Jan 04

Many Years Ago

I sat on the couch,
my sisters,
my cousins,
all by my side,
and we laughed,
many years ago.
I was small,
a baby,
then an infant,
playing in the sun,
rolling in mud,
many years ago.
Ah, so many years have passed,
and it may seem like
so much has changed,
but there will always be something to 
hold on to,
to cherish. 
And,
I say this truthfully,
there will always be something 
that returns.
The ability to be close to
one another,
to hug,
to laugh without paper,
without cloth,
catching our every word,
our every breath.
The smell of 
fresh flowers,
of grass,
of heavy rain,
will always come back.
The cold bite of the winter 
will always come back.
Even things that smiled,
that danced,
that made mistakes,
no matter how bad,
many years ago. 
 
Dec 15

More to see

A few days ago,
I sat at a stoplight
in a car,
my elbow propped up against the passenger door.
And
as I stared at the 
pearly white cotton balls
floating in the sky,
a group of birds
flew right by,
almost as if
they were one. 
It was only a moment,
only a small moment,
but even then,
there were so many things to see.
A community traveling
through the blue,
searching for some place warm.
Dancers,
sweeping,
gliding
around the clouds,
around the sun,
the stars.
And as I pictured these things,
I told myself
that even in the smallest of moments,
when everything may seem empty,
blank,
there will always be something,
big or small –
more to see.
Dec 02

Let's hope it stays

Many times,
I have taken a look 
out of my living room window. 
Just a simple glance.
And what I keep seeing,
keep watching,
is the snow.
The white spots of
winter,
of cold,
that dot the sky.
I will watch them in awe and
go to sleep that night with 
happy thoughts,
marvelous thoughts.
But then the next morning,
as I jump off my bed
and race to the glass,
watching my breath fog up
in front of me,
I see no white,
I see no crystals of ice.
Instead,
I see dull grass,
with leaves of brown
scattered around.
It isn't that the world around me is dull,
it is simply that I 
love the white,
I love the cold,
the coziness of a blanket wrapped 
around me,
the tastiness of the cocoa on my tongue. 
But I see no snow.
I see no ice.
And it is now December,
the month of snow,
of cheers,
of songs,
Nov 16

Stories, and why I love them

A few weeks ago,
I stared at a book,
simply the cover of it,
no writing,
no words,
no stories. 
And
I thought to myself,
do I really want to read this?
I told myself that this book 
was known to be amazing,
to be magical, 
to be marvelous,
but yet,
I still found my mind
arguing with itself,
telling it that I won't like this adventure.
This journey.
But then again,
why not?
Why not read something new?
Something different,
something truly exciting,
truly fascinating?
And so I did.
And I really,
thoroughly,
enjoyed it.
Who knew such a thing could
change one's thoughts almost immediately?
Who knew such a thing could change minds,
change ideas,
change lives?
Who knew a simple book could do such a thing?
Except
it isn't really that simple.
It truly isn't that easy
to write a book,
Nov 08

A Sunset in a Stolen Sky

I am reading my book, 
in a flowered rocking chair,
a vast world around me.
And that's when I see it.
Pink,
in a blue sky.
A constantly blue sky.
Perhaps it was taken from the other colors.
Perhaps the blue just wanted to be seen,
to be known,
but it has stolen too much.
It has stolen far too much.
We don't want to look above and find a sea.
We want to look above and find a sky. 
But can we change such things?
No, 
I am afraid,
we can not. 
But that is alright,
because at moments,
at truly particular moments,
you might be lucky enough
to find a sunset,
in this captured,
stolen sky.

 
Oct 20

You Only Get One- 2020 Presidential Election

You only get one vote.
You only get one counted opinion.
You can rant and try to make people believe whatever,
but in the end, 
every person gets one chance.
One chance to have a definite say in this election.

Let me tell you something
before this day arrives.
This country is living,
surviving,
rejoicing at some moments 
and maybe not so much at others. 
We must keep it that way,
make it better, if anything.
If we are granted the ability
to work together and choose one person
who leads us,
who helps us,
who affects us,
who fights for us,
our country,
our world,
don't you think they must deserve it?
Don't you think they need to know
what will help when things have gone bad,
when things are drowning us as a country?
Don't you think they need to have a plan,
or at the very least an idea,
of how to support our world?
Our home?
Oct 11

Amongst the Willows

A chilly day in October,
a brisk wind blows,
and I linger by a small bunch of willows.

I stare at the green and sandy yellow leaves
cascading around the sides. 
I marvel at the strong,
hearty trunks. 

How beautiful they are,
how magnificent.
Doesn't it seem like there must be something else,
lurking amidst the creeping branches? 
Hiding in the hollows of the emerging,
milky brown roots? 
Could there truly be something,
someone,
watching from afar,
waiting,
amongst the willows? 

Ah, 
if only I could see,
if only I could hear,
whatever lies beyond,
perhaps behind,
these great beings. 

If only I could find out,
what is awaiting my arrival,
amongst the willows. 

Many times I hope,
I dream,
of retrieving the answer
to my question.
The answer to my pondering. 

Whatever could possibly live,
Oct 07

A penny a poem

I walk by, 
hardly even noticing the girl.
In fact, 
it seems as if no one truly realizes she's there. 
She holds a large stack of papers in her hands,
waiting for at least one to be taken.
Her voice doesn't yell,
but calls out words that I haven't heard much before.
"Poems! Poems! A penny, a poem!"
Her face looks not defeated, 
but sadly hopeful. 
I itch to go over and read them,
to experience the words, 
the stories,
the lives,
that are given to the poems. 
But I don't. 
For some reason, 
I don't. 

That night, 
I dream of reading the poems,
reading the lines,
whether sorrowful,
or exciting. 
I decide something as my eyes
softly close.

The next morning,
I rush out to the street,
scanning the crowd of people,
searching for what I desire.
Writing. 
The girl stands on the side once again,
calling out her words.
Sep 30

It's the little things

I sit watching the dancing flames
rejoice. 
They have finally come to life.
I could be watching the screen,
watching the characters,
admiring everything around me,
but I watch the tiny fire
and think,
"It's the little things."

An evening in the grass,
thousands of stars above,
performing for us,
shimmering for us,
but my eyes are stuck on a cricket,
a cricket who is singing the
most amazing melody.
And I think to myself,
"It's the little things."

I walk slowly through the town,
waving to friends,
smiling at trees,
waiting for amusement.
A large plot of land 
holds a carnival as I linger by,
and I am tempted to join the fun,
but a butterfly with the prettiest of wings
bounces by, 
learning to fly high,
and I can't help but think,
"It's the little things."
Sep 03

Unsilenced words

A day at school,
a boy who remains quiet
sits at his desk,
awaiting the other kids,
who choose to hurt.

They approach him,
spitting bitter words that people have heard,
and the boy stays silent.

He wants to stand up.
He wants to become bigger than them,
better than them,
and he wants to yell.

He wants to yell the unknown,
unsilenced words,
that are small but mighty.

He wants them to stop,
but the boy refuses to hurt anyone.

So when he gets home that night,
he thinks about all of the words that
have gone astray,
the ones that have been buried,
walked upon,
and simply,
so very simply,
the child takes their silence away.

At school the next day,
the boy watches kids appear at his desk,
but he doesn't stay down.

He stands up,
and before they are able to say anything,
the boy begins to yell

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