Nov 08
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Harmony

Informed by chaos, 
our feet tickle God’s ground.

I dreamed of a garden last night, 
with big round fruit, 
as red, 
as pink, 
as lips. 

I dreamed of Paris. 
J’ai deux amours:

the universe and myself. 

Harmony is seductive, 
and simple. 

Dance me to the stars 
on cobblestone streets.
 
Nov 08
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Grandma Moon

The moon lives down the lane. I knock on her door when I want to be seen with kind eyes that have watched me become from a neighbor's distance. 

The silver lining of extraordinary times 
is that each night the moon still shines. 

Grandma Moon, 
Mother Moon, 
Moon That Grows in My Belly,

under your pull, I teeter, then sigh, 
for the edge, the universe, 
is as far as it is nigh.

 
Nov 07
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Moments

I just went through Tiny Writes and collected all the haikus I had written. I tried to make a cohesive poem out of them. Can find any common threads weaving the stanzas together? 

The morning lips part
The green grass is briefly wet.
My small lips tighten.

The courageous drum,
filters sunlight through its beat.
I am half awake.

The water crashes,
red and gold drowning in life.
Stomping, I breathe air.

In the pink sheep's eyes
there is something silly and sad:
a helpless waiting.

Honks, whooping humans:
our jubilant homecoming.
The rain is falling.
 
Nov 07
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A Yellow Heart

The rain is falling, 

wet hair, 
wet streets, 
wet flags. 

We whoop, 
splashing mud puddles
with our yellow rubber boots. 

Embroidered on tie dye fabric,
pinned to a telephone poll,
a poem from a hopeful heart:

A better world is possible.
Pass it on.


Contagious Naivety. 

Yellow boots, 
yellow flowers,
and a yellow sun behind the clouds.  
Nov 05
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Immaculate

Everything was immaculate once,

before the streets were swept
before the grass was only green,
and the sun was pushed to a corner. 

Before we labeled the world beautiful to please ourselves,

dawn, 
unassuming, 
knew all that there was. 

I was clean before I showered, 
and shook the dusty rose
from the sky.

I watch the ants build their hill:
stringent order, 
without passion, 
or semblance.  

It soothes my anger for this world
into something cool and tasteless.

Little words fill my mouth 
as I watch the leaves fall.

I breathe. 

Tiny drops of love and hate, 
caressed in the tilting of a wind born maple leaf. 

Immaculate 
and empty, 
I sigh.

 
Nov 04
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Butterflies

Once, when we were very young, we went out to catch butterflies. Your father had given you a butterfly net for your birthday and the early summer air was warm and full of bugs. We walked down the old dirt road. We hopped the fence, charging into the neighbor’s field. We were infatuated with every flower, with the sun and the clouds and the moon we couldn’t see. 

I held your hand, pulling you towards the open sky. I knew then, as we tumbled upward, that I would never let go. Small children know everything. 

My dear, my darling, there are butterflies all around us. Just close your eyes. Smell the grass.  Picture the moon. And let them come.

 
Nov 03
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Pride

I have had a headache all day. 
It throbs with the seconds, 
and headlines.  

I have taken to looking at my toes, 
just to reassure myself that they are still there.

I have been thinking about pride.

It feels like a cold pistol becoming hot, 
like tears right before they stain your coat.  

Proud Boys. 
American Cheese. 
American Flags. 
American Guns 

I am not thinking in numbers, 
or even outcomes, 
just pride. 

Proud Boys. 
Boys. 

They pull their triggers, 
They suppress their tears. 

I have been thinking about vulnerability. 

My female body.
My cis body.
My gay body. 
My white body.

Guns ravage bodies, 
so do tears, 
and poeple, 
and poems, 
and pride.
 
Nov 02
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One Moment at a Time

My tree, with its small gold leaves, is shrouded in mist. The air is cold and thick as it trickles down my throat. It’s hard to breathe in the mornings. I wiggle my toes to keep them warm and pull my dusty blankets to my chin. I listen to music with space between it’s beats. I fill that space with my own quiet tapping: the memory, the anticipation of true rain. Lying dry and rumpled on top of my laundry basket, is a marigold chain. Summer’s celebration clutters my room. I don’t know what to do with myself quite yet. My fingers jitter on the keyboard and the screen hurts my eyes. I drank too much tea. 

I have never been very good at playing chess, 
or constructing plots, 
or lighting candles and telling soft jokes 
that makes you smile.  

I read Howl last night. 
I howled my voice away.

I dipped my fingers into 
the sacred mirror of insanity, 
but the cool water made me shiver. 
Nov 01
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Holding Hands

Sara held her hand and they walked down the street together. I watched them as I sat on a hard city bench, limply clutching a pastry covered in sticky white frosting. Their steps were tense, fragile. Sara’s grip was too tight. 

She’d been crying. I could tell. I wanted her to be free, free of her statue face and Sara’s hand. 

Sara pulled her into a cafe. I saw her grimace. Coffee was too fresh a smell. She wasn’t ready. 

I hated Sara’s hand, Sara’s steps, Sara’s coffee. I hated Sara. I wanted to shed my bench and my greasy pastry, to frolick through fields of flowers. Filled with a vapid, meaningless ache, I remembered the stochastic rhythm of our steps. We were always ready. 

We let our secrets fall to the wet grass like cherry blossoms in a windstorm. Why hadn’t Sara kissed her yet. Sweaty hands are nothing like fresh dew. I tossed my pastry into the garage and brushed the crumbs from my jeans.
Nov 01
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Bloody Solipsism

If my teeth were strong enough, 
I would eat concrete. 

My mouth is full of bloody solipsism 

Jesus told a fig tree to die 
out of pure spite. 

And our hymns sing of compassion
and faith 
as if they were one. 

But we pray to ourselves.
We crack our teeth on concrete.

 

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