Sky the barest of blue, 
delicate as a robin’s egg, 
absorbing dust like wind with prayers,
aandhi then barish,
my birth city. 

Postcard hues, the vibrancy 
of mountains, waterfalls, and tides
containing a cascading crush of fine gems:
emeralds, opals, aquamarines,
my mother’s scenes.

Heat tangible as a bruise,
spike of melanin and white creams,
harried and hustling, the bustling furnace
of clocktower bazaars,
my breath held.

Venue of trailing flowers,
scarlet dress and confetti bursts,
the end being a salam and its response,
lotus caught in between,
my centrum.

Capital, halves, station, liberation,
and city, scenes, breath, centrum,
and Asalaam alaikum,
and Asalaam alaikum. 

Capturing the fog

Reciprocity failure

Never enough time

Writing poems may just tear me apart,

So I seek things to stimulate my art.

        J. Peterman’s catalogues inspire,

        TukTuk Snack Shop’s socials are fire,

But the LexPoMo fam wins my heart!

I was in the second grade.
It was a weekend.
I walked across a vacant field
that stood between our house
and the house where
Mr. and Mrs. Rochelle lived.
They were older than my grandparents.
Maybe they were retired
but I never saw them not working.
Sometimes they included me in their work.
They were my friends.

On that day I could see Mr. Rochelle
in the apple orchard behind his house.
I kept my unwavering eyes on him
the whole time I walked across the field 
dragging and lifting my feet
through the tall grasses.

Once there,
I looked up and called out his name
He was near the top of
his very tall ladder
standing like a God
with his head lost in a cloud of leaves.

He heard me call and glanced my way
Upon seeing me he tugged down the already wilted bandana
from around his neck, which slid off easily
and fast mopped his face from brow to chin
before smiling broadly to greet me.

We were both overcome with joy
So happy to see one another
Caught in a glow greater than the sun

A flash of headlights catch my attention
driving along the Bluegrass Parkway;
has me thinking speed trap.
My windshield wipers are getting their workouts in
from icky weather I couldn’t quite wait out
before embarking on this visit to family in Owensboro.

A second flash of headlights makes me alert.
This cop must think he’s found a clever spot
if the other side wants to give us all warnings,
but I’ve already adjusted myself to the conditions.

Then there’s a third flash…

                                               a fourth…

The road dips down into a cut though a mountain.
Above, the clouds are low enough for trees to tickle.
The sun is rendered useless by all that floats before it

and                                                    the rain

                                is just
 
     about

                                              to pick

      up…

It’s like driving my CAR into a waterfall. And I’m not alone
because everybody else is driving CARS into the torrents
and there are CARS all around me with freshly panicked pilots
and CARS going every which way to adjust to the fact
that wipers at full speed cannot meet this intensity
so there are CARS slowing down and swerving CARS in the shoulders
but it’s hard to make a move because a CAR might be there
and you can’t really stop because from behind there are CARS.
CARS at full speed who haven’t hit the storm, CARS that will need
a space to duck into, CARS pushing through fast as they can, CARS
underestimating roads underwater.
There’s a CAR in the median with six-sided damage
and you pray to God to have angels on standby, 
like you pray that your tires maintain traction with the road
and you pray that you don’t end up in the same kind of trouble.
Pray for deliverance; just let the terror end

and then
                                                      the rain

                                   just

            kind of
   
                                                      stops.

As sudden as it began, it’s over.
Color fills back into the knuckles
but it still takes a while to get back up to speed
as I process this new display of nature’s ferocity.
It’s a long time before I finally remember to turn off my hazards;
I’m just praying. An emergency vehicle goes the other way,
I keep praying. I pray and pray and pray
that everybody makes it through the storm okay

and then,
despite the warning’s complete inability
to convey the dangers ahead,
I flash my headlights at the other side.

That porch chair don’t rock,
there ain’t a need
to keep tempo
out here.

Sitting
in silence,
next to white blossoms
of the Sweet Magnolia,

Breathing
waves of honey
near the ancient oak
that yet longs to conquer seas.

Where she’s carried two centuries
of sun powered memories,
guarding moments beneath her shade,
holding promises for the future.

Naw,
there ain’t much out here,
but the comfort of closed eyes, deep breaths,
and the time to enjoy it all
at your own pace.

If writing poetry is getting lost in a forest of words,
you are the path with dancing fairy lights tempting
the edges of my darkness…
                                       
                                              …I set myself down in the sun,
the world bursting into reds, yellows, softest lavender,
golden-bathed garden, familiar seat of summer’s past…

                                                                                                 …but I watched
the poem, the one I’d intended—evaporating as quickly as it’d come,
lifting like last night’s rain, fading in the unexpected appearance
of your primrose path…

                                        …I stood.  I followed…
                                                                   
                                                                            …daylight (and intentions) fell
to the sickle-sword of moonlight waxing in your energy, the golden-brown
flash of otherworldly fireflies in your eyes, the world, one moment bright
and humid, eclipsing, bird and insect song releasing the ghost of moments
past, dying to quiescence, light of your eyes dancing amid freckles,
nutmeg and cinnamon against the cream, the current, the lines
of your legs, flowing
from the garden
now opening.

                           I descended into that darkness…
                           and the seasons twisted on my tongue. 

                                                                                                   Summer was a record
running backwards, the night trembling, the melody skipping against the dark,
concentric circles of our elicit interaction, scratching a separate song,
filling a separate place,
a secret space
in the forests
of our minds…                         

                        …and my body, aligned with your body, hidden
                           from the eyes of the day, from the noise of all
                           that had been…

                                                     …released itself to the bubble
                                                        reality we sang

                                                        into existence.
               

While the world goes haywire

I don’t fear anything 

I have lost the ones I prayed to never lose

I have faced the gravest nightmares

I’ve fought the never ending battles 

time 

and time 

and time

again 

nothing scares me anymore

not death 

not living

not the in betweens 

the close calls

the second chances

the near experiences 

Ive seen my fears play out

horrifying scenes turnt into my reality 

ans despite everything 

I am still standing 

I collect people