I have to let the poem find me,
I say, letting myself bask in the morning
light of creation yet to be, but when
night chases in and I fight against
the clock to put pen to penning the words
I realize I cannot strangle a poem
out of starlight and into the search bar
of a browser; how ignorant to have
the world of information at my fingertips
and rush the running of words
into formation, as if they ever were
mine to begin with.
And
I’m an artist,
but I can’t draw
an ampersand.
&
I’m a poet
who needs to use
a dictionary sometimes.
In the forest one is invited for rest
no one asking for answers pitching proposals or beating bids
a sacred space
a shelter in the arms of wise governesses
it’s soft at the base
these Grand Dames of great wisdom
silently imparting such soothing insights
such soft steps beneath solvent wisdom
gnomes appear and disappear
dancing in and out of shadows
imparting their transient algorithms
as answers bubble from dried wells
birthing ripe inclusive ideas
WE ALL WIN
these California wonders
remind us . . . for-give-ness heals
What once was there
Is now gone
Buildings, forest, towns, and homes
Now just rubble and dust
Dirt beneath my feet
What is now left is in my mind
And my mind me tells stories
Of what once was
Are the stories true
I think
Is the story true
I think
Are my feelings true
I think
Will you be remembered by what once was seen
Now that everything is gone
Tears rolling downwards
Dripping and splashing to the base board
Of my rusted 76’ van
Will this van be what will be remembered
I think
Or
Maybe it was a bike
Or
Maybe it was us walking across a park
On a sunny day with nats swarming our hair
Where an old shriveled man tossing away all
That he has left
To oversized inflated pigeons
Hacking and coughing
He gives us deaths stare and with his last breath “How do you do?”
As we quickly pass by to go to the murky river
We laugh and joke about all the things we see in The river
Fish sitting in one spot
Laughing about the good days
Rusted 76’ van sitting at the bottom
Inflated pigeons floating down the river
And a bike floating in the air towards the clouds
Confused and baffled
I look to you for clarification
Just to see the old shriveled man
“How do you do?”
Is this story true
I think
Or
Maybe it was a movie
In that line of cars,
I wonder how many of them played
something on the radio
Something to drown out
the unbearable silence
accompanied by the engine running
Some would stay silent
Hoping to show honor and respect
And we tried to do the same
Instead, I remember the sound of 2000s pop
gently filling the air
So that we didn’t have to hear
the pin drop
you were afraid
their laughter
chilling you bone cold
you watched
they burned
skin cracking
sizzling
hands curling
i know you thought
believed
the burnings
would satiate
the hate
but
the fire raged
evermore brightly
wildly
see
you are a witch-thing, too
shivered cackles
winding down your spine
they will come for you, yet
your tale is showing.
I’m learning to think in past tense.
My father was one of my best friends.
He sang in a community choir.
He taught Deaf and Hard of Hearing.
He made steampunk jewelry
and loved to go to the comic cons.
He loved me.
He listened to me.
He showed up when I needed him,
even if he had to drive 7 hours to be here.
I forget and have to correct myself.
I wonder how long it will take
until I always remember
that the past is permanent.
I let things go
Sour apple fuzz
tingles as it melts,
flooding the reservoir
across my 9-year-old tongue—
pure sugar the color of neon
olives, poured from a packet
that fits neatly in my pocket
at recess. A leaping chest
I can barely keep up with
follows down the slide,
between the monkey bars,
beneath the clouds at my feet
at the top of each swing.
Fear is waiting
in the back of the closet,
behind the door to the basement,
next to beady, glowing eyes
dripping into a marble ashtray,
but not here, not in a million years
will it catch up to my feeble teeth,
my barely there mind
swallowing days whole, disagreeing
with the wall, with no one—
life is too sweet
