Mar 20


The shade of a hemlock
on a sunny day
covered in snow.

The hush as it falls
and the laughter
as the sun reappears.

Joy in the form
of vibrations
traveling through the air.

Pages like soft hands
feeding words
to hungry children.

Gram’s hands.
Wrinkled and velvety
with arthritis in the joints,
but always open.
Feb 21

Not a Drill

At first I thought that they
changed the planned fire drill
to a lockdown drill,
I shrugged it off
and followed my teacher
to the library of the elementary school
I was mentoring at for the period.
We weren't allowed to leave.
And then a classmate said
there'd been a threat
and that it was an actual lockdown
not a drill
and an hour earlier I
had finished writing
a letter that was
a little over half a page
that took eighty minutes to write
to send to the AP Bio class
at Stoneman Douglas
and the librarian tried to distract us
with legos and a puzzle
and then someone said
our school was being evacuated
and all I could think
was thank god my sister is in my class
thank god she's here with me
and I texted my parents to tell them
I wasn't at school, I was safe
and then my Aunt texted me
"Are you okay?"
She asked what happened
Feb 13

Thank You

Feb 12


Feb 11
poem 1 comment challenge: Say

I Wait Up For You

Feb 06


Whenever I think of you
I think of your illness,
as if it's the only part of you that matters.
I think of how you thought you were shot,
you thought the neighbor was murdered
but he was fine,
you thought you were pulling serpents
out of your head,
you've seen fires that weren't real
and heard threats that weren't uttered.
And I am reminded of the fear I have for you.

But there's also the part of you
that made dinner and
ate with your kids every Sunday night
because they couldn't live with you anymore.
You always wanted the best for them,
you still do.

And you saved Papa that day.
A bull could have killed him
but you stepped in and saved him.
You could have been killed
but you disregarded your own safety to save him.
You'd do it again too.

And when you were in the hospital
you'd call and tell me about
Feb 06


I used to call you stubborn.
There is no doubt that
it is and was
the right word to describe you.
But I said it negatively,
with the tone of voice
equivalent to a sneer.
I said it with malice.
You grew to hate
the word stubborn.
I'm sorry I made you feel this way.
I made you cry
because I didn't like that
you were stubborn enough
to win all our arguments.
I'm sorry.
I'm jealous of the strength
that lies within that stubbornness.
I wish I had some of that strength.
I wish I didn't always give in.
I wish I was stubborn,
just like you.
Jan 13

American Eulogy

I'd only seen it once before.
It was on the way to Boston,
you were taking me to see Wicked.
It was your first time too.
You were supposed to go ten years ago,
but didn't because of her cancer.
It was the ten year anniversary
of her death that month.
For Good played at her funeral.
We were listening to
the original Broadway recording of Wicked
when you started crying.
I wasn't exactly sure why.

Now I understand.
We were listening to 
American Eulogy
and you started crying
because it was so beautiful.
You are the only one I know
that music affects you in that way
and it's beautiful.
You are beautiful.
Jan 08

Written during AP Calculus

I write on my math homework.
Equations are covered with
poetry, song lyrics to musicals,
snippets of conversations,
and phrases my teacher says.

I write on my math notes.
Occasionally copying the words
on the board, but normally,
I dream and turn my dreams
into lines sprawled diagonally
across my paper.

I write on my math.
I'm glad my teacher doesn't
look too close at my paper.
Jan 08