
the ultimate introspector
connecting inward dots.

May I also be a giver,
sharing each soul-season as a blessing.
a fearless life-liver
overflowing with expression.

the three musketeers

The Friendship Series
Installment 2: Hannah and Jack


Paddling down Main Street in a canoe,

how far do you have to go before I forget you?

How many pancakes will it take

to cover the doghouse, to quiet the ache?

The answer is never logical-

something about how ice cream has no bones.

You paddled your way down to Georgia,

and I never forgot the joke.

I hope you still play the french horn,

and have all the ribbons we won

from counting long hours of practicing-

a different color for each crucial sum.

The ribbons on my flute case

were purple, yellow, and lacy green.

The purple was frayed at the edges

that I played with and stroked pridefully.

Before you moved to Georgia,

the summer after the sixth grade,

the three of us: you, me, and the Boy,

were three musketeers on parade.

A tree stump served as our secret computer,

as we searched for the lady in red:

the master thief Carmen San Diego-

oh, the fantastical adventures we had!

My parents asked why I didn't have more friends.

Why not Maggie, or Kristen, or Kate?

But I liked the little world we had,

and didn't fit in with those girls anyway.

When you left, the Boy and I

grew at the same time closer and farther apart.

It was common knowledge he loved me,

though he'd never spoken it.

He was like an old piece of furniture

that pleasantly haunts a room,

the kind you like because it's always been there,

but that's easy to overlook.

When I made friends with misfit, lip-gloss girls,
I missed your chicken laugh.
But most of all I missed the three of us
when friendship was all that we had.

my first best friend

The Friendship Series
Installment 1: Lizzie


My first best friend
had brown boricua skin
and wide black eyes.
She taught me many things,
like how to do makeup
and tell lies.
She showed me how
to press heat to my wavy hair
and make it obey.
She touched me hungrily,
like she was begging me
to stay.

My first best friend
told me to join the soccer team
so I’d lose weight.
I did all that and more,
listening to her
call herself ugly and fat.
She was skinnier than I was,
prettier too,
and deeply defiant.
According to our moms,
I was supposed to be
"the good influence."

When she showed up at school
with cuts on her arms,
I didn't know what to do.
Later on that week,
I offered it up in prayer
in my small group.
The leader told my youth pastor,
who gave me a week to tell her mom,
or else he would.
I felt so trapped,
forced to break
my best friend's trust.

He told me
if something happened to her,
I'd always blame myself,
if I knew what she was doing
and never got her any help.
I don't know if it really helped
when her parents unhinged
her bedroom door.
But how could I know anything?
I wasn't even ten and four.

Later on,
when I started to self-harm,
I didn't dare tell anyone,
except for kids who also did,
and I knew more than one.
Six years later,
when I finally told my mom,
she said she knew,
then repeated the tired adage:
"if your friends jumped off a cliff,
would you?"

My first best friend
jumped off a cliff of sorts
our junior year.
She ran away from home,
and my parents didn't want me
to see her.
They said it might be dangerous-
she was doubtless doing drugs.
At home it was the cause
of many teary arguments.

I started off my senior year
without a friend in sight.
I cried alone in my room
or in the shower
a lot of nights.
We don't talk anymore,
but on Facebook I scroll
through pictures of her son.
She was a fiercely loyal friend,
and I know now
she's a good mom.

the poem-world

When they ask where I am,
tell them I've gone.
Gone to the poem-world,
the roam-world,
far-from-the-known-world.

When they ask what I'm doing,
sing them a song.
A song from the poem-world,
the gloom-world,
full-moon-world.

When they ask when I'll be home,
tell them I may be long.
Just one more journey through the poem-world,
the alone-world,
plans-postponed-world.

When they tear me from the clouds,
let them have their way.
I'll return from the poem-world
with something to say!

coneflowers

Pink coneflowers
will always remind me
of the little curved sidewalk
that led to the front door of our old house.
I remember how they trembled there
with the giant, round bodies of bumblebees
hovering all around,
their faces smooth and black
as a new moon.

The coneflowers,
growing tall and bright and deliberate,
were landing pads inviting pollination-
urchins plucked from the sea,
then promptly taught ballet and put in costume.
I was always afraid to walk past them-
would linger at a distance,
staring at the black and yellow guests
before a mad dash
into the laundry room.

