Poetry

I wish you would just punch me

It would wake me from this spell

The one that makes me think 

That maybe there’s a chance 

That you and me can be something

The winter sleep is finally done,
The world wakes up to greet the sun.
With yellow, pink, and vibrant blue,
The flowers bloom in shades anew.

The white tree

Hung down over the churchyard

The churchyard was the porch

The white was from the snow

The grave was the circle

How beautiful!

The way it blooms

red juice dripping from

ripened fruit:

her eyes, black velvet

silver on her nails

a mouth that curls

when it says my name.

What desire! I inhale her mind

My family made of scraps

Garbage and hot glue

Lost and tired trash

Came together to make new

To others we are strange

A jumbled sort of mess

I met you in the Spring

Under aging oak

The world seemed to stop

Whenever you spoke

I met you in the Spring

Over shaded flowers

Why do you care?

It’s not even your fight

You’ve never had to suffer

From these people’s plight

What a strange thing to ask.

I am not a god / But the tales that spin from my /orb-weaver mouth flash, flash, / flash like the scales of the / spotted bass and the mud / between my toes is filled / with rich nutrients and the / alligator stalks the edge of / the riv

Once upon a time,

In a place not far from here

A kid composed a rhyme

That you really wanna hear

“Hello to the redwoods

Hello to the bees

there is nothing

as pure as

sitting

in near-darkness

soft fabric beneath you

and a fire dying by your side

feeling fat drops of salt water

course down your face

The kitchen light is way too bright,
I’m staring at my plate,
My mother’s talking ‘bout her day.
I try to nod, I try to smile,
To be the girl she knows,
But suddenly the floorboards fade,

they arrive like guests

unannounced

uninvited

but welcome

as if they were never gone at all

soft spoken creatures

draped in pale pink

like secrets almost told

they do not bloom loudly