Oh, to be mist on a rainy day, 
to embrace the mountains and drift away,
to curl and float above a lake,
and revel in the rising sun’s wake

and oh, to sweep, in silken waves
through untouched woods and cities paved,
to kiss the treetops, soaring high,
and wreath the shoulders of passersby

and oh, how sweet to simply be,
to set the scene for mystery,
to take a place, once sad and dull,
and make it seem more magical.

Have you ever imagined growing up to be a star?
Singing, dancing, posing in front of a car?
The cameras flashing everywhere you go.
Being watched as if you were a show. 
Go put on your makeup; it will make you look better.
Why don’t we just go back to sending by letter?
Crying on the floor because people see you as dumb.
Receiving comments that make you feel numb.
You think you will turn out like everyone believes,
But in reality, they are the thieves. 
They tell you to look like this and that,
But really they just want something to look at.
You may see yourself as a star, 
But others don’t see you making it that far. 
You may feel ever so free,
But it turns out that you may never flee. 
This media then takes a wild turn.
The exit says, “No point of return.”
People are calling you names and say you look bad.
You are just focused on if you should wear plaid. 

I travel in ambiguity
lost in metaphors

running over nouns and loose participles
rushing through commas

dodging question marks
scraping the sides of parentheses

not slowing down for paragraphs
or stopping for periods

skidding on dashes
leaving quotation marks all over

crashing into exclamation points
losing all content at the colon 

colliding into a word block— 
I’m stuck in gerunds

 

    Jon walked home from the grocery store, the brown paper bag heavy in his frail hands. He hardly went out anymore. When he did he studied the empty houses on his street, a ghost of the friendly neighborhood he had known as a young man.

    Jon put the cucumber in the fridge and wondered if it too would grow rotten with neglect. He settled into his recliner and turned on the tv. A game show, mute because the sound made his head hurt. A family was jumping around, hugging each other, they must have won something.

I wish for apple skin sunsets for you,
and may the fairies bless you with blueberry stars,
a bruised hue of battered pride and midnight.

Lined with lace, the conjurings of our tastebuds 
and cool sink water on fingertips as I write.

I've never been good at stitching, but I take the tiny
hotel kits and sew red buttons onto my desk
the two extras that came with the new coat Grandma
bought me last Chinese New Years.

My hair is tangled into forget me knots
Was I supposed to remember, or were they?
The flowers are just pretty now, if we both forgot anyway.

Ergo, we fancy ourselves philosophers as the bathtub drains
and consider how we know we're sentient, if knowing is enough.

I can feel the tears on my cheeks, see God
pinching a pipette to drop it hastily on my cheek
while my eyelashes flicked closed for a century, a second.

I step through the door
into the dark of the night's chill.
My feet crunch when they meet
the soft gravel of the driveway.

As I walk, my fingers trace
the edges of the envelope I hold
in my right hand.
The wind swirls quietly through my hair.

Out of curiosity, I let my eyes
climb the treetops to the darkened sky,
where a smattering of shining stars
are misted, pricking through the navy blue canvas.

The blinking red light of a plane
throbs as it inches across the sky
closing in on its destination.
An owl hoots from somewhere deep in the woods.

My feet hit pavement and
I've suddenly reached
the end of the driveway.
The stars shine bright enought to illuminate the yellow lines.

I cross in four strides, 
and walk to the mailbox
where I slip my envelope inside,
sealed for delivery.

As I pop the red flag up,

I am from the cold of the true north to the warmth of the land of the free. From the Ottoman Empire to the Egyptian Pharaohs. 

I am from the beautiful sights and sounds from my balcony. The sound of rustling leaves from deer to the wake-up call from the birds, to the squirrels fighting. 

I am from the long, long hikes on sizzling summer days to the frosty winter nights wrapped around in the heaviest blanket.

I am from wearing shorts and sandals over at the Mediterranean to wearing two coats, snowpants, winter boots, a scarf, hat, and mittens in the cold, freezing winters of Vermont.

I am from the beautiful foliage and snow on the trees in the “Green Mountains” to the dead trees over in the Sahara.
 
I am from the days to weeks to months that I would travel to Egypt to the days, weeks, and months of where I only could travel around my home.