I liked the flowers themselves,
and still think of them with fondness-
wish to stand again
on that little sidewalk.
If I went back, I would still run-
not for fear, but for longing
to look again on each room,
like we ran through the hall
the day we first moved in.
It was a very big house, and I got lost,
swallowed by the newness-
refusing to swallow anything new myself
and succumb to acceptance.

In spite of myself,
I grew up there-
every day rapidly passing
the pink coneflowers
on my way down the hill to the school bus.
Plucked from the sea,
I taught myself to breathe,
learned to dance before an audience
and let outsiders in.
Even those fearsome fuzzy bees,
I now remember
like old friends.

the imperial moth

As you sat under the stars a yellow gift fell from above,
a moth as big as my hand in the hand of my love.
His furry head nodded, then shook with fright.
His heavy wings drooped in the purple night.

You met his foreign face with sympathy
when you saw the moth-wing stung with injury.
Spotted bold and brown, a beauty brought low to the ground,
you marveled at the strange new life you’d found.

As you sat under the stars in a faraway land,
I felt that look in your face, a hand in my hand.

subaquatic fantasy

I slip beneath the water's shining surface
with eyes wide open
and behold a quiet new world,
a blue-painted heaven.
I speechless breathe out bubbles
and watch the pearls of my lungs
dash toward the clouds
in an upward avalanche of rubble.

Everything else moves slower here,
a peaceful place more dense than air.
Sounds are muffled and strange,
somewhere between liquid and frozen,
as the sunny, bustling world above
blends into a blue oblivion.

I wish I were part fish,
so I could lounge at the bottom for hours.
I imagine a tea party underwater.
All my friends are there
with tiny cups and plates and cakes
and not a single worry or care.

But then my wriggling toes remind me
I am all-human and no fin.
Two urgent lungs tug me back to the top
(again and again and again)
I keep on fighting with my flesh,
dipping my lonely face
into the pool palace.

I am its blue princess,
unblinking ascending a spiral staircase,
building in my mind a chlorine castle
where I can dwell,
without a single worry or wall.

All my friends are there
with the same pearly breath,
a whole colony of oysters
flirting with death.
I may have imagined them up too,
but what does it matter
when everything is blue?

sing along

listen, listen for my heart,
that beating blood-tunnel
that never knows when to stop.
you will not find it here at home.
you will but glimpse it in the poem.
to hear it, that’s another matter-
come rest your head upon my shoulder.
listen to that lively bicycle pump,
that guitar you confidently strum.
listen like it matters
that I’m still filled with oxygen.
listen close to learn the tune
so you can sing along.

paper straw

my heart’s a paper straw,
meant to drink
from just one cup.
you travel through me
sweet and cold.
i become soft
and start to fold.
when the drink is gone,
i find myself undone.
my heart,
biodegradable,
discarded,
dissolves unnoticed
into the earthgarden.

the leech

I dip my hand into the muddy green river
and take a swim in murky, moving water,
cool and buzzing with excitement
like a secret on the lips of the land.

My feet tread carefully through stony sludge
and hold me fast against the river's rush,
then unaware are spotted by a stealthy slimy leech
greedy for my blood, swift to attach.

When i find him later, suctioned to my toe,
I freeze in fascination like a doe
who, spying the deadly hunter, does not run
as if struck stone by fear or sudden love.

You peel him from my penetrated skin,
painted with dirt and blood, flowing and thin.
You chase the hunter deep into the forest,
and help me clean the wound as if I were precious.

caffeine

The poem is caffeine,
a morning cup of coffee
to keep me sane.
I plug myself in
to its easy energy,
a tiny flame.

Steam dances silent
in the air.
Thoughts trip and tumble
everywhere-
stumble into speaking shape
as paper jaws lean in to taste.

I take a sip and wonder
where the magic beans
were grown.
i ponder the peculiar place
where ideas come from.

Now the poem is caffeine
I drank too late.
It keeps me up far into the night
and beckons me to write.
I let the embers glow
until I’ve seen the solid poem
and the trance finally fades,
a tired ghost.

astronaut

All the world's a stage to the actor, I hear,
but to the astronaut, all the universe is a mirror.
I search for myself in the sun and the stars-
I read the sky like my own private memoir.

And when I take flight to the moon up above,
I search for myself in the earth that I loved,
small now and swaddled in clouds like a child,
suspended in darkness that goes on for miles.

My astronaut heart swallows all in its sight.
I inhale the dark and I exhale the light.
Hungrily straining to swallow it all,
I strive to escape from the stage of my soul.

pitahaya

Yellow cousin of the dragon fruit,
a softer fire within your throat.
You are a thorny treasure chest,
a sweetness strikingly suppressed.

