Forest

Give Up Street lights bleed Road so smooth I’m floating, Slipping. Cold cars never touch and if they do It’s the touch of death Crunch and noise and color. Give in to the the inevitable: You will hit the ground. Looking through the windshield I already feel the noise and I already give up. Reactivity runs out, you know. But like breath, involuntary, I pull away. Get angry. Fight back. Wake up. I shake my head and blink. No. Think . --- Soft so soft you want to put your lips against her warm white fur. Her chest and nose stretch forward Eyes ahead, attentive. Searching. Does she see what I see? To that stone, does she calculate the jump as I do? She sits back and looks back and gives slack Gives up. I watch and call my kitten again And wait. She looks, calculates and jumps quietly over clear cold water. Her white fur gets wet, and she licks at it.

A Lifetime Ago You may only live once. I make a million lives and live them all right now. Every droplet reflects the light and sparks a thought Thoughts enough for a million lives. I start running and I never stop This and that and there... This work problems to solve questions to ask. That sunset through those leaves Picture perfect, I take a picture. A word there and I clench my fists and breath out. Yesterday was A lifetime ago as today goes down with the sun.

White and Red   White granite counters The cleaning lady is coming in the morning. The fridge door opens Girlscout cookies. The fridge door opens Triscuit. White light from the fridge. Small glass fish tank Stylish and you-guessed-it white. The fish is large and orange It's head is white with pale pink blood, face half eaten away It sits listlessly. Suddenly energy wracks its body And runs its head into the white again.

Wanderlust I flip the cap of my hand sanitizer The scent fills my brain and the world turns white. I tense as I am thrust back a month ago Ghana. Lemon sweet tart sanitizer on my fingers Eating fufu plastic chairs dirt floor warm water in a bowl. And I fly on the beach on Promise the horse she runs away, runs away, and naked children scatter. Cafeteria food Talking high schoolers. I am where I am and my chest pangs. “Radio,” says my German teacher with an accent. I breathe in slowly as the world turns white. A month ago, Germany. I stand in the feed room alone, swaying to the radio, mixing grain. Dirty linoleum floors and barn cats. The radio crackles and sings The goats and pigs waiting impatiently in their stalls. Clicking pens Shuffling papers I am where I am My head aches.

All your thoughts are glass Twisting shapes and screaming cries Wishes and should-dos Now only cold hard glass remains Scrape it out of the dark sky and onto the floor It crushes beneath your feet Into sand with crashing waves Beneath a gentle breathing sun.

Free Pass She picked it up off the floor Goldenrod paper between brown fingers. Name, excuse, and signature. It’s all you really need. “Look guys! A free pass!” She said. How strange, to me. That’s not where my free passes come from. Hard work, goodwill, and privilege I take my free passes for granted.

My emotions flee like naughty children before their mother I would rationalize away their fear So they hide and nurse their wounds. They hide in pages and screens and notes and lines... Wounds fester. Pain builds. And when I least expect it My little darlings Burst into tears that roll down my cheeks in hot rivers.

Only Just I wake up. Dim lights. As I fell asleep The house popped And ached And echoed Awake, now, only just. Something is different. A new breath. A little breath Almost the sigh of the house - the home But layered above Unique. I recognize it.

Our dog died. We got rabbits. I spread their shit over the dog's grave And flowers grow.

  Rain Today, someone in the sky Is spinning the clouds into thin white threads That are falling from the sky. I reach out and try to twist The silky strings around my finger. My hand gets wet.

My Trusty Bag I picked it to stand out Yellow But I forgot about mud... My fingers trace The zipper Remembering that broken pull tab I skip lightly over it Running over teeth, my fingers land And pull And slide in My fingers know The outline of every pen The creases and lines The sound the blue one makes When you click it The feel of the red one's cap As you roll it across the table The chairs may change Rolling Cushioned Hard But my fingers leave the desktop And reach (I do not need to look) And find the chapstick Short and smooth and round I wiggle off the cap The feel on my lips Familiar. My fingers search for every buckle When I walk They slip into the loops And pull at the straps Anxious Always Mostly. With practiced motion I swing and hold And the bag lands in my arms with a twist My water bottle comes out, My ring finger supports the cap And my thumb presses. The water cooler bubbles. Some fill quickly The one in G building is slow. I sip, the cold in my mouth Sweet. I ...

