chirps and chips frantic hops darting left then right swooping up and over to the sudden eager chorus of baby beaks stretched wide in demanding supplication nestled, bent-kneed among a fern pew in the holy chapel of nature’s spirit.
I hoard them. Stacked high, Pushed deep, Tilted And adjusted As puzzle pieces In a bookcase. Overflowing, Till they cascade, A waterfall of words, To pool at my feet In a comfort Of warm paper And hard covers, That smell of Knowledge Power Imagination And connection. Their allure, Their devastation, Flows against my soul In gentle undulations And violent tsunamis To move me both minutely And throw me upon rocky shores. Always Always Do they…
There is a beauty Of words That evades me. Leaves me longing, Grasping ineffectually For The Right One. I feel their potential, Scrabbling In the back Of my mind. Yet the harder I reach The further they recede. I know They are bright stars In a night of gloom, But they refuse To share Their light With me.
I never chose The color of my skin But I am ashamed Of what It has come to mean. This whiteness Of mine Is no privilege When I burn In the light of the sun. In art White is the absence Of color, Bland Dull Lifeless. And when it is bright It blinds you To the beauty Of other things. In art Black is the combination Of all colors, The mixture That makes Midnight. Such…
Lightning bugs flicker Like drops of stardust Floating on a summer breeze. A nightingale calls From its perch Among the trees. A weather-warped board Creaks under the weight Of a rocking chair. The citronella candles Gutter and spark briefly As a moth gives itself to the flame. The buzz of cicadas Pitches ever higher Until it is a deafening roar, Then stops dead Only to slowly build again. Coyotes call And are answered In the…
A concrete desolation. The air shimmers And ripples with heat. A hard, gray monotone Radiates outward, Paving the land over With the rubble of progress. But here And there Are saving graces. Dandelions growing Up through the cracks. Dragonflies swooping Through clouds of gnats. Hawks perched Atop high street lights. Raccoons tipping over Collections of garbage cans Before scurrying off Into the night. Nature waits, Silent and patient, For us to be gone. Ever ready…
There is a hole Inside of me, A void I cannot fill. A swirling black gravity Of a soul’s collapse to nill. Some days I can ignore it. Some days I forget it’s there. Until At last A planet dies And i remember That I care.
You sprang, Fully formed, Like a hero’s story From my pen. You bled You cried You fell And you rose. But not as a puppet Pulled by my strings, But rather independent and free, As the person I wish I could be.
The small book Had bounced around From place to place For nearly three decades now. It spent its early life On a nightstand By a bed, Thoughts scribbled into it Most frequently. Then when its pages Were full, It sat proudly upon a bookshelf. It had been packed And moved And unpacked again, More times than It could count. The last packing though Had been the hardest. For it sat in the dark, Squeezed tightly…
He strikes In the darkness. Lays waste In the dead of night. He pounces Upon blanketed toes. Tips the lamp Upon the nightstand. Launches himself Atop the clothes rack. He is a Guerilla food fighter, Hitting fast And hard And disappearing again Before you can catch him. He has But one mission. To make you realize You exist Only to feed him. Anytime. Anywhere.
