Wednesday Morning

expression, concussion
guitar, science, church
cold soldier, war monster
new york taxi, munich road trip
orange trees, fuschia flagpoles
swim, love, create!

Taylor, Chuck

Worn skin

thick with lines of trepidation

of action without reprieve

the ridiculous notion

that one mustn’t ever stop

damp to the core

they sit, withered and bleeding

battle scars on display

time has torn away at the seams

leaving behind a sprawling mess

with faded eyes they wait

for peace, for rest, for silence.

Sketch Page

The sun, symbolic father

to the great hawk

whose mother is the wind

Pour yourself a cup of courage

you are a poet

write your heart on the page

for the world to see

There is beauty in the darkness of night

God paints Orion in invisible ink

only seen by the light of the moon

Art makes the weak strong

imagination replaces reason

power

The city skyline, moments before dawn

you can breathe in immortal beauty

untainted by the human element

Little Janet

Dust rose to the stars

amazing, beautiful

darkness of the night

the highway and a conversation

in a rattly truck

prettiest girl in the world

long fingers like Cleopatra

aware of him

talking books and little things

nobody ever notices such things

across the cornfield

trouble was brewing

too many pebbles

scattered toys and sad talk

and high-school kids didn’t care.

Kandinksy

Red angles seeping into

a sea of blue

stark black lines

divide emotion and reason

a worn canvas

bearing the loss of a love, or confusion

temperate shading balances intense dogmata

stretching German souls onto white

the cold walls

comforted by geometric poetry

bringing solace to those

whose inspiration has washed away

in October rain.

For The Rest Of Us?

glittering red ribbon

wrapped around thick brown skin

coils like an asp

multicolored jewelry adorns her tired face

still and stoic she stands

smelling of fantasy and confusion

endearing childhood lies

until finally, she is done

and dismembered

wrapped in plastic

and packed away in the cold grey

to wait.

Flying for Fish

We flap our wings to fly to success
pelicans
I have a fish, do you have a fish?
I have a sea full of fish
yummy, scrumptious fish
orange, yellow, green fish
by the way,
still flying.

The Palette

See, but cannot hear
soft wheat on bare feet
cold wind rushes by
like a baritone voice echoing off tiles
and then, quiet.
soft jazz rolls through the air like smoke
settling into the velvet armchair by the window
look out to the water, shut eyes and remember salt on the tongue
and wind pushing rocks to roll and tall, dry grass to quiver
like the dream of a lonely child
who shouts in despair
as he watches the last sail kiss the horizon.

Twenty-Eight

Snow fades to anger
In straight, metallic lines
adorning life with LOVE
and memories
of twelve years old
and sheer purple
and Ouija boards
"the last good thing"
whispers softly as I
creep slowly
across that narrow pass of land
promising of bright horizons
and fresh ideas.

The Taste of Iron

I'm trying out my chains
stretching, twisting, getting comfortable with them.
Hm, maybe a different color.
Hm, maybe I need more.
That's it! More!

So I let myself go, and let myself be.
And like magic, there's a new one soon.
Really it's quite neat.

Hey, a chain could be anything.
It could be ignoring a phone call.
It could be smiling with rudeness on my lips.
Or that last drag of a cigarette to
calm. me. down.

The chains are comforting.
You always know where you are when you have chains.
You know how you got them, you control IF you get them.

My chains link me up.
They connect me with my past and drag me into my future.

With cool silver links and metallic sheen
They clink together like richness.

I don't need to break my chains.
I'll just live in them.

Nature Walk Haikus

leaf waterfall
crests
hill's end

three saplings
bow to
winter

dirt, covered up
in color
shamefully

last green
crawls out from
brown bed

poets
seeking truth
natural light

silver composite
divided
mother ivy

pink petals
fight against
snowy demise

green hands
stretch and reach
sun

overcast
obscured by
brick

branches bend
parentally
over Earth.

Classes Before Sunrise

When I become a teacher
I'm gonna learn how the mind works in
Classes before sunrise
And I'm gonna teach them poetry
Plucking poems out of books like fresh flowers
And wrapping them up into bouquets.
I'm gonna show them words that feel like water
And smell like salt
And smell of long days in the sunlight
And cool summer wind
And bright red parasols
And soft volleyball sand
And the thatch-roofed buildings
Of young and old young old young souls
And I'm gonna put infants
And children and seniors and adults
And all the in between people in it
Teaching everybody with sweet words
And learning from each other flawlessly
In that first morning class when I
Become a teacher
And teach in classes
Before Sunrise.