Your fruit is white with tiny seeds,
a crystal chain of raven beads.
An incandescent eagerness,
a flaming tongue to curse or bless.

Yellow friend of mine, oh cherished jewel,
tell me plainly if I'm a fool.
Give me a taste of your truthful nectar,
a key to the chest where I hide my temper.

fish in the sea

Do I swim up to the dangling hook,
to the tree that gives knowledge
of both evil and good?
Do I long for a taste of the glittering bait,
for the serpent to tell me it's alright?

When you pull me out of the water,
do I lay limp in your hands,
obedient to your hungry demands?
Or do I gasp for liquid breath
and make a slippery escape from death?

Do I secretly hope I would make a good meal-
rather perish than live
and not know how it feels?
There are plenty of other fish in the sea.
I muse to myself, "then why not me?"

fallingwater

I step into a house
and I do not step into a house.
Everything leads me out,
out, to the trees!
To the meadow flowering!
The breeze breathes
in a room that is living.

I walk across a waterfall,
touching the water
and not touching the water.
I sleep with windows open,
my dreams spread wide
and flying.

The night is still
and not still,
swelling with life
and breath and sleep.
I wake with no curtains
when the sun glows pink
and perfect.

Let me be a house like this,
yes, like this-
a house that is less a house
than a gallery of grace.
Let the doors of my heart
stand open, open, open!
Tell the trees to come in-
tell the waters and winds!

May I not live trapped
inside a world of my invention,
but ever stay close to Your heart
in the castle of creation.

jealous

Jealous for your gaze,
for the sparkle of your voice.
I want to be the eye
of your hurricane hypnosis,
the single object
of your steady focus.

Jealous for your presence,
for the comfort of your touch.
I want to be the book
you can't put down,
not the one you force yourself
to focus on.

Jealous for your thoughts,
for a home inside your head.
I want to be the alarm
that gets you out of bed-
the only happy dream
you dream awake.

snow globe (part four)

There was once a little snow globe
hidden in a happy home
where a girl shivered in silence-
in her world of ice alone.

She, curious, peered through the glass
til breath obscured her sight,
and then drew pictures in the fog
as if her hands were light.

She reached for a warm world beyond
she saw but couldn't feel-
a picture perfect family
that never quite felt real.

Oh little girl, come out of there-
abandon your designs
and feel the true sun on your skin-
leave bitterness behind!

You who know love, now freely give
to family, friend and foe,
and do not love’s return demand
unless you would grow cold.

the song i want to listen to

The song I want to listen to
comes easily to mind-
a craving cheap to satisfy,
a catchy tune that rhymes.

The song I want to listen to,
I work hard to memorize-
each subtle sound and turn of phrase
a poet's paradise.

The song I want to listen to
sits with me when I'm low-
sings back my pain in a refrain
and rides the waves of woe.

The song I want to listen to
can lift my spirits high,
color me pink and bubbly-
a floating butterfly.

The song I want to listen to
is everything at once-
a friend for when I'm lonely
and a pal for having fun.

The song I want to listen to
I still have yet to find,
so in this silence that I feel
all I can do is write.

translation

Half-asleep, up to my knees,
I wade in a vast ocean of dreams-
dripping, distant, flickering fragments
of memory fused with meaning.

Then half-awake, in dim lamplight
I look into the mirror, terrified.
The frozen face inside does not thaw,
and I can't remember what she looked like
before the nightmare magnified the flaw.

Half myself, half influence,
I am still that small child at the beach.
Salt clings to my skin
like the hope of a salvation.
I claw my way into the temple
in search of a translation.

nebula

I search your eyes for softness,
and swim in black pools, blinking into focus.
Sometimes I can see my own reflection
in the pool, safely guarded
in a picture frame of green and gold.
In winter he puts on a coat of dust,
and the nebula begins to collapse.
Something suddenly is born-
I search and find a star
inside the storm.

love is

love is a hand in my hand.
love is a cymbal in a marching band.
sweetly colliding or simply abiding,
and pulling me up from the ground.

love, please don't ever let go.
keep on surprising my heart in the snow.
sweetly enduring or simply enchanting,
as somber and sunny as blue.

mustard seed

Let me enter into your kingdom
as a tender child would come,
leaning on your loving promise:
"Little ones to him belong."

