Oct 09

Cilantro flowers

I know they were only
a waste of space in the garden
kept the cilantro from
growing longer,
better sitting on our
kitchen table anyways
but somehow these little white flowers in a mason jar
fill up an empty space inside me
with warmth and happiness and
something that feels
like a smile.

I know it only
took moments to
snip scissors across the stems
slip the severed pieces into
a jar of water
but weeks and weeks after those
flowers lived on our table,
I can still recall them –
the clusters of tiny white blossoms
thin green stems, blurry behind
the words engraved across the jar
as though they’re still there, bright as ever.

and I know they were tiny
were easy to find a spot for
among the plates, the silverware, the clutter of the hundred things I need to put away –
but these flowers sparked something bigger and they took me back
Sep 23

me and words

Some days, the words don't fit.
Some days you can
try on any combination, make every adjustment possible,
but they'll only slip off into a
pile of fragments and bits of attempted sentences, abandoned descriptions.
Some days, there just is
no way to tie them together into
something that sounds right.
Some days, words fail you.

But I think for me, some days, it's
the other way around.
Not the words' fault, but my own.
I try to fit them together, but
my fingers are too big, too rough, to fumble them into meaning.
I pluck words from my brain, but not the right ones.
I pull out the wrong weeds, don't slow down and
take the time to
just look for a minute
realize this
wasn't what I wanted.

The words were there.
It was me who failed them.
Sep 23
poem 2 comments challenge: RBG

what if

i don’t have a flag to fly half-mast
i don’t have the words to say i miss you
i don’t have the mind to fully grasp
the fact that you won’t be with us from
here on out.

i never took the time to
research you
i knew you were amazing, but i
never quite learned why
i couldn’t quote you past I dissent (if I even
knew what a dissent was)
couldn’t explain to you why you were so important,
why we’ll miss you
so, so much.

i know i don’t get it.
i knew who you were, but not why you mattered.
i haven’t wept over the fact that you’re gone
i try to write a poem, but what if it’s only because
i think i should, because
i didn’t start writing it until there
was already a challenge asking for it?
and what if these words can’t reach you
reach anyone
what if they don’t say anything better
than the tiniest half-hearted thanks?
Sep 17

backwards hi's

Every time I shower
I take my finger to the sliding doors
pull away water from the surface,
spelling out "HI"
in messy streaks on the wet glass.

Really, though, I write "IH":
backwards for me so it's the right way for
the someone reading from
the other side.

Really, though,
as far as I know,
there is
never has been
a someone.
And I know it's childish,
know it's silly
but I can't stop writing "IH,"
keep spelling out backwards words on the shower doors

and the someone that there never has been keeps not-answering.

Every time I start my shower,
on the sliding doors are
the remnants of
last shower's backwards greeting
more faint than last time
unanswered
unseen
but still there.
Sep 11

Back again

It's all the same.

The decorated paper leaves from last year are still full of
photos of our maskless faces.

You still pull the orange lever for
the emergency eyewash fountain in science.

The we the future posters still adorn the walls, though,
then we didn't know –
had no clue at all –
what our future would be.

The board in Spanish class is still dated to
Lunes, el 16 de marzo
(but the 17th was really
too surreal to be dated.)

The weekly calendar in ELA still says,
NO SCHOOL on
Wednesday, Thursday, Friday in
neat dry erase marker
(but if there'd been space, you really
could dry out that marker writing out
all the days we
weren't there.)

Somewhere, somehow, time realized we
couldn't keep up, so it stopped,
froze,
waited patiently, continuing with only the hope that
we'd be back someday.
Sep 10
poem 0 comments challenge: Sunset

sunset from the balcony

The balcony in her room was
perfect for watching the sunset.
Every night, she stood and
leaned on the metal bars
a silhouette against the sky, watching it
explode in the most miraculous of ways,
colors deepening and streaking and blending
transforming the sky; transforming
the many souls who gazed out at the sky in its most glorious moments.
And she smiled.
She was happy.

But she dreamed of more. She dreamed she
wasn't the only one out there on the balcony in the late evening; dreamed
someone was there with her
two silhouettes against the sky
watching the beauty beyond them
silent
but together.
And in the dream, they'd smile at each other.
They'd be happy.

But the world didn't work for her and
times were hard and
her dreams never came true
but the sun still rose and set
and she watched it alone
still beautiful
still mesmerizing
Aug 26
poem 0 comments challenge: Up

dreaming and flying

some days
I look up
and the sky stretches wide over the world I call home
bigger than anything my brain can
conjure up in the middle of the night when nothing keeps it from dreaming

and it doesn't end, because
no one doubted it and said it had to
no one told it
to look where it was going
to pace itself as it
raced into the unknown
to stop and think and breathe for a minute

no, it just
kept going and going and now it's up above me
and I keep staring
up
up
up
at this world of perfect blue
and I dream

what if one day I
couldn't help myself, and I

drifted up
from the sidewalk, and I

soared into that blue where
no one could stop me, and I

stared down at a left-behind world
full of tiny people that I wasn't a part of anymore, because I

broke free and
Aug 07

tangled words

There was a time when my fingers hit the black-and-white keyboard and
words flowed out in swirling colors.
Beautiful.
Magical.

A time when those colorful words
laced
wove
intertwined.
Like hands, finding one another and
squeezing tight.
Like vines with tiny pink flowers, scattered in
just the right places.

A time when they fit with one another
and I read them and I smiled, because they all
clicked together
worked
no mistakes, everything where it was
meant to be.
Neat
Perfect.

But someone went and
rearranged my sentences
sucked the color from my words,
pulled their hand away from mine,
plucked every flower from my vines of poetry
leaving my words hanging.
Limp.
Tangled.
Mussed up.

I look back and I
swallow and I
know that someone was me, and I
look at all the words, and I
Aug 06

Petals

Aug 05

tears

On days when the thought of
being a ceiling to the world for any longer feels
impossible,
the sky cries.

On days when the clouds have hidden who
she thought she was and she
wonders if she was ever the
perfect blue everyone wanted her to be,
the sky cries.

On days when nothing goes right and
everyone is too far away to listen and
she feels too heavy with sorrow,
the sky cries, and she crys so hard
so much
because some days,
sunshine doesn't come easily
and she wants to give up, but
she isn't allowed to so
she cries and cries and
cries like a fallen child with a scraped knee.
She cries.

But unlike the scraped knee,
no one cares.
Her tears are an
inconvenience, and it's her fault that
field day was cancelled,
that the lights won't turn on
that their favorite shirt is wet.
Her tears are unlucky,

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