Back Across the Rubicon

As the snow must eventually melt
As the sun must eventually drop
So too must we change

As the battle must eventually end
The soldiers will carry their swords, bloody and bent
Away from the battlefield in due time
To fight again another day
So must you know when
The battle is too tough to fight

I will pack up my heart
And my confidence, and my dreams
Turn around, looking at the river of trust
I had once crossed bravely
And begin to wade back,
Back to brighter days.

Jokester

Blue gingham
warm mornings, cold tile, content
Pink floral
ocean breezes, cool waters, empty feelings
only pieces left behind
curving silver and tan lines
the only whispers left behind
with a hidden meaning

I always mix up
if tonight is
one step forward
or two back

A Spiritual Crash Diet

A black and white strip from a photo booth
Clementine soda and a green armchair
The third mic from the right at church
Bandages, bumps, and bruises
Towering carnival rides
Pen scribbled into skin
Bare feet all year 'round
The color blue
The melodic beeps of a video game
238th Street and Bailey Avenue
Plane rides and road trips
Adrenaline pumping through your veins
A remade, renamed, rethought work of art, never quite finished.

The Olive Branch

plain, uninspired words spill from pursed lips
dead eyes and a half-assed smirk belie your true curiosity
not even a question really, more of a statement in passing
oh, if you could see the effects.

my face warms and my eyes blur and shake
i clench to hide my answers
and i laugh, through clenched teeth
brushing off my back
years of doubtful insecurity
bowled of by a handful
of simple, mean-nothing words
in a perfect conversation.

Geminus Sententia

Light splashed hiccups
sauntering daintily into space
wrack my brain with
twine made of rainbows
hearts, the invisible darkness
quashing unseen disaster
leather and mesh
wrapping tightly around
your air supply
barnyard smells and error screens
wash over grey painted dawns
witches, elemental explosions
lullaby me
blood-stained cobblestone
you alone have saved me
ravaging midnight fires
consume pictures
sunglasses, hamsters
and the number twenty-four.
flute stands and purple curtains
cloth made of butterflies
river-swimming history.

Simple Questions

If I shot a paper plane to the moon
who would read the secret trapped inside?
If I dove from the leafy bassinet of a tree
would I survive? Would I know what it's like to truly be alive?

I surmise
that I will die
from the fear I try to hide.

The Winter Field

The winter field is not full
the field of summer lost in snow: it is strangled in a coat of white
another thing, a different thing. a month early, nine years too late.
"We shouted, we shook you," you tell me,
but there was no sound
only bright, confused eyes.
After they'd pierced a lake and fished me up, I laughed
after they'd reeled me back they packed me under snow and ice, I was the last blade of grass
The summer field, a trampoline and garden
has its many tasks; weeding and walking and cleaning out
the winter field has melted in the sun
For those hours I was young
and my body cold
which you have loved long well
time did not love you. It has left you behind.

804

Soft lilac orthopedic shoes
and a faded "green peace" bag
short silver curls
with pallid gray glasses to match
what a deceptive disguise

Jumbled text on a white index card
the bottom boldly shouting
"There is no Halloween here"

She stands proudly
on a concrete doorstep
looking down with nothing more
than judgement and contempt

Breathing fire
the wrinkled judge
excitedly condemns us
with trying happiness in her voice

Oh, heresy.

Sandstone

Have you ever  just sat in a lakebed and prayed for rain?
It's as dry as Arizona up here, and twice as hot.
You could pray, and beg, and plead
but you couldn't see a spring if you looked all the way out to the horizon
Thirsty is more than a word.
Thirsty is life.
Thirsty is waking up in the morning and breathing
sucking in dark brown dust
just to calm your burning lungs.

And the last thing a thirsty person wants to hear
is that you're hungry.

Parasite

Like a tapeworm you have slithered
into my life
settling yourself cozily
beneath my skin.

You use your gaping mouth
to suck the life force out of me.
Slowly draining me of my strength.

My skin is gray
my eyes, sunken.

Why, thank you love.
But I will no longer let you try to kill me.
I am better than you.

Hello Thursday

Icy clouds fall
splashing roar on black
yellow paint with the contrary tendency
to drip into pools of oil
light blue lightning
slips past brick
and rumbling grey
a gold wall appears
red lights blinding
squealing, screaming, struggling
pulling back on rubber
and slowly, peace.

Five

Back and forth
you shake me
like
the carnival's green and gold viking ship
(with just as much nauseousness)

Swing left
loving, compassionate
Swing right
cold, calculating
you thumb the ignition button with glee

You are fresh coffee
and rainwater

leaving moderation in your dust.

How the Rain Falls

Why do we hate?
Why do the children of today
have to know what it is to discriminate?
Why do they even have to know the meanings
of the words bigotry and race?
Why is it a race
to the top
without a second look, a second thought
of the people we have stepped on
the lives we have crushed.

