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.
Jan 14

The final chapter

Chapter 5: Cora

I know death like the rough of my tongue. I have crossed the atlantic on a dinghy, with my six children, meant for five people. I have given birth. I have held my husband in my arms as he said his final word, after being shot in a riot in the streets of our home. I am no stranger to suffering. But now here i am in the nearest hotel to my nursing home, where all my fellow patients are located. Our nursing home has just burnt to the ground. A small thing, a mere candle in the meditation room, caught the cloth and in less then an hour smoke poured from every window. Luckily no one was hurt, but the place where all my belongings and home was, is now gone. Ashes to the wind. They are now coals still so hot I could boil my morning tea over them. My nurse, Amanda Beth, tells me my family is coming to get me. She thinks I may be happy at this but my family are the reason I'm here. They didn't believe in me when I needed trust. they let me down...
Jan 13


The bright lights of the high way look like fireflies,
the darkness flushing them to and fro as if by a fan.
13 was always a lucky number, breathing along side life.
bristling when time is of telling.
Every person has a story.
It's been said before and I will say it again,
every person has a story.
You cannot know a person for their color, eye shape or body,
only for the secrets and stories they hold within their human bodies.
Some stories may not want to be heard,
some people may not want to hear them,
but all stories need to be heard.
You cannot truly love something or someone unless you know them.
because you shouldn't love something for it's color, shape or beauty,
but of course... everything that is not hateful is beautiful.
Even despair and pain and death because there is no light without darkness,
When the clouds unclench their fists and let the rain fall freely.
Jan 13

a Haiku Collection

dark red fills goblets
staining the white table cloth
they do not drink wine

a hat is a friend
someone who will keep you warm
sometimes hats are lost

stories thrive through dark
there is no dark without light
fill the sunshine cup

the purple blossoms
where no breathing being has been
dance in the lush weeds

Jan 11

Rooted Red

Roots stretch like spiderweb cracks across this land.
Will there ever be a time when roots are not fractured?
Our roots may be the things that end us.
Pride and ignorence will drive everthing else
over the
Oh to be a nomad traveling to the bounds of this world,
not having to choose here or there.
never wavering from the path of the wanderer.
Do not kill the explorer inside you for your ancester's place.
You do not have to be the wartorn country you were raised in,
you do not have to be the guns knocking on wood,
you can just be the all...
and everyone's heart will follow.
Jan 07

She's Got a World Inside of Her

She's got a world inside of her,
one without red coke cans littering the road,
and where the smoke and mirrors are really
tear gas and pools of blood.

She's got a world inside of her,
one without tools of metal made only to kill,
and advertisement boards every mile.

She's got a world inside of her,
one without cruel words and piercing cries,
and the streets laden with the homeless and deathly.

She's got a world inside of her,
one without walls and borders of hate,
and cities clogged with distrust and isolation.

She's got a world inside of her,
where hands are meant to hug instead of hit,
and feet are meant to travel instead of kick.

She's got a world inside of her,
where waists are meant for dancing instead of shrinking,
and lips are meant for kissing and truth instead of curses.

She's got a world inside of her,
Jan 06
poem 0 comments challenge: CJP-Iran

Cut Your Losses

So many people
the line between our losses and theirs
is beginning to blur.
Cut Your Losses
they say (to us)
Go Home
they say (to them)
as if where they are
is not their home.

How many lifeboats
will it take to cross
this ocean of hate?
Will there be
Cut Your Losses
they say (to us)
Go Home
they say (to them)
as if where they are
is not where they have always been.

I stand
with they who are mourning
that may wish me gone.
I do not hate because hating gets you nowhere.
I only wish peace on their inner journey.
Tonight I will wish on a star
for everyone.
Jan 02

Return of The Raven

(this is the poem I wrote the very second the clock read 12:00 on new years eve.)

Fire crackers go perfectly with the
moon cheese and the spicy pepperoni snow.
Listen to the unspoken voices unable to reason with the silence.
Passion is the only way to welcome
this year of creativity into our lives.
Through the crossover I write because writing is the only
way to welcome my particular new year.
Bring in the light, push to the side, the curtains of dark,
and let the light of a new day fall onto us.
The light of solstice has brought us
through the long night of winter.
Celebrate light... and darkness. For without darkness,
there would be no light.
Only a hazy shade of everything that covers
us in a fine layer of unimportance.
Plants are sleeping, when they raise their heads
from their beds of earth's breast,
the new year will have come and thrived through