Grant me humble faith to follow-
bid me not away from thee.
Help me give up all I have
Til all I have's a mustard seed.

the rich man

It was the righteous rich man
who sadly went away-
a camel who could not shrink himself
to travel through the eye.

All that saw despaired and questioned:
"Who then can be saved?"
What is impossible with men
is only possible with God!

Another rich man in a tree
Jesus bid come down-
He called the sinner by his name,
and dwelt within his house.

For Jesus came to seek and save
the broken and the lost.
The rich man passes the needle's grave
through the doorway of the cross!

the switch

I turn off the faucet of my emotion
and wait for the slippery dish of my soul to dry
before setting it in place
on a shelf or a page.

I flip off the switch of my feeling
and wait for the dark to fall down from the ceiling
that I may paint you the picture
I see without seeing.

reflection

In my many travels,
I have often sat down at the tables
of great families of mountains,
hosts that brought me in
and taught me treasured lessons.

First, a grandmother painted white,
who in summertime began to melt-
put on a dress of pounding waterfalls
that flowed down past her featherweight footfall.
I wish to be as generous as she-
holding nothing back from the world,
my family.

Next, her son, a father standing tall.
At first I did not see him,
or hear his quiet call.
I traveled fearful in the night,
oblivious in the low light
to his kind presence overhead,
a helmet to protect my head.
I wish to serve as silent and as steadfast
as I found him the next morning,
making breakfast.

And then I met his wife
in a wreath of clouds,
cradling in the mist
a sleeping child.
Softly tending to his cry,
her lungs swelled with a lullaby
that delicate, danced on the wind
and lightly floating, filled my mind.
I wish to give as selflessly as she,
to water with my love
another's dreams.

Later on, I met that child,
a playful peak
poking at his sister, sky,
with sprightly technique.
He had his grandmother's snowy grace,
his towering father's stony face,
and his mother's wild imagination,
though not quite yet their elevation.
We climbed through rocks, sank into snow,
and made a slide out of the slope.
I wish to reflect as unmistakably as he
the image of the One
who created me.

-

"I praise you because I am fearfully and wonderfully made."
Psalm 139:14

buoy

The water rippled green
under my boat.
I floated free,
unanchored to one spot.

Then spied a little buoy,
red and white-
a ghost upon the lake
of my delight.

A marker with a message
from the shore:
“Turn back, fair traveler-
don’t float too far!”

I glanced back at the land
but did not stop-
sailed deeper still
into the sea of thought.

gethsemane

Nostalgia opens slowly,
like a flower.
Its fragrance stirs the senses
to search for the sower.
The flower bends low to the ground,
listening for a hint- a sound
locked inside its source,
where someone put down roots before.

Precious Savior, little child
in a lowly manger laid.
You blossomed a man-
roots trailing down from heaven.
When you returned to your high home,
did you ever feel that human pull
to kiss the ground where you once walked?
To love that world which loved you not?

In the same way my heart returns
to its old home-
loves that lonesome place
where it was born.
Lord, when I wake up in your mansion
may I, blooming, bow down in the garden?
Stretch myself once more to see
my own, my old Gethsemane?

freckled thing

Love is a freckled thing,
touched by sunlight
now and then.
Though pale at times
in places covered,
it shines a permanent reminder
of that which once graced our glad skin
and left a speckled wonderland.

to love an onion

to love an onion, cut it deep-
shed its layers, take a seat.
learn to live inside each loop,
keep your balance in a hula hoop.

if you went swimming in my circles,
peeled back my skin- pink, white, and purple,
would you like what you saw?
tell me, could you love me raw?

honey bees

when the poet wrote of honey bees,
they filled me with delight,
but when I saw one buzzing by,
it gave me quite a fright!

then I watched it gently land
upon the petal of a flower.
i waited in its presence-
let it touch my heart with wonder.

a bitter thing, the bee’s sharp sting,
but his labor the most sweet.
why shrink in fear from something dear,
its blessings swift forget?

knitting needle

If you were a knitting needle,
I’d like to be the yarn
knit snugly around you-
sprawling, spiraling out
in little loops
nothing could undo.

Let’s create something together.
Perhaps a scarf or sweater
to wrap around and warm
a wintering world.

If you were a prayer,
I’d like to be the hands folded-
quietly to hold it,
holy.
Then sprawling, spiraling out
to lift it up.

Let’s love something together,
something greater than each other-
then show it, stunning,
to a watching world.

lightning bugs (part two)

Because I’m on a lightning bug kick, and trying to use the form of a limerick...


