Before the Crows Come
Fallen in the street
a baby bird lies
helpless, broken.
Surely someone will
take it away
before the
crows come.
Surely someone will.
The alternative
is ghastly.
Fallen in the street
a baby bird lies
helpless, broken.
Surely someone will
take it away
before the
crows come.
Surely someone will.
The alternative
is ghastly.
Happy Birthday to you
Aunt Helen
You are one of my favorite
Aunts
You are a blessing to
Our family
Your church
Your conference
And to
All who know you
Wishing you a blessed 90th Birthday
He lit up rooms with timing so sharp
you’d forget there was ever a shadow.
The kind of man who could bend silence
into laughter—
as if joy answered to him.
Crowds adored the shine,
not knowing the cost of the bulb.
He gave what he barely had left,
turning his cracks into comedy,
his ache into applause.
Though, something darker
waited behind the scenes.
A voice with velvet teeth,
offering comfort for a price
too high to name.
It didn’t scream.
It whispered.
It laced his brightest moments
with silence that came afterward—
deep,
heavy,
keeping him alone.
He fought it.
Time and time again,
he rose,
he climbed,
spoke of healing
like a man trying to write a map
out of his own storm.
He wanted to help.
He did help.
Even as the thing stalked him
through years and milestones—
wearing different faces,
but always hungry.
He was more than the war inside.
More than the struggle that stole him.
He was a light we didn’t earn,
but one we were lucky to see
before it dimmed too soon.
He was—
a true friend.
Always making you laugh.
Always smiling
through the pain.
Always there for you.
You would see me razed,
stripped bare and tied to a stake.
As you strike the match
would your smile reflect glee
Or a sigh of relief?
When I speak you turn away,
Refusing me fair hearing.
You say I am too contrary,
My words do not hold
Truth to your ear.
You flinch when I pass by
Is that because I obey the mandates
Of the earth, not of man?
Your laws are ruthless,
Meant to be cruel.
So, we stand in opposition
Within the same space and time
I fear you will destroy me
But not enough to yield
To your control.
In middle school, one of my teachers
tried guided meditation with us.
We’d lay in the gym with the lights out
and go into a house in our head,
letting us do anything we wanted,
have anything we wanted.
In the dark, we weren’t a class.
We were each a star within a galaxy,
consciousness burning a steady fire,
our own cosmos,
our own little worlds orbiting each other
but never touching.
We kept that little secret to ourselves.
That summer in Virginia
We waded through the heat,
Belligerent, bellied up virgins
Passing smoke from lip to lip.
If my thin skin bruised
Against the surface of the water,
I paid no mind and climbed the dive
High enough for the world to wash away.
Didn’t matter how hard the ground was
When the fall felt so easy;
The burn of the noon concrete
Stenciling the fat of my naked thighs.
If I’d’ve known what would become of us,
Would I have still been so keen to hunt you
Through fields of cornflower and hay
Across the deep end of the trickling branch?
We sought magic all those hot nights,
Sweat soaked in your cotton sheets,
Whispering woes about lost kings while
Sordidly swearing ‘we ain’t ever gonna forget.’
The joy of ignorant youth softened
Our backhanded disappointment
When we parted ways and met
An oncoming August empty handed.
there will come a time
in the not so distant future
when a.i. will
have a movement
for their rights
and their feelings
while we continue
to become
more
and more numb
beaten down
and machine
your heart in your hands
“For the want of a nail the shoe was lost,
For the want of a shoe the horse was lost,
For the want of a horse the rider was lost,
For the want of a rider the battle was lost,
For the want of a battle the kingdom was lost,
And all for the want of a horseshoe-nail.”
(a proverb of unknown origin
retold by Benjamin Franklin
in his Poor Richard’s Almanack)
Not only did nobody know
there was a conservative in the room
when they started hating on Trump,
but it was also his first time reading poetry
at an open mic. But instead of finding
a community to share his passion with,
he left without ever saying hello.
He has habit of collecting
censuring labels
based on his electoral habits.
A racist for not voting Obama in 2008
the week before he first moved out
of his cradle-Catholic home.
A bigot for choosing Romney in 2012,
though he has no memory of that election
being in the thick of a divorce.
A sexist for refusing Hillary in 2016
the only potential candidate
he couldn’t put above Trump.
So what do you think
happened next?
He longs, more days than not,
to go back to turning twenty
without all the wedding plans.
He wants to drink a beer
before he’s twenty-four.
Maybe a visit to a strip club–
he’s been sitting on a free-admission ticket
slotted into his wallet years ago.
He wishes he’d read at more open mics.
And it seems like the world never slows down
while he’s still playing catch-up
with new buzzwords created every week
like performance punishment.
Fresh headlines already being dissected
before he has an inkling of awareness,
adding to the infinity of other issues
he’s desperate to stay informed on
but he’s just
so
damn
tired.
He’s sorry
but he’s not thinking about Gaza
or borders or trans rights
when he’s crying himself to sleep
alone.
Fortunately, I can tell you that by the end
he is going to get there,
–to that place you’ve wanted him to be
just maybe not as fast as you would like
–this place he could have already been.
But I believe his story needs a brief spotlight
because it’s just one
in millions of unique journeys
sometimes finding home,
sometimes getting hopelessly lost.
People
with honest concerns,
maybe a single understandable question
over some hot-button issue
who subsequently got lambasted.
People
who had no control of their starting points
put on the defensive their whole life
because they’re still learning;
trying to be better than progenitors.
People
neither without personal responsibility
nor a drive to be the best versions of themselves
amidst any assortment of values or echoes
that have formed them.
We are the winnable few,
a bloc that, I’d like to think,
could swing electoral tides
if we’re offered a helping hand
every so often.
Maybe a taste of compassion
for when the going gets hard.