Why do I deserve to know hate?
Why do the words shoot, terrorize, and bully
make so much sense
while love, honor, and cherish
seem like the lines
of a long forgotten song.

Look in their eyes!

the eight year old at recess
the eighteen year old in college;
they have seen violence


the twenty-five year old at a new job
the eighty-five year old enjoying retirement
they have felt the swift blows of judgement

Judgement, unlike understanding
falls down like rain.

Where I'm From

I am from hardwood floors

From candles and glass

I am from the big backyard       

With the perfect swing for sleeping in the sun

I am from the five gardens

The apple tree

Whose long gone limbs I remember

As if they were my own

I’m from Secret Santa and freckles

From Veronica and Michael

I’m from loud mouths and short tempers

And from long weekly road trips

On The Cross Bronx Expressway

I’m from do more and work harder

And family first

I’m from back alleys and green mountains

Thin-crust pizza and pot roast

From a stolen station wagon      

Filled with Christmas presents

Floral printed photo albums

Splayed across the house

Like art.

Congratulations, You

YOU are the wrecking ball of lives
demolishing everything in sight

YOU are the kid who feels powerless
taking a magnifying glass to a family of ants

YOU are the California wildfire
burning indiscriminately

YOU are the bitter ice
that chokes the life out of spring grass

YOU are the glaring, red 'F'
crippling the high-achiever

YOU are the hot sun
that burns up cool, white skin

YOU are destruction
in an impressively deceiving package.

I Dabble in Haiku

you are perfect God
i will share you with the world
share of your glory.

Ode to The Mirror

I am a lady, do not mistake me for a bitch.
I am a champion, do not mistake me for a loser.
I am beautiful, do not mistake me for horrid.
I am strong, do not mistake me for being weak.

I am friendly, don't call me a loner.
I am sincere, don't call me a fake.
I am intelligent, don't call me dumb.
I am interesting, don't call me dull.

I am important, no longer worthless.

Maybe the glass is broken.

Oh, Wisconsin

a sculpted silver sardine can
decorated tastefully
in teal and navy


the shuffling of life
in and out

warbled conversations
about travel
and culture
and GOSSIP
blend together
in a fine pureé of noise
and life.

1035

Stress is a man
in a trim suit
putting things into a briefcase.

Slowly yet surely
it begins to fill up.
and the hinges groan
and the leather swells
and the lock un-clicks
and the edges of it open
like the agape mouth
of a confused child.

So the man opens it up again.
and what he sees inside is a whirlwind
of work
and love
and social obligation.
a living environment
teeming with
paperwork
and errands
and tough choices
and boring conversations
and seemingly impossible tasks.

Call in sick.
Take off the suit.
Light a match, and watch the briefcase burn.

Bitches, Fury!

Sloppy, moppy, blonde hair,

Hides underneath it, rage.

The fury of a lion wrapped up

In a quaint, little package.

Neck muscles constrict

With such suddenness

One would swear he was simply

A puppet.

The boy, he will swear he is.

A puppet of capitalism, and ignorance, and shamefully cold hearts.

He fades, just slightly, into the forest-colored chair that envelopes him.

Now he sits quietly, sipping.

Just sipping on tea, tea like ambrosia.

The storm within him quelled. 

And Skeletons Dance

Life is peeling away the strength
from his bones
stealing his breath
making each step hurt
like a schoolyard bully

Looking into the face
tired and bright
and seeing pain

Every day is a battle
the toughest struggle
between trudging on
and letting go

Pulling himself along
on tattered, battered feet
praying for a day of peace
that seems impossible

or
The waking nightmare of loss
slipping, slowly, silently
into the abyss
that seems inevitable.

Rebirth

We are slowly falling back
into "comfortable"
into finishing sentences
into soft words
like beautiful
and miss you
and baby


the pressure is released
late night conversations
trickle in like starlight

dark baritone
and bright soprano
paint the sky
with friendly, happy words
laughter

broken wall of trust
building up, slowly
sharing parts of myself
not seen before.

I've missed this.

White Melancholy

White, melancholy cylinders

Perch themselves on tall, thin tree pieces

And wait.

Soon, giggling monsters

With bright eyes and empty bellies

Will lumber into the picture.

They will fumble around anxiously

Until they wrap pink fingers around

Those tree pieces.

A bonfire they will start

With great pleasure

They lick their lips,

And walk over to the blazing pile

Of what was once

A maple tree

They hold the tree pieces holding these cylinders

High above the flames

Some, dipping down farther

straight into the glowing embers

  

These cylinders, once pure white

Will crinkle, and burn,

Until finally they are released

From their blackened skin

In a gooey rebirth

They are placed on a taupe tomb,

Covered with a deep brown funeral cloth,

And the coffin in closed with another taupe plank.

The grinning monsters are pleased.