When lightning bugs danced in the field,
The thunder bugs followed with zeal.
The rain bugs fell down
From the great cloud bug’s gown
Til the sun bug peeked out from his shield.

lightning bugs

Our lives are lightning bugs
flick'ring in eternity's sky.

Sparks that linger but a moment,
lifted from eternal light

Lord, catch me in your hands
and hold me gently til the end.

Your thoughts are higher than my own,
outnumb'ring grains of sand.

little owl

Oh, to see through the eyes of a child
the pictures music makes.
My fingers on the piano
are brushes gliding through paint.

Earthy brown,
sparkling silver and blue-
I feel the pale shine
of a faraway moon.

Then, pressing the pedal
down with my foot,
I add drops of water
to the paint.

Colors soften into
the shape of a tune-
the watercolor cry
of an owl in June.

the best medicine

she shrugs off her sorrow
and lifts up her chin,
tells me:
"laughter is the best medicine."

friend,
show me where the gash is,
and in sackcloth and ashes
I'll weep with your heart as it weeps.

halcyon

Her father was the keeper of the wind,
and she, the loving goddess Halcyon.
He sent the sea a-swirling with his hand.
She left his side to wed a mortal man,

the king, Ceyx. Their love was sweet and deep,
unfalt’ring when his ship sank in a storm
and she, devoted, drowned herself in grief.
The gods looked down in pity, to transform

their bodies into two majestic birds,
who made their nests in winter near the shore.
Their dear eggs swept away, again unspared,
she cried to Zeus to calm the ocean's roar.

In tranquil solstice days their love lives on,
The speckled blue-orange Ceyx and Halcyon.


https://www.greekmyths-greekmythology.com/the-myth-of-halcyon-the-halcyon-days/ (the myth of Halcyon)

vision

When we, daring, drove under the bridge,
for a moment I felt what it was
to be under a train as it passed-
violent, rumbling, fast.

When we drove up the hill to the top,
I felt myself slide, sinking back-
back in my seat, toward its rhythm and heat
furtively, half-asleep, halfway packed.

When we sat at the light, waiting there,
I collapsed into dreams unaware.
Impatient, I knew I had places to go,
Yet I felt with a pang that I'd never go home.

When we sped off again at the green,
I thought on the things I had seen.
In the light of the train and the light of the moon,
I think that I saw the sad future too soon.

the princess

I did not choose my name,
choose to sit upon a throne
or wear a crown of your invention,
dressed up like a doll in the dollhouse
of your good intentions.

All day long your hands
are tiny moving men
altering my home,
though I know well it's not my own.

I did not choose
the furniture in my room,
this or that shade of blue.
I did not choose to be part of this game,
to wear this face,
to live in your castle,
my cage.

And so I choose
to escape.

Cover myself a commoner,
a human girl,
a wanderer.
Mount a magic carpet ride,
try to catch the world
as it whizzes by-
to blend into its swirling colors,
hide among its starry wonders.

I imagine the sky never chose
to be blue,
but it seems content to be so
and I wonder if I could be too.

No, I did not choose my name,
or my room,
or this game-
but now that I'm here
I can choose how I play.

I can choose how I use
my crown and my throne,
I can choose to love you,
my neighbor, my mom.

library

Behind the glass I linger,
safe
from wet and wild and
wistful rain.
Nestled among books, I
wait
in a wooden world
of shelf and page.

The written word,
their fragile thoughts
would melt
away
at rain’s soft
touch.

I watch it, feel it
as I read,
and listen to
the widowed trees
welcome the sky’s sweet
offering.

So many treasures
locked inside,
but first to grow
and then to die.
My heart resounds,
“And so must I,”
reaches through glass
to trembling
life.

spider in the shower

My fear is a tiny spider
Spotted on the shower wall-
Makes me cower in a corner,
Shudder at the slightest crawl.
In a rush of naked panic
I forget that he is small.
Unprotected and alone,
I feel him looming tall.

I dare not move, I dare not cry
For fear others will come
And see me in this helpless state,
The coward I've become.
I clutch a weapon,
Try to solve the problem on my own-
Wait to strike, still paralyzed
By the fear of the unknown.

Then I stare at him and wonder
Why I feel such great disgust.
He never gave me reason
To doubt his motives or distrust,
Only wandered unsuspectingly
Into a private place.
I throw the object and ignore
His own sad, frightened face.

