I put this rhyme here so you’d know it’s a poem: to you, from me,
But how many poems right outside your door did you fail to see?
The crack in in your leavened bread, the froth on your milk,
The rain on the glass, billowing, as if it were silk.
Not all poems arrive arranged in perfect lines.
Plenty you can’t see—but you’ll know are there if your heart aligns.
And many others still, although they may be built from words,
Will be less audacious, winking at you to shape them into songbirds. Read More
Night is best for thinking about beginnings—
Not morning, like they’ll try and tell you.
I’m braver with my notions of what could be
With sleep so close to rescue me
(When old Fear get his claws around too tight.)
I’ll need a runway afforded only in dreams
Long enough to let the guts of the thing shake out
So I can see what it’s all for.
By the time the sun hits, I’m ready.
The amnesia of sleep is a convenient armor
That greets me fresh each day.
The hard part is done, I say—
Morning is just the other side of the door. Read More
There’s that place,
You know it too —
Or not so much a place,
But an edge between two places
Where I can’t stand
(Because after all,
Feet need a place.)
Feet can’t float or fracture
The way I’m floating and fractured now. Read More
When the lonely feeling comes for me again,
I grasp in frantics at straw men
To snuff out the vibration in my chest—
The one that lies, insisting it knows best.
The one that taps out in morse code,
“Surrender now and you’ll be given what you’re owed—
But if you seek Nirvana or something made of that same stuff,
Nothing you have to give will ever be enough.” Read More