Apr 05

To Be Mistaken

We make mistakes.
I do,
you do. 
Our entire world does.
But a mistake
is more than what simply meets the eye.
A mistake
could be a misunderstanding.
A mistake
could be unspoken truths. 
It is to be wrong,
it is to be mistaken.  
To be mistaken is to be questioned.
To be mistaken is to be changed. 
It is to have to speak to others,
to have to use words,
actions,
and explain. 
Explain how this happened,
explain why.
To be mistaken is to be taught,
about right,
about wrong,
about differences and similarities.
To be mistaken is to be helped,
through good or bad,
through smiles or sorrow.
To be mistaken
is to be 
so many things.
Excluded,
explained,
and eventually,
forgiven. 
 
Mar 16

As the sun dances

This morning,
this beautiful,
cool,
refreshing morning, 
I sat down in
a red recliner.
I sat,
and I wrote. 
My hands were typing,
while my eyes lingered
to the window,
the window that shielded me from harm,
but at the same time,
led me to watch, 
to discover.
I couldn't see the sun,
the cheerful sun,
the smiling sun,
but I saw the trees.
I saw the trees,
with the sunlight
shining on the tops of them,
like a spotlight.
I saw how,
so very gradually,
the sunlight faded away,
near the bottoms.
And, 
as the day moved along right in front of me,
I saw how everything,
the trees,
the homes,
the dew-dropped grass, 
got covered
in sunlight.
How wonderful
to be able to watch such a thing happen.
How magnificent
to be able to watch
as the sun dances.
Mar 08

Tangerine Moon


One night,
one sweet,
silent night,
I looked up at the sky.
I saw stars,
brighter than ever,
and the moon.
On that night,
as I lay in bed,
my eyes threatening 
to close,
threatening to darken the world
with my very own lids,
I turned my head to the window, 
as the sunset was taken 
to be watched,
to be guarded,
by the tangerine moon. 
How beautiful,
how mysterious,
this night was,
for it wouldn't be
so wonderful,
without this
gorgeous,
mystical,
tangerine moon.
Why would it want
to take the sunset
away from us?
Why would it want to 
keep such a thing,
such a wondrous thing,
to itself?
Perhaps it cares so deeply for it,
perhaps it wouldn't want it to be hurt,
by these billions of pairs of eyes. 
These eyes,
who wish to see
magnificent things.
These eyes,
Mar 01

When I Think of Spring

March 1st.
The time has almost come,
when animals,
plants,
will awake from their slumbers. 
The time has almost come,
when honeybees will 
dance around the flowers,
making me inch so shyly away.
The time has almost come,
for spring.
Spring.
When I think of spring,
I see colors. 
Millions of
brilliant colors,
not painting,
but flooding the world,
in the most delicate way. 
When I think of spring,
I see people strolling
down my street,
smiling.
When I think of spring,
I see new beginnings,
new hope,
for the sun will rise 
every day,
greeting us with light,
greeting us with warmth.
When I think of spring,
I see one of the best,
most wondrous things
that I could ask for.
Opening my eyes and
noticing the life,
the fun,
the beauty,
from outside of 
my window,
winking,
Feb 15

Those Summer Days

Those summer days,
when my sister and I 
played tag outside. 
Those summer days,
when we sat in the grass,
watching the trees.
Watching them sway,
watching them dance,
to the wind.
As if they were putting on a play,
a performance,
just for us,
only for us.
Those summer days,
when the tall,
strong but still elegant
pine
in our backyard,
would stand,
beaming as my sister 
crawled her way to the top, 
looking down at me,
wishing that I had the guts
to do the same.
Those summer days,
when this tree would watch over,
when it would protect,
our lost animals. 
This tree, 
it did us wonders,
and it still does.
It still dances,
it still breathes,
it still lives,
it still loves.
It still gives us splinters,
cuts, 
bruises, 
but isn't it worth it?
Isn't it worth it to take a little pain,
Feb 15

Those Who Don't

There are so many lives,
so many stories,
of those who love,
those who laugh. 
There are so many people who
decide to do good 
and become known. 
So many people who have 
voices,
songs
that they love to share.
And there are those who have nothing. 
There are those who speak words, 
just to say something.
There are those who cry,
just to be pitied. 
There are those who smile
but are never truly happy.
What can we do,
what can we believe,
to help anyone have an opinion, 
to make anyone known, 
to make anyone heard? 
What can we do,
for those who don't
truly speak?
What can we do,
for those who don't
truly live?
 
Jan 24

When the Flowers Sing Sweetly

During the most wondrous of days,
when the sun shines 
its brightest,
I will dance.
I will dance,
I will sing,
I will write and play,
while the flowers
in the meadow
sing so sweetly. 
I will listen to their songs,
their cries,
their whispers of not gossip,
but dreams.
I will sit in the grass,
no matter how ticklish,
I will let the dirt submerge my feet,
while the flowers sing sweetly. 
And,
once spring has drifted away,
as if on a small,
hushed canoe,
I will wish the flowers a 
comfortable sleep,
as they sing their last song.
I will watch them go,
anxious about the year ahead without them,
and will prepare for their marvelous petals,
their lovely words,
and I will listen once again,
when the flowers sing sweetly. 
Jan 12

For the Sky Was Gray

Yesterday,
I wandered the halls of my home,
waiting for something to happen.
Anything,
really,
anything at all,
but the time never came.
I waited restless moments,
restless hours, 
until a thought came to mind.
I could take a walk,
perhaps,
and breath in the sky of blue,
I could greet the frosty clouds. 
But,
when I opened the door to
the world,
I decided to stay home instead,
for the sky was gray.
I had known that this was true,
but I simply couldn't believe myself. 
Everything around me,
the ground,
the trees,
the air,
was so beautiful,
so magnificent,
and yet,
I still found myself disappointed,
upset,
frustrated,
for the sky was not sunny,
it was not a mirror of the sea,
but gray.
Simple,
some might say.
Dull,
some might say.
And, 
at this moment,
I was saying the same things.
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.

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