Oct 12

The Feat of Optimism


I had chamomile tea
but your feet were cold

My leaves had been tentatively watched
as they fell
but yours had gone unnoticed, 
somehow distracted by the breeze

My pot had boiled;
yours refusing to, had simmered
carefully heating 
as the stars went down,
slowly swirling behind your eyelids

My frost had melted:
thoughtfully sliding
down the slick blade of grass
while yours was trampled 
by excited, happy feet

My basket was missing an egg 
but yours was half full;
already optimistic about the world

My throat ached 
but your toes were without tea 
Oct 06

Runaway

My heart
had never fluttered 
this fast before.

I ran through the crowd on the platform,
sneaking through gaps in legs
or under arms.

I made it to train number three just in time.
I took the cold metal railing
in my hand
as I hoisted my body onto the small platform
between cars
and then with my worn pack in one hand, 
I pushed the steel door open with my other. 

I slid into the closest empty seat
I found and pressed a hand to my chest,
sucking in shaky breaths.

I thought about you waiting for me
on the PennStation platform 
your shoes worn and muddy
from the hectic streets of New York City
but your overwhelming smile never fading.
My heart raced faster, if that was even possible,
and I closed my eyes.

I had made it here, alone.
I had planned for months
in a brown cardboard notebook
I had shoved under my mattress
Oct 01

Mountain Sunset

Sep 22

News

Sep 22

Morning Poem

Fog woke me 
that morning. 

He crept in my 
open window,
stiring me from my rest. 

He did nothing more than 
than soothe me:
dreams sometimes were frightening.

I knew he must 
leave soon for sun 
was waking and she didn't like company,
but he would be back. 

As soon as the moon
was half way in the sky
he would come; 
I would leave the window open.
 
Sep 18

Today, It Snowed Milkweed

I crouched in the field
just below the grass line ; 
the scratchy strands itching my bare feet 
and then,
I saw it.

The stalk 
was just out of arms reach
and slowing to the end of its life;
brown pods sprouted off the top
creating the effect of a miniture corn stalk.

I pulled one from the dying stem 
and cradled it gently in my palm.
Then, without pause 
I dug my fingertips
into the heart ot the pod,
the soft snow of the seeds 
exploding into the slight breeze 
and drifting lazily along.

I scooped 
the remaining seeds onto my hands,
dropping the empty pod to the matted grass
and held them high,
like an offering to the wind gods. 

They took off,
twirling and dancing in the winds 
that twisted my hair
around my face,
tickling my cheeks
and drifting into my eyes.

A picture of you
Sep 16

Bus Poetry


She sits 
on the gray vinyl 
seat of the bus, alone like always,
pushed up against the cool glass window
some how finding comfort
in cold.

She is bent over a lined piece of paper,
hair covering her glittering
brown eyes 
in a vail of dirty blonde 
curls.

She mumbles to herself,
barely audible 
over the hum and chatter 
of the bus,
but still I hear her.

The words fall from her lips 
like a song 
beautifully crafted and mysterious,
making me pause for a moment
and drink them up.

The raw truth of the words
striking me as pure honesty 
and sending me into a silent moment of contemplation
on slowly uttered bus poetry. 
Sep 14

Star Capture


When you were younger
we would lay in the grass 
and admire the stars for a while.

You would splay your fingers
until they were open wide,
like colorful fans 
displayed in the stands 
along the cobblestoned streets 
and hold them to the sky
like a net holding the constellations
in their place.

You would reach 
for the sky as if
you could pull
the shinning stars from it
and cup your hands as if 
you had a live creature between 
your palms.

The star creature
would gently be brought 
to your lips 
and then,
you would swallow it,
making your eyes shine
with delight 
and a small giggle
escape your mouth. 

"I ate a star." 
you would whisper; 
rolling onto your side to look at me,
your brown hair falling into your eyes
and I, along with you, truly believed it. 
Sep 12

The Borrowed Flavor of a Library Book

"Careful!" The colorful cover would scream at you, 
"Don't drop me, I'm not yours you know." 

And you would carefully contemplate 
the damages that could come to this jewel
before gently shoving it to the bottom of your pack
alongside all of the other much-loved 
notebooks.

Because, you knew 
there was nothing worse 
than the sour taste of a librarian's scolding
on your tongue the rest of the day;
you knew there was nothing worse 
than the bitter bite 
of a battered book. 
 

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