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.