How soon we get old, how late we get wise,
my grandma would say with laughing eyes.
I am an archer
Shooting for the moon
so I realize I must outsmart myself sometimes
and aim for many stars.
Image source: https://www.artstation.com/artwork/L3YnJR
The days slip by like eels as we age,
when I was young
they opened up like decades.
The sun shining, the purple Iris.
It's 80 degrees I remember hearing.
I remember how it was so hot.
The blacktop.
It seemed infinite
this moment of heat
of knowing how hot it was.
I remember being on the swing
at recess and thinking how I was 75 pounds.
I don't know who told me I was 75 pounds,
or how I found out,
but I thought of that
as I was swinging
perhaps I was realizing I was
getting
bigger.
I remember hanging on the rings
playing "chicken fights" with the boys
after I had beaten all the girls.
The guy that beat me
I remember when he wrapped his legs around my waist
this was way before puberty
and I remember that moment of defeat
knowing that I had to let go.
In a way though,
it was still a victory
because I was second place to the boy
that would go on to make touchdowns in high school.
I remember another competition
on the rings
I had to be swinging, forward and back
and my friend was pushing me from behind
and I would let go and see how far I could go
another girl was trying the same thing
with a friend pushing her
and we were competing
kind of like the long jump
but flying through the air from the rings
and the mark on the wood chips
where I broke my wrist
was farther than hers.
Time is slipping by like eels now
with each cup of coffee
my days are less competitive now.
The coffee is slippery
on my tongue
as I remember youth
my youth seems
so tasty now
the thrill of victory
the thrill of defeat
I can almost taste it.
Fall is a time to look at what is dying
and what needs to start anew.
Winter is a time for sleeping
underneath the snow
like a wolf.
Spring is the time to be a bear cub
playing in the water.
Summer then is the time
to walk
and look at the lake.
Far from the sounds of the city,
and dive in.
How to connect these three parts of my heart
the answer is groove
the synapse and the lightning rod
the fall of the hammer
the pump of the blood
the foot on the floor
the dance
the drawer
The dresser of the moon
with its light spilling out
It could be fascinating to study PSYCHOLOGY. I don't have to just study MUSIC and ART. What is WRITING if not the study of COMMUNICATION and PSYCHOLOGY? Isn't the whole point of writing to change someone's state of BEING?
A poem to create Peace
Same.
A poem to incite War
Different.
This ghost reaping waters fortitude and fame
Grim fire lackluster saddled with shame
Freeze dry the sin, we're all coming in
hogtied and looking for food.
Limp lamely and read Shakespeare aloud
pirouette in saddle shoes and laugh
get shut down like a phone booth
where I don't take no dimes.
I'd cry if I wasn't so hurt, I'd laugh if I wasn't so proud
You killed the mood like a poison arrow
a piano megabus heaving air
the receptacles for following clouds
are all amiss
it's just cigarette smoke
from the banker and the shrew
making deals behind closed doors
while we sleep.
I'm conscious now if you want to talk, I am feeling better now, after resting.
I had my face on the pillow, spent time crying into the night sky,
staring at a star or two,
and now I'm fine.
I'm elated that you'd like to dive in, to the story of my youth
and the days of gin and thorns. I'd be happy to explain it all
line by line, thought by thought
and unwind it like a spool of thread.
I'm jumping for joy at the thought of it.
I rang your bell three times to see if you would awake.
I'm on your doorstep and I'm happy to be here
I arrived
by walking under the shade of the old oak trees
through the cemetery where
my grandmother is buried.
I have no ill will, I'm feeling like a cat
in a tree
enjoying the view.
A coffee headache comes on slow
drops like a velvet hammer
pounding just a little
a little passive-aggressive, the way he used to ask me questions
and just WAIT for the answer.
I refuse to be his cherry bomb pop tart punk ruby gumshoe apocalypse prevention cream.
I want to scream, "Go find another brass statue!"
I get so angry sometimes
I could just
wait.
Another cup.
Light shines into my mind
calmly
sometimes my room
is like the inner workings
of a clock
quiet, with its colorful floor
and white ceiling
dancing in the sunlight
spinning like a dervish
wait.
Another cup.
This time the coffee came out thin
watery like an Americano. The radio is blaring
and the witch hunt is on
for another President
to lead the masses to the cliff
everyone is rushing
to the edge
wait.
The edge of the cup is overflowing.
In the tiny windows, tiny televisions glowed
hot blue light flickering then dimming
Electricity in the night beckons us
to reassess our reliance
and hypnotize us in our defiance
of the sun's schedule.
Why don't we just stay awake
in a dream state,
sleepwalking as we run,
gazing at tiny
televisions.
The plants grew
up the South wall
of the building
from the ground
the red brick chipping off
the vines holding it together
their waxy green hands
overlapping one another
I had been admiring the vines
for about an hour and a half
which had climbed
up the wall
for about a year
when a stout woman came
and unceremoniously
cut them with a garden shear.