Note: This poem was written before Frozen (to be exact, I dated it 4/23/13) Letting Go I am a hollow glass body      filled with a rushing current         of love, sunshine, and sea Someone hammers     my diamond barrier stands tall     my precious treasures stay safe. Someone taps     the translucent film shatters     and falls to the floor with the sound of breaking glass. My love     My sunshine         My sea             My insides The world's love     The light from the sun         The big, deep sea             The outside They mingle and swirl and coalesce and I am     I am         I am Broken     and yet whole for the first t...

Night Biking I zoom quietly over wet streets, echoes of laughter and smiles fading. Hissing water sprays out behind the bike wheels accompaniment for the unseen symphony of crickets in the night. Cold numbs my fingers and I can only think it will be over soon and my fingers will burn with warmth. I do enjoy the crisp cold that seeps through my thin sweater, sweetens my mouth, and pleasures my nose with the tang of freshness. There is a sharp stab of pain as I wrap my fingers around the cool metal brakes and press. I release and fly faster and faster. It is so quiet and I feel I am the only one here. The only one... that ever felt the last breath of fall as I do now.

Street light The lamp outside My window tonight With golden rays of light Shows dust, snow, and rain But dims the shining stars.

In the Forest Stillness Quiet Reveals a distant hum For green may rule But the highway isn't far Leaves Moss And little bits of trash For green may rule here But humans rule the world

Silence Silence is the night they said Silence is speechless cowardly fear they said Silence is a hateful stare they said Sometimes, I say. Sometimes silence is a sweet hush in the cool fall night, just out of the reach of the melodic strains from inside. Sometimes silence is the protester before his tank, David before his Goliath... words can add nothing. Sometimes silence is a mother's gentle watching gaze words too small to say. Silence is what's left over, beneath: clear, stirring notes of emotion.

At the bottom of the vase Sick My tongue is chilled I breathe in through closed teeth, Hissing. My throat is dry I breath in through my nose brief panic I gasp Cup of tea after cup of tea after cup of tea A drip feed of sugar and cream I relax into my blankets And the teapot screams impatiently

Driving on the Highway Mild mannered peach sunset Over colorless tan wheat field Trees are stark in intricate black And birds match. Low angled light casts reflections on water Never still, ever moving, A painting. Man's lights clash, Red against rusty pink. Our shapes don't fit, Solid blocks over filigree. In the night highways And cities glimmer convincing enough Not the same, though, As stars And snow In the moonlight Pale and plain Though they are.

Days Day 1 Footsteps through the hall. I cannot hear them. Even so, legs dance in graceful synchronicity with the music in my ears. My feet oblige, waltzing with Bach. I sit. We laugh. We are so smart And together we are smarter, gleeful in the world we define,     decipher,         and determine. Calculations flow like water     one plus one     two plus two     I love you... Puns come to mind unheeded And I laugh because I can. I stand. I walk. Snow floats down Like fat, white rain that cannot saturate. the Winter is a Wonderland, glazing black and grey with white. I am Home. The washing machine sloshes gently. The house creaks, talking to itself. I sit by the fire A slow deep breath in the quiet Warmth in my toes and my nose and my fingertips And a smile on my lips. Day 2 In my head I turn the binding lock. The tower of homework hides the ev...

To be performed like " What Teachers Make " by Taylor Mali --- IHS and LACS One choice can transform you. IHS or LACS? Most people chose IHS But that doesn’t mean LACS is wrong. Someone once told me LACS was a school Where they only do art. All day. If you don’t know anything about LACS, how can you judge? My brother, my best friend, they both went there. They did fine. My brother went to college and He’s majoring in economics and art. They tell me about Slow halls             Where people don’t push. Graffiti walls             A goldfish, the Beatles, the house from Up A student-made salad bar             because what you eat is who you are. A week where you get to go far             They call it trips week. All school meetings       ...

Cupcakes   The school breathes with whispers,             laughs,                         talk. The lockers slam,             the polished floor squeaks. Across the murmur three words drift…             “That’s so gay.” A pang in my chest and my eyes snap up.         My mind spins back to that day when my brother made cupcakes.                     Cupcakes with icing.                                 Icing that made wor...

Pebbles on a Beach Pebbles on a beach beside an ocean. "I like the smooth ones," said I, running my fingers across the surface. "I like the rough ones," he said. He inspects them, tracing every seam. "I like the red ones," she said. They are easiest to spot. I collected some, put them in a bag. I like to take them out and file them, and arrange them until they speak. He frowns, "Why so many? All you need is one." He found one by the bridge, waves had crashed around it and made a little hole. He likes to watch the moon through it until he can't see spit. She rolls her eyes. "It's just a hole. Who cares?" She found a dry stone, not much kissed by glistening waves, ephemeral. She chipped away at it refining and structuring until it gleamed the shine of centuries. I pick up the chips. I like them too. To each their own, I guess. And to me, a poem.

