Sep 30

painter's sun

you think you know
the color of the sun
until you sit down
to paint it.

you reach for the yellow,
yellow of sunflowers,
of a cliché crayon drawing you did,
a perfect lemon in the top right corner.

but your hand drifts then,
to sparks on the crest of a wave,
to that glimpse of melting iridescence
in a friends’ eye- white.

orange is the bottle you finally seize
to squeeze autumn leaves,
the setting sun over a lake,
onto your impatient palette.

but soon, all those colors
(plus a few more)
and spilled on the canvas
(plus your fingers).

you think you know
the color of the sun
until you realize
you don’t know colors at all.

who else can validate
that your ocean is truly blue,
that your sun is the gold
you’ve always been sure of?

after all,
everything is perception
Sep 17


the stairs don't creak in our new house.

in our old one, they did.
i can't tell you which ones

but if i were to go back,
i have a feeling
my feet
in the same reticent places they used to
(to aviod unwanted attenton)

back when i had something to hide
from anyone

besides myself.

Sep 02

The Boy Who Danced With The Sun

    Once upon a time, in a village like many others, a village who danced and sang, a village with traditions and myths, a village of stories and magic.
    The village was nestled into the crook of a mountains’ arm. It was a charming destination. It was filled with violet-covered wooden cottages and cobblestreet downtowns where people sold eggs and bread. The villagers loved each neighbor dearly. They provided for one another and never let anyone go hungry. Every one of them loved and laughed and sang.
    Except one little boy. He was of fair, dark skin hair and raven’s eyes. Other villagers seemed disinterested with the boy’s blandness, and the feeling was mutual. He was a quiet child who rarely joined in on hopscotch or make-believe. But he was very good at pretending.
Aug 21

lessons from a wannabe god

you would not make a very good god.

gods can do whatever they want,
be whatever they want to be.
but for you, only want one thing.
you want to want.

looking out at hundreds of miles
of mountains, every inch covered
in emerald pine, you want
to be an eagle.
you want to breathe the air
above those pines.
you want to weave in &
out of the wind.
you want to disappear
into the horizon.

& if you were a god,
that is exactly what you'd do.
you'd grow wings as strong
as the mountains themselves
& make a home in those
soft green and brown needles.

but that would not be enough.

i have found
that even the most incredible,
inexplicable things
are better in the imagination.

yes, you
want to fly,
want to escape,
want to be something else,
Jul 01


Musty muggy Washington June evening:
A bedraggled begging man is sitting
on the side of the road, styrofoam cup
in hand, bgging for a way out of his life,
following the people passing by with eyes
like a flyaway receipt caught
in the wake of a speeding taxi.

My sister and I brought over our Mediterranean
leftovers, handed it to him with a smile, expecting a heartfelt
yet hasty thank-you, but no. He met my gaze
with unwavering veracity and crammed
60 years of his history into the minute I stood to listen.

I’m a retired alcoholic (good for you),
but didn’t play my rent this week (oh), it’s alright
but looking to get rid of my possessions, take
this baseball hat, original wizards’ cap (thank you very
muich sir, are you sure-?) yes yes no problem-
er, do you have a dollar for the subway?-
you see, I’m a poet, write for the local paper, I
have a copy, hang on, yes, here-
Jun 04


“excuse me, sir,
but what do you think you’re doing?
that girl is 12.

“how twisted is your mind
that you feel justified
to shout obscene things
at women half your age?

“you have no right
to talk to her that way.
what she does with her body
is her choice
and no matter how much
systematic desensitization
society puts us all through,
it is never ok
to think otherwise.

“no, it’s not a compliment.
a compliment looks like
excuse me, ma’am,
i was casually observing you
and happened to find you
very attractive.
thank you and goodbye.

not this profane BS
you’re trying to pull.

“bet you didn’t think
anyone would contradict you,
so used to using your words
to leave girls standing speechless
staring after you,
what did he just say?
well here it is.
May 20

Hey Politicians

Hey politicians.

Let's talk about something.

It's no longer an elephant in the room.
It's a elephant dancing on the chests of kindergarteners
making them choke for air.

The eyes of America's next generation
are rolling back in their heads
like your cups of tea roll in their saucers
as you sip idly and watch the news.

A sister's name is ment for soft goodnights,
something to slip between burst of laughter.
Not something to scream in terror
because the alarms are going off and you forgot to tell her you loved her.

When we said we wanted to live in a storybook,
we didn't mean some twisted dystopian
where we get shot at while learning.

Maybe you're not seeing clearly
because of all the blood and coins
covering up the truth.

How come we've seen so many "Child Dead" headlines
our minds have built up such an immunity to them
May 16

Unfinished Poetry

i am an unfinished poem,
a scattered collection
of words on a page.

i am a notebook handed back to the poet,
"it's not your best work."

i am the rip in a paper
where a pencil was so enthusiastic
it puncured its only means of communication:
a fleeting white butterfly
retreating so desperately
it breaks its own fragile wings.

i can find myself
in the careless penstroke
that finalizes an abrupt end
halfway through a stanza.

i am the though that flits around
in your head awhile,
the one from a few months back,
the one you knew meant something
but didn't spend enough midnights
figuring out.

i am a flyaway paper,
ripped out of a treasured journal,
too shallow to be kept.

i am an undeveloped metaphor
that doesn't quite make sense
because its meaning was lost
in incompletion.
May 13

for forever

all we see is          light

i can see your smile sometimes
a voice echo
          lounging in the
sundappled forest
          frolicking across a

watch the world pass          by

if you had(n’t gone) let me stay
but you-

it will be          alright

memories are ghosts
on a candlewick’s      f i n g e r t i p s
you always had a way
ofslip    pingthro ughth   ecracks


which way?
whichever way