Poetry


Bottle up your pain
In an old, glass jar.
Let it sit there for a day
‘Til it’s black as tar.

Fall down on the grass,
Find a feather there.
Take your bottle; feel the sun
Shine down on your hair.

Use the feather, trace
Feelings in the dirt.
It would be a shame to waste the
Art found in your hurt.

If a leaf falls down,
Take to it with ink.
Rinse your newly emptied jar;
Just don’t stain the sink.

Finally, you’ll breathe;
Pressure, it will fade.
This is how the realest sort
Of poetry is made.

Calluses


I am building calluses
Around my heart.
Nobody can come in
To hear my song.

She’s losing strength
Because I exposed her
To empty souls who
Did not know,

That she is a melody
Few have heard,
And she is timid.
She will hide.

I will not forsake her
Or sing her to the dark,
So I am building calluses
Around my heart.

Flowers


You were never going to see me
Among all the other flowers,
Watching idle as the strangers
Daily passed me by.

I am not unlike my sisters,
Neither am I just like them;
We are gathered as a body
Staring at the sky.

If you deign to come in closer
And, for once, get on your knees,
You might see my red is different—
Only by a hue—

Maybe if you bowed your head
And plucked me from the ground,
You could press me in a book,
A love poem for you.

Stars


Did you see the stars tonight?
I could hear them cry
Watching human promises,
Every one a lie.

The stars above, among themselves,
Feel no need to compete.
Each is glad for her own light,
Sacred and complete.

One by one they turn away,
Collapsing in despair:
Their grief consuming everything,
Leaving their wrath fair.

Child, don’t wish upon the star,
But promise her you’ll wake.
Nothing good will come to you
Defending your mistake.

In Grief


The day the grand piano was tuned, no one remained to play it. When the carpets were cleaned, not a soul walked the halls.

The lonesome house was being scrubbed to make space for new life—but wasn’t ready to let go. One could feel in the air a note from a lullaby never finished; it sought attention from anyone who would listen.

Empty were the chairs round the table and nothing baked in the oven. The curtains, once open to admit light of the sun, remained shut like a barrier to keep out the New.

Who, now, would rush down the stairs to greet the postman? Would anyone sit at the balcony again?

The house remembered, and was loathe to let go. It longed for the sound of children laughing and the cheer of the lamps. No one walked its halls, and it wondered why no one considered the pain of spaces where memories were made.

The house was not an empty shell; in silence, it mourned with the family.

l’automne


Your bookshelves are empty.
Outside, the leaves fall.
We’re waiting through
The saddest autumn of all.

Your piano is sleeping—
Too great for my hands.
Still, I will play
‘Til my heart understands.

I took home your paper
To sketch out your face,
But you have a smile
That art can’t replace.

The trees out your window
Have all become bare.
So I search my heart:
You will always be there.

I’m thankful to have this beautiful woman for a grandmother. And I’m thankful to have her for another Thanksgiving.

Tuesday Morning’s Child


Snowy hills have piled;
Whispering wind is heard.
Only Tuesday morning’s child
Makes out every word.

Frosty window-glass,
Snowy blankets grand.
Which dark things have come to pass
Upon this frigid land?

Things the sun has seen,
Things the moon will mourn,
Until every soul has passed
Away and been Reborn.

How can human tongue,
Limited, explain
What has hurt this land so long?
Who can be to blame

For these tears in the earth,
An emptiness that grows?
Words have very little worth;
Tuesday’s child knows.

Near Eden


Water cupped in my two hands
Bears the rich taste of the land.
Paths that loved me brought me here:
Eden must be near.

Maybe when I’ve breathed my last,
When what I know of earth has passed,
I will wander, light and free,
Underneath this canopy.

I drink. The water’s fresh and clean,
And I’m forgetting where I’ve been.
Overhead, a pigeon sings
Of love and gentle things.

If I should dive, would I need air?
Perhaps I would thrive swimming there,
Gathering shells and greeting trout.
I’d never come out.

Pigeon pleads for me to stay—
“Really, it’s a lovely day!”
Eden is not far, I know;
There’s nowhere left to go.