“S’mores anyone?”

ZnO

A small, cool, lonely stone
washes up
on the sandy beach
at mid-day

The sun warms my skin
and  the smells of
saltwater & sunscreen
invade my senses

bright colors pepper the tawny scene
beckoning smiling children
and calm-seeking adults

Through all of this
my eyes are stuck
on the small, cool, lonely stone
that has washed up at my feet.

Fields of Me

I am a sovereign identity
with an energy all my own
I am fluid, ever-changing
never able to be held down

I escape from worlds
with words
and I find my muse
in music


I am sudden, and vibrant
I shine light on my world
I pass through lives like air

I am hardheaded
and I am wonderful.

Moonlight Blazing

The cool shadows of flames
lick my feet
The hot evening sand
burns deep into my soles

I walk steadfast up this path
head forward
With no idea at all of
what will happen next.

I've walked this way my whole life. 

Lightning Hunter

I capture lightning.
I scoop it up and put it in a jar
to save for winter.
Do not worry about the flashes.
The lightning is merely restless.

It illuminates my eyes
reflecting blue on blue,
an ocean of light.

Setting it free would be a waste
so I choose to keep it.
High on a dusty shelf
To remind me that I am powerful.
I am a lightning hunter.
The best of my kind.

Untitled III

Cool, wet sand
opens to the sea
loud, booming crashes of blue and white
lap at the beach like a cat at milk
every grain of sand, bowing reverently to the water
trusting in the fact that, eventually,
they will be allowed to touch sweet air again
every day is a guessing game.

Untitled II

Running through soft, white silk lilies
open air and sun kissing my face
shouting to the sky
"everybody must love today!"

Untitled I

Children playing in the house
and in the streets
in the cold, the wind
the heat
living life by pllayground rules
in the streetlights, children's shadows dance
never pausing to realize it.

Kent, Connecticut

I always liked summer
best
you can go on adventures
to far-off places
and climb
and laugh
and sing
and dive into water
that is blue
and deep
and cool
and clear
where the day is warm
and busy
and happy
a day just for falling in love.

The Dream

Love in a thunderstorm, caught up in each other
Keep me at peace love, eyes of intensity
Road trip blood rush
Slow dancing under a waterfall
Revive the dream of a gentleman
Late night, Irish-lilted conversations
Whispers about our future

Shelter in a Café

Shadow of Skyscrapers
a jump rope song
orange marmalade
rose petals pressed against
a cheek
salty ocean air
holding hands in the park.

Ocean City, Maryland

I always like summer

best

you can watch volleyball games

on the beach

and people

and waves

and seagulls

and sunrises

and breathe in saltwater

and fresh strawberries

and the smell of sun

and not have to worry about time

or money

or schedules

or homework

and just live

Sábado

Laying in bed

early morning pours in

chilling my arms and face

I lean into you

pressing my head into your chest

searching for your comforting heartbeat

I wrap my arms around you

and squeeze to show my affection

Sleepy-eyed you look at me

and smile, warming my heart

With fawn-like tenderness

you lean down and place

a kiss on my forehead

You take your arms

and wrap me up in you

not too hard a task

I have been all along

And from your lips

my life-blood comes

"I Love You."

The New School

Playdough was my tutor in wildness,

Piano my teacher in concentration.

Basketball, Swing sets, these things taught me how to rise,

While Trampolines and Slinkies showed me how to fall,

Legos were professors of building,

And my Nintendo, my best trainer in destruction.

The little things that mean so much.

Celestial Sodapop

Sitting at the weeping tree

Slouched and white

Like defeated love

Harsh bark breaks off in my hand

Strange etching in the wood

“Novus Universum”

Leaves erupt with gold

Wind whips my hair

Against my face, blinding me

Eyes clamped shut

I stand, perfectly still,

Until,

The storm quells.

The newness is beautiful,

And frightening

The small backyard that I once knew is gone

My petite bare feet barely fit

On the tiny island

Holding just the tree

And me

What surround me now are shadows

Of trees too high to see

And other things I must assume.

The water is painted

With lilac and silver and mystery

The depths of which

I could not dream to guess

So I stand there, patiently

Thinking of what to do next

I seem to do the most curious thing

And I am not quite sure why.

I kneel down on the grass,

Cup this water in my hand,

And drink.

I did not expect this.

It is sweet, and bubbly, and tickles my lips.

I do believe that I have found

The very first sea of

Celestial soda pop.

The Minotaur

Darkness
Sweat
Muffled Voices
Tearing at
Paper, plastic
One another
Angry silence
Shaking
Scurry
Heart racer
Door slam
Squares of white
New flourescence
No shame here
A smile
Dancers
Back and forth
Second chances
Shout
Hurt
Happiness
Fin.

What now?