Creation Story: Rain When the world began, there was no rain. The gods made a sun to light the new world, and the gods smiled. They created animals to run and jump over the firm ground, and the gods smiled. They created humans to worship the gods, and the gods smiled. However, the humans soon grew hungry. They ate the animals, but there were only so many animals. The gods scattered seeds, but they would not grow without rain. The gods frowned. They could not sit by and watch as their creations suffered. Now, among these people, there was a girl named Raina. She was the best weaver in the whole world. Her thread was as fine as spider silk, and she made it just as quickly as the spider itself. As she was spinning thread, she loved to watch the people outside. She laughed at the children and their games. She smiled at the boy who helped an old woman across the street. And she blushed when he smiled back. The boy who smiled back returned the next day, and the next. He came...

Wild sky Wild sun Wild sea. On wet sand I stand still. Like a lot of other short poems I've written, this poem was originally posted on Instagram. "I Stand Still," in particular, is closely tied to its picture. The poem describes the picture from top to bottom. It makes me think of the first episode of Doctor Who (I know- NERD ALERT). Rose asks the Doctor who he is... here's the conversation: Rose: Really though, Doctor. Tell me. Who are you? The Doctor: Do you know like we were saying? About the Earth revolving? It’s like when you’re a kid. The first time they tell you that the world’s turning and you just can’t quite believe it because everything looks like it’s standing still. I can feel it. {he grabs her hand} The turn of the Earth. The ground beneath our feet is spinning at a thousand miles an hour. And the entire planet is hurtling around the sun at sixty-seven thousand miles an hour and I can feel it. We’re falling through space...

Mensch Cold bites. I bark back. White water whirls across asphalt, through spokes, under chassis. Bitter, piercing air burns as it begs for bits of warmth. The streets are savage and raw: the stud whistles to the bitch, “Fuck you,” calls the car. We bark back, shouting a primal, heart-filled “Ei ei eieeeeeeeeeeeee” to the roar of falls, the crack of thunder, the steep depths of blood-red earth. Exhilarating. Cruel. The mother of us all: she taught us well. We know how to run. Rubber presses against metal. Speed dims. Blood burns through my fingertips and flesh aches in protest. But warmth is only heartless to the cold; when it’s just us two, we are content. Sunlight slants through the pale hall,     warm heart beats softly under warm skin,         shadows flicker. “Bitter” is just a memory; embers glow steadily with agreeable satisfaction and sparks burn long and bright. In the dark, dazzling frost disturbed...

Whisper With soft fur and godlessness It creeps into your consciousness With little mews It delivers deadly news With quiet padding paws The Whisper spreads With small piercing claws The Whisper shreds.

 "Life" is a problem set, a good-sized packet, spiral-bound with time. Question follows question, annoyingly repetitive, each asking, "How shall I live this day?" So vague, and yet each demanding an answer. Not everyone receives the same packet, though. Some get sheets with the answer in parentheses after the question, which hardly seems fair, but then again, it's not as fun to solve a problem you already know the answer to. Some don't get a reference table, and have to scramble to answer the question with whatever they can find in the recesses of their psyche. The formulas don't always work, anyway. As soon as the work is finished for one, the sheet is taken away; no time to go back and correct. It's unclear if this assignment is graded or not, so some just muddle through and fill in the blanks. Some flock to the smartest, the prettiest, or the most popular in the class and copy her answers, but there is no answer sheet, so the fruits of...

"Forest" was my first masterpiece, and I will remember it forever. Inspired by my first-grade teacher, who had a unit on poetry, I wrote "Forest" and read it in front of the whole school. Unlike previous poems, I spent a few days developing the idea in my head, and when it finally came out onto the paper, I was so proud. Reading it today still makes me smile. I believe in that little girl. Forest I step into the forest: The squishy earth gives way beneath my toes. Dotted with flowers, speckled with light, thriving with underbrush to insects' delight. I lean against a tree: Long thick roots curl into a strong grey trunk, Graceful branches taper into twigs in a natural way That no photo or drawing can quite catch. Twigs flick into leaves, Leaves flutter and twist, like blinds on a window, Letting small slits of golden light drift through green lattice. I look at the sky: Soft shafts of golden light filter through lea...