Now my fear is a tiny spider
Smashed upon the shower wall,
And to see him dead and powerless,
I regret I feared at all.
I wash myself of dirt and dust
But cannot shake the shame
That I killed a thing in self-defense
That never meant me harm.

the author

It is easier to write a dark poem than a light one.
The light one lounges in the center of my lips,
Pulls my mouth into a hammock
Where it gently rests.

The dark one seethes behind my perfect teeth,
Cannot escape, so it tunnels deep.
Finds fingers, reaches for a pencil,
Slithers out lead
And solemnly sleeps.

My eyes are California skies, bright blue
In the early days of June,
The start of a season
When they do not know how to rain,
At least, not in front of you.

They sparkle sunshine over my hammock smile
And warm the soul that rests inside.
I do not have to write this poem
Because you already see it-
Can feel it slowly burn your cheeks.

Below, my stomach is a colorful jungle
Where swallowed light and shadow wildly dance.
The acid rainforest buzzes and hums,
Awake.
Breaks them down into their parts,
Into my words.

I am not the poem,
Asleep for you to read,
A face for you to see.
I am the author,
The stomach digesting.

So if you happen to fall in love with me,
Don’t fall in love with reading.
Bring a raincoat and cut me open-
Let me take you to the Amazon.

dear diary/dear children

a pantoum...


I do not know what will become of you,
O careful keeper of my secret thoughts.
When I depart would I have you go too,
Leaving my children to connect the dots?

O careful keeper of my secret thoughts,
Spiral-bound soul of me, set to death’s fire.
Leaving my children to connect the dots,
They’ll search the flames and find in them a mirror.

Spiral-bound soul of me, set to death’s fire-
I’ll leave you open-hearted on the shelf.
They’ll search the flames and find in them a mirror-
Dear children, the reflection of myself.

I’ll leave you open-hearted on the shelf
When I depart, and let you see the truth:
Dear children, the reflection of myself,
I do not know what will become of you.

etchings

You leave a mark on me.
Your words, your tragedy
Etched into my heart
And shallow skin.

If I were not strong
They would swell and burn.
I’d pick open the wounds
And watch them bleed again.

Instead, I leave them alone.
They heal faster ignored,
Harden faster
Into stone.

I find myself talking
And looking straight through you.
Find myself walking
Without knowing where to.

Barely touching the horizon
Before its colors fade from view,
The lonely realization
That I will never understand you.

use this

Some days I feel that life is a puzzle
and I'm just a piece
trying to find the space where I fit.
After all these years,
I've still never found it.

Some days I conclude
I'm not meant to be here,
And all I want to do is disappear.
I look at the future and see nothing
and nowhere.

But if I am God's workmanship,
I am this way and I'm in this place on purpose.
God's not finished sanding off my edges,
and though it's rough,
I'm confident He will use this.

on editing

Fearful fusion of past and present,
I never live in just one moment.
A piece of paper smeared with lead,
A poem unfinished until it's dead.

The past changes with my perception.
No, I could never be a collection
Of snapshots captured and frozen,
For you one day to look back on.

I guess I'm just a fickle writer
Hopelessly addicted to the eraser,
The pickiest of photographers
Endlessly editing his pictures.

I shy away from the pen
And publish over and over again.
Pacing, backspacing, until death comes,
Erasing myself, polluting the poems.

small town

Have you ever walked
Through a small town
In the heart of the night?
Watched the traffic lights blink
Their warnings
To an empty street?

When you're curled up in your bed,
Or talking to a friend,
Don’t forget
There is blackness just beyond.
There is utterly alone.

It’s difficult to contemplate
The infinite while indoors.
You flip a switch
And suddenly
The darkness disappears.

While just outside the window
Trees stand silent,
Stoic, tall.
All the world
Outside your walls has stopped
And you are small.

Now you're standing,
Solemn
In the middle of a road.
Swallowed deep in darkness
Thinking, blinking
All alone.

namesake

Sarah,
Sister of doubt.

Tell me, how did you cope
In a new city

When he did not claim you as his own?

Before the pharaoh a fair sibling,

Your identity unknown.

Sarah,
Wife of faith.

You followed him,

You left your home.

For the promise of a blessing,
Of a nation,

Travelled from Shechem to Canaan.

Sarah,
Mother of laughter,

Holding a miracle inside her.

Tell me, how did you feel

As they climbed the hallowed hill,

And he built an altar,

Drew his knife to kill?

Sarah,
Mother of laughter,

Wife of faith, of doubt a sister.

