Feb 07

Lobby Day at VT Statehouse with Mother Up! and Climate Caucus

Jan 31

Peace Song For The 21st Century

noun: peace; noun: the peace.
freedom from disturbance; tranquility.
a state or period in which there is no war or a war has ended.

Peace is a song played upon an evening guitar for everyone,
peace is a song splaid across a keyboard,
peace is a song trickled on morning toast by a flute,
peace is a song bristled on the quills of adventure,
peace is a song tapped upon he floor by dancing shoes,
peace is a song mapped across the spread sheet of this world.

Peace is a song nobody seems to know the words to anymore,
a song America hasn't bothered to learn.
A song I've taught myself, every night, listening to notes and tunes.
A song welling up on the edges of my brain,
expanding on the forethought of tomorrow.
A song that has never been played on a radio or earbuds,
a song that has been stuck in my head ever since I felt an act of hate,
Jan 25
poem 0 comments challenge: Wishes

My Three Wishes

Jan 21

Here, fix this

"Here, fix this,"
they say, handing out the homework.
I stare at the world – er, worksheet.
This is a problem I can't solve alone.
The world is heating.
What am I supposed to do?
The oceans are rising.
What am I supposed to do?
Species are dying.
What am I supposed to do?
We are dying ...
What am I supposed to do?
I raise my hand,
"What are we supposed to do?"
The billionaire – er, teacher looks up.
"Fix it."
Nobody is working.
We are all solemnly staring at
our world – er, worksheet.
It's quiet.
I can hear the clock ticking away
the seconds we have left.
The CEOs – er, teacher tells us to hand them in.
I am the last to hand mine in.
I notice no one wrote anything on theirs.
We sit down.
I raise my hand again.
"What was the answer?"
The president – er, teacher looks startled.
He doesn't say anything.
"Never mind,"
Jan 21

Time Capsule of Jan 2020

I wrote this poem for my younger brother, he's turning eleven today, I'm so proud of him.

Inhale as you listen to the heartbeat of the world.
Be quiet, if you are hiding, do not make noise.
Listen to me now, I do not care if you are loud.

Hold hands with the floor as she tips her angle,
breathe in the trees while you still can,
become courageous in the lion's roar,
do not throw at stone at your reflection.

Marvel at the fact that you are living.
You breathe air.
You walk upon the earth.
You feel.

Marvel at the fact that you can see.
This world unfolded out before you.
Brightness and color,
surrounding your body.
You have dreams.

Marvel at the fact that you have hands.
You can bend them,
make beautiful things with them,
cradle with them,
outstretch them.

Now become delirious with the fact that you are breathing.
Jan 19

A Conversation Between Forgiving Lovers

She looks away.
As she does she breaks more then just our eye contact.
Years of building up this heart,
she is taking it part piece by piece.

I look away.
I don't know if it's over,
but something has shattered between us.
Years I been burning down my bridges,
now how can I put them back together?

I pull my hands away.
If this is goodbye, I don't want to ever say hello again.
Everything is still there,
but why isn't she?

He pulls his hands away.
He doesn't want this, the pain is too much for him...
Everything is still here, laid out on a table,
I don't know which knife to use.

I can hear her heartbeat.
It sounds like a grasshopper's inhale.
Impatient, first love, impossible.
I want to reach out and hold it.

I can hear my heartbeat.
As if darkness and light had a child,
Impossible, first love, impatient.
Jan 16

Ode To Being Here

You are the word tugging at the tip of my tongue,
a word some would call love
but what I call survival.
(which, of course, are the same thing)

You are a droplet in a thousand oceans

You are the word holding my hand, pulling me toward you,
a word some would call young
but what I would rather call contemporary.

You are one feather on a blue bird, an unnoticed one I think.

You are the word thump, thump, thumping in my chest,
a word some would call a heartbeat
but what I know is love.

You are a shattered wine glass, spilling everything
that once made you anything onto me,

You are the word looking into my eyes
rather than straight out tell me it's loves me,
a word some would call shyness
but what I always knew was devotion.

You are a sound often mistaken for tinkling bells.

You are the word kissing me as if
it were the only way to exist,
Jan 15

The Love Ballad I Told You I Would Never Write

Some days I wonder why I love you.
and then I wonder, does that make it NOT love?
and then, if it's NOT love.. what could it be?

My feelings are cluster of unacquainted people,
no one is talking and no one seems to want to.
These are the days when I've been reading overly
dramatic novels and feel like my life is utterly ordinary.

But then I see your face again and

You are still the little boy I met in the sandbox oh so long ago,
you are still the boy who gave me that stupid plastic purple gem,
you are still that person... your eyes still look at me the same way,
asking questions I don't have the answers to.

You are still the boy who squeezed my hand harder
then anyone else's when theater was over,
you are still the boy who asked me if I would like to walk
downtown with him on the last day of school,
Jan 14


I am the sunblock caked into the crevasses of my skin,
I am the shock of lightning that bursts through my veins,
I am the sun licked shoulders stinging fretfully,
I am the sweet caress of the wind whirling the
thoughts of this will end someday away,
I am the grit of the sand stuck in my shoes,
I am the full day of sunshine
boxed away to be opened on a cloudy day.
I am the heat of the core reflecting on a well worn face,
weathered beautifully by time.

I am a girl of flowers,
a rose beginning to bloom,
a poppy swaying in the breeze,
a lily begging for room.
I am a girl of heat,
a sun lighting up the home,
a vein pulsing with lava,
sunshine brushed out by a comb.
I am a girl of waters,
a river passing by,
a lake of quiet stillness,
a ocean of tears to cry.
I am a girl of summer,
windows all the way down
rolling in the lush green grass,
Jan 14

When Morning

When the folds of blue have finally colored
themselves sunset and captured Selfies and hearts.
When the moon paints her marbles silver and rolls
them across the floor of the sky for earth to
look at as she drifts off into her realm of dreams.

When people have tucked their spawn beneath blankets
and sheets, promised morning and flicked off the lights.
When the bloodshot sky clots around the horizon and
commands us to call her dawn, whispering to her
armies of trees to not move when they can be seen.

When the flowers return to their plots and gardens from
their late bars and night clubs, and pretend to wake
up from a deep slumber as if to fool us.
When light is spread over our land like honey on morning toast,
it looks like a road, or many roads rather, all pointing to the west,
telling us we will find yesterday's sun but not where we expect it to be.