Something to wave
in other people’s faces? Or
is it more of a flag
to pack away
only for yourself?
Could it be what your heart
was made to do?
Or what you are bound to dread?
Do you select something
others will be proud of?
Something to bring home
the bacon, or a cause for
extra stress?
How many chances
do you get? And how long
until you know if you were right?
Pine Mountain Cemetery XXII
Romeo and Juliet
Nodding over his Shakespeare, straying
Eyes glazed, earflaps secure so nothing
Slipped in, the boy missed the warning.
It was right there two kids flaunting rules
And tradition, reaching for sweet fruit not
Yet ripe in spite of all they knew was right.
Marrying young was almost the rule where
This one grew and played and finally strayed
Into territory not open for one white like him.
Oh, she was pretty, not doubt of that, amber
Skin, soft brown eyes, smile from there to here.
Music seemed as much apart of her as air.
Fell head over heels he did and only a kid
She did too, a bit older, but not enough. Families
Shocked, hurt, screamed at both. The day
Of brown and white entwined forbidden by every
Side. If they had read their Shakespeare and
Taken it to heart this lot would hold no stone.
Yet, not demands, an accident ends the dream,
Closed windows, cold night, warm car and sleep,
The long unintended sleep of mere children.
We don’t tell it much these days, story best
Untold in our modern climes, but strange
To say Shakespeare still holds so little sway.
The slightest difference, feud, or tongue
Splits apart not just families but kingdoms
Too. Five hundred years may change hearts
And minds of man. We will wait and see
Under stones much like these with stories
Told of us who made the same mistakes.
no one told you, did they?
that it was all over
that the fat lady had sung
that there was no post-credits scene
no one showed you, did they?
those signs and wonders
those weekend forecasts
those unsurprised pundits
no one listened, did they?
these songs you sang
these Bible verses you recited
these warnings of good and evil
no one, but one
that one
was me–
a no one
for six years,
you bought the same
milk and sugar–
the organic kind
the doctor recommended
to fight the disease–
you still buy it,
even thought she’s dead
even now,
you still spend five dollars
for a half gallon of milk
and i see it as an ode to her–
an “in memory” of sorts
or maybe it’s a safeguard
so you don’t lose us
like you lost her
our relationship
is tense–both of us
anxious and scared
of the other’s reaction
my memory
of you consists of
strung together moments:
waking up with a cough,
the fireplace roaring from
the living room and i
can hear you moving about
since my coughing woke you
already and you bringing me
a small, clay mug filled
with piping hot black tea
sweetened with clover honey
snacking at a Wendy’s
corner booth with the
sunset clearing away
on the horizon
and you dip your hot
fries into your chocolate
Frosty and i snarl
have you tried it?
and i reluctantly did–
indulging on the salty sweetness
i see you as a mourning
father–every breath
step, and action a
forward motion in grieving
and maybe that’s how we cope?
living our lives,
grieving in tandem
our souls solemnly separate
in a lonely mantra
Blossoms in the sun
a magenta monochrome
floral beauties shine
Scorched with sunlights touch
pirouettes upon the wind
roots found on the farm
I remember sitting by mother’s canvas
watching as her hand etched worlds into the void
banishing catastrophe with color,
facing doubt with determination.
She’d play jazz over the stereo
Listen to bold brass
accompanied by brushstrokes.
I wonder whether the flowers she painted
were concealed in the cacophony?
Her easel has borne the weight
of an abandoned child for years now,
wooden arms weary, determined not
to disappoint. Father’s work holds strong.
Perhaps it’s time for the both of us
to nourish our crafts anew.
when they say, “Stop I’m Blushing –
Let Me Pink About It!”
and barely pause before
Such a Fuschia-n of Colors erupts
from the stalks. They worry
Nothing Rhymes With Lilac
and need to be comforted, call themeselves
Lavendarling in a bulbous coo,
singing the Sock It To Me Blues.
These Cotton Candy Speech Bubbles
stain the mouth, sweet garden of vowels.
One Mississippi,
Two Mississippi,
Your fingers slipping
Out of my hand
Your footsteps
Going farther away
I wonder why you built
The wall you did
And what it’s made out of.
Three Mississippi,
Four Mississippi,
Your voices echos in the air
And your memory lives
In photographs
I want only
One Mississippi
To hear you say
My name or hear you say
You won’t leave,
When you run.