Grant me faith to follow,

Hope for miracles in hollow.

Grant me strength to love,

The ability to give him up.

hymn

I saw you
Unexpectedly today.
Felt the glowing gold
Of French horns
Trumpets and trombones
Heard their shining sound
And swam
In warm brass waters.

Your voice
A blanket long enough
To cover the tips
Of my cold toes.
Not with fancy prose
But great care,
And the mellow, even tone
I knew you for.

I always looked up to you
A star on top
Of tinsel and lights
And pine.
Quietly glowing,
Revering, remembering
Smaller
Happier times.

My worries were younger
When I knew you,
Wild and untamed,
Honest, unnamed.
I remember driving to the city
To watch the tubas play.
I held the music
While you joined their caroling.

“Angels we have heard”
I felt the world
Golden and grand,
And when I saw you
I missed that time,
Longed to be young
And filled with wonder
Again.

Christ was born,
And angels sang.
He came to wear our skin.
I left my worries
At the manger with Him
When I looked into your eyes
And heard
A hymn.

búsqueda

Amarillo
Azul

Verde
Violeta

Rosado
Rojo

"Clase, repita."

Un mundo pintado de nuevo
Por los mismos colores.
Colores pintados de nuevo
Por otros nombres.

Mis estudiantes
También son colores.
También tienen numerosos nombres.

Están siempre creciendo, aprendiendo
Añadiendo a sus vocabularios
Más cosas para llamarse a sí mismos.

Si son una compilación
De todo lo que saben,
Quiero que cosas hermosas
Mis estudiantes sepan.

Cosas
Amarillas, azules,
Verdes, violetas,
Rosadas, y rojas.

Otra lengua pinta
Un arco iris más hermoso.
Por eso las palabras
Nos pedimos prestado.

Con palabras prestadas
Nos coloreamos hermosos,
Aprendemos nuevas maneras
De decir lo que ya somos.

Bajo el sol amarillento
No hay nada nuevo,
Pero tenemos un millón de matices
Y tiempo para su descubrimiento.

---

Amarillo
Azul

Verde
Violeta

Rosado
Rojo

"Clase, repita."

A world repainted
By the same colors.
Colors repainted
By other names.

My students
Are also colors.
They also have many names

They are always growing, learning,
Adding to their vocabularies
More things to call themselves.

If they are a compilation
Of all that they know,
I want my students to know
Beautiful things.

Yellow, blue,
Green, violet,
Pink, and red
Things.

Another language paints
A more beautiful rainbow.
This is why
We borrow words.

With borrowed words
We color ourselves beautiful,
Learn new ways
To say what we already are.

Under the yellow sun
There is nothing new,
But we have a million shades
And time for their discovery.

lookout mountain

I saw us in a dream,
Laying on the floor
Of an old barn.

Yellow hay
Under our backs,
Yellow stars
Over our heads.

The night
Was silent and sure,
I remember.

And though I never saw
Your face,
I remember feeling in it
Some delicate peace.

While the lights
Flickered low and lifeless
In my soul

I dreamed some ardent future
Still unknown.

the cover letter

My fingers reach out
To catch a beam of light-
A blind man trying
Far too soon
To walk

Spilling out words
For you to read-
Whoever you are,
Whatever you see.

The light escapes my hands,
A rushing flood.
Tired and silent,
Soon spills out
My blood.

could I?

Could I write about you
Without calling you a candle?
Could you cease to be the sun-
A steadily burning flame?

Could I see you
Without rose-colored sight?
Could you touch me
Without me feeling it?

Could my questions
Be dissolving?
Could my feelings' sun
Stop burning?

Would we then
Be free?
You said you could live
Without me.

february

I step outside
In a coat and scarf I don't need.
Spring came too early for me to believe,
Too quickly for me to think.

Now I'm back in a Spring long past
Gingerly stepping onto the wet grass,
Squishing mud bubbling up from beneath,
Soaking cold into my feet.

Leaves peek out from inside the trees
Slowly dotting brown with green.
The breeze is gentle and easy
And I'm out of place.

Surrounded by new life,
Symbols of resurrection.
I've thrown away the knife
And all I feel is numb.

I don't belong here.
I don't.

I watch the world repeat its show
And don't believe it anymore.
I don't believe things will get better.
I don't believe I belong here.

My body is warm
So I peel off the extra layers.
I feel the sun and breeze
And cease to think they mean anything.

Stuck between January
And another new beginning.

