As we move higher up on my face,

the sensations becomes more intense,

each weekly hour feels longer.

I do not subscribe to the motto

that beauty is pain.

So much beauty simply exists

naturally and without effort.

The wings of a butterfly,

the sweetness in my dog’s eyes,

the personalities of my loved ones.

I want to add that my own inner beauty

does not hurt.

Or does it?

The burden of being beautiful

in ways the world can’t see

and won’t accept.

Maybe it is only the hiding of my actual self

that is truly painful.

And so this is part of being born

and stepping into the light.

Neither is ever comfortable.

I am sacrificing

and preparing for my future self.

She won’t remember

every single torturous session,

the precise sting of the needle,

the exact sharpness of its bite.

By then,

the day she walks freely in the sunshine,

this will all be faded memories,

hours I was happy to

let the locusts feast on,

something difficult

she had to endure

to get where she wanted to be.

The now feels endless.

A hundred pricks and jabs.

The future is beautiful but distant

and hopefully as eternal.

May her joy then

feel as expansive

as my hurt does now

and echo even longer,

a contagious ripple

like her giggle.

May the seeds I plant

yield her beautiful flowers.

I try to give this suffering meaning

and thereby endure it.

Plane contrails layer
Like sheets in my bed

Cumulus culminates

Gray clouds cover the world in rain
Gray comforter covers my head

Does hatred need the hated

I’m smothered by the lackluster expressions of everyone who isn’t you – 
I adore you, it is true.

You wink; a hint, and thoughts of you I can’t restrain
Your subtle gestures imprint on my mind and remain.

You lift my spirits with a playful grin; 
You drift away, as I hope you’ll come back again.

hopeful feelings spring up among the fresh grass
it’s yours to pick 
fill your pockets, fill your arms
there’s a world full of possibilities out there
it’s yours for the taking 
fill your pockets, fill your arms 
let your worries go 
like a balloon released
watch it ascend until you can no longer see it 
feel the euphoric emptiness 
fill your pockets, fill your arms 
it won’t last long– 
fear always has a way of creeping back up 
so fill your pockets now 
fill up your arms 
with this warmth the sun provides
carry it with you 
into the colder months ahead

A

Photograph

Births

A living flame

That dwells

In the quiet corners

Of my mind—

Burning, transforming,

Raising new shelter

From the ashes it leaves behind.

It begs to be placed somewhere sacred,

Where memory can always return—

To the first goodbye,

And how it burned.

A stone in your pocket is a wonderful treasure to find,
but feeling the same pebble in your shoe 
can break your whole body down.
Buildings around us function in much the same way,
where removing a single block
dooms everything above it.
And the people who construct these spaces around us
infuse this same quality of arithmetic
in the prisons of our schedules.
One thing added or one thing removed 
shatters the solidity 
of a few placid day.
So I try to be a keystone for the people I know and love,
a wedge of silent fortitude
measured in exactitude.
Yet a wedge is, by definition, separate and different,
a space cut from another space,
set aside for another time,
during those times when we are up too early in the morning,
when you can see the slow electricity
moving through far-off lightbulbs.
I will be that stone still glowing in the pocket of your mind,
that stone still traveling up your spine with each step,
that stone still holding you together. 

The words won’t fall in line tonight, 
despite the herding I’m trying to do. 
Sometimes words are harder than squirrels
or ducks or cats or my teenage students. 
So I’ll just read some poems instead.

His shoulders curled under the weight of worries and internal wars,

he was sitting under the tree,

taking a break,

smoking a cigarette and drinking kahva.

Judging the appearance, you would never guess how spritely and youthful he once was.

His old blue jeans splattered with white paint 

and his yellow sweater dotted with moth holes, 

the dark circles that pulled his dark brown eyes down, 

his hair was disheveled, and his hands were rough like sandpaper. 

Indeed, it all made him look older than he was.

The world was not kind to him,

but despite the rough appearance, 

to me, he always looked like love. 

His name was Bosna, 

my father and my mother, 

my first home.

on wednesday we speak
only haiku, no more, less,
as a bit you see

it reflects your soul;
the cadence and the mindset
becomes a habit

restriction spawns fun,
creativity and joy,
in such a bleak world

is it poetry?
who knows, it’s an earnest bit
take it as you like