Life keeps going
And my mind keeps spinning.
Why do I have to keep living?

I step outside unprepared,
Feeling things I've felt before-
Mainly scared.

I don't believe I belong here.

homesick

home is the place
you can leave and return to
knowing that when you come back
you will be loved no matter what

how blessed I must be
to have that

how blessed I must be
to be homesick

homesick here
in this frozen place
in these worn out days
in your warm embrace

your arms around me
are not a guarantee
though they could be mistaken
for a house being built
around my body

no I don't know for certain
that when you leave
you will come back

I don't know that when I leave
and come back
you will look at me the same

there's still room for growth
there's still room for change

for feelings to leave
and to come back again

how blessed I am
to have a home

to be able to leave
and to come back
again

to be able to build
and be built on
and be sick

I don't know anything
for certain
I don't know many things
to stick

only home
and you're not quite home yet

trees

Voices rang out in a little church
While the trees stood silent outside.
Tall and bare in the frigid air,
Untouched by the divine.

And I the same, unmoved, in vain
Sat silently inside.
I looked out the window while the pastor prayed,
Deaf-eared and snowy-eyed.

Stiff as a pinecone on the ground,
Shielding seeds unsown-
Will you find and pick me up
Or leave me there to grow?

Will I become some solemn tree
In the frigid air, alone?
Or trivial, become
Some decoration for your home?

I looked out the window while the pastor prayed
Instead of closing my eyes,
And as voices rang out in the little church,
They never touched the trees.

telescope

If you offered me your home
I would curl up in your bed.

Turn out the light
And feel you sleeping in another room-
Your pillow pressed against my head.

When the sun rises
You will hold me again.

So drifting to sleep
I ponder the dawn
And how I've never really seen the sun.

Never stared directly into its blaze.
Even veiled by the eclipse
I hid my eyes.

For now
We peer dimly through a mirror,
Pressed up against the glass
In wonder.

A room away,
Averted gaze-
Then we shall see face to face.

And I'll stare straight into
The mystery of you,
Unafraid.

For now
There's no way you could love me more
Than to leave me alone here
Under the stars.

Drifting to sleep
I ponder them.

Concave mirror
Collecting light-
Quiet mind turns into telescope.

I savor the night
And the stars that shine through,
Their sparkle small enough to swallow.

Small enough
For you and me
To know.

onto the page

These poems
Demand to be written.
They keep me awake
And take their own shape.

As automatic fingers fly
Across the keys,
The poetry spills out
Onto the page.

handshake

carnage
from my knuckles
to my fingertips
rudolphs
glowing red
you hold out your hand
for a handshake
and i hope you don't see them
shining there
at the front of the sleigh
a way to cope
on foggy christmas eves
and other days

echo chamber

On maps Michigan
Is the shape of a mitten.
As our van drives away
I catch a glimpse of the yarn
Unraveling,
Revealing what I was unprepared
To see.
The hidden hand
Never stops waving goodbye.

Years later,
Sitting in the back of a pick-up truck,
You tell me I'm resilient.
Driving away, dirt roads,
From a village
That also is not home.
For years I hold
That word in my hands
Hoping it will echo-
Dance.
I want to be like the moutains.
I could always pick out the point
Of one, especially jagged.
Always wanted to be that peak-
The one to be noticed.

But then, behind the curtain,
Waiting to go on stage
I'm sick, uncertain.
The pills slow my heart-
Deaden its motion.
Shaking or waving,
I can't tell which-
They steady my hands,
Knit yarn around them.
Over and over and over again
I walk through flames
To get to the spotlight-
Have the scars on my feet to prove it.
After my short moment in the sun
You clap, the lights go out,
And the war is won.

Dark-
Drunk with praise,
I tend to the wounds.
Learn to equate love
With bruise.
Learn to empty myself
For you.
Coax acid up my throat
For you.
Learn to crave
The hollow-
Prerequisite
For an echo.

When I was a kid,
Taping pages together,
I imagined myself an author.
Now those pages
Are my echo chamber.
My thoughts spilled ink
Bouncing back to me
In letters written,
Woven into words
Reverberating.
I'm trying to empty the pen
Instead of myself.
Feel the blood pulsing
And not cringe at my own heartbeat,
My own motion.

Years later,
You move away again
And this time I do not feel it.
Too heavy, too full here
To be dragged along.
Instead
I set up fort.
I put on mittens
Hands steady,
Still hidden.
And the chamber echoes back-
Resilient.