It is a terrible thing when 

democracy

kindness

peace

is taken away.

I think it must be almost worse when that pain becomes dull a 

Bruise

That won’t go away.

It has been nighttime for so long

That looking for stars is rhythmic 

And sometimes we have a full moon

/more hope

And just like that it’s a new moon

Once again

/gone

And we all carry around flashlights.

but stars can’t guide us forever

And my flashlight is flickering.

there is something about those eyes that kept me chained to this love

for they seemed to be the first that I couldn't see right through

as if rather than a window to your soul

they were a wall. 

they kept me wanting more

kept me chasing you without knowing it

because I simply had to know what you kept behind them

now in your arms,

you tell me things that sound like love

I watch your eyes, 

and the dark depth begins to lighten

but those eyes,

they never let me in. 

I wonder if they ever will. 

releve 

To rise 

glissade 

To glide

allonge 

To stretch 

Reach

Your hands turn away from your body towards the side of the room

Reaching for something that is never there

This was always your step

Because your primary ballet teacher 

Told you it was like a bird

Reach little bird

Try harder little bird

Blood and sweat mixed together

Covered by rhinestones and pink tutus

Moves that you have practiced since you were four

But can never perfect

Always reaching

And yet, 

Someone is still always better than you

And you can’t escape from it

Mirrors surround you 

Your greatest asset, and also your worst nightmare

That distort your vision 

Hours upon hours

Lines that are better than yours

Dancers that grow to the ceiling 

Swallowing you 

Hidden monsters

Grabbing 

And still you keep coming back 

Joy grows in the corners 

Like daffodils breaking through the mud 

Signs of warmer time

The touch of an arm 

The feeling of flying

Sparrows over fields of spring grass

Why do you dance 

Is a question that is often asked

Sometimes you ask yourself that too 

As you tie those shoes 

That feel like bricks on your feet 

And watch the little face

Peering over the side of the white staircase

Entranced in the snaking pink ribbons 

As they wrap their way around your ankle 

And suddenly it’s all worth it

Because that little girl was once you

Watching and dreaming 

Plie

And up 

Arabesque 

Hold longer

Leg higher

And hold

Stretch further 

Reach 

Little bird

What will they think of us?

200 years into our future

Long after our stories have faded,

After our lives' missions have been put to rest,

After our influence has run out,

And our desires forgotten.

After the world becomes unrecognizable,

And its people are just as foreign.

Will they think of us as primitive,

Just not knowing any better?

Will they think of us as their equal,

Doing the same as we are?

Will they pity us,

And our savagery and aggression?

Will they think of us as separate,

Will they be too advanced to even think about us in the same way?

But the possibility that scares me the most;

Will they envy us,

And our times of peace, and simplicity?

Will it get only worse from here?

Is this as good as it can get?

Why do we spend so much of our limited time making the worst of it?

Why do we assume that they can fix what we’ve already broken,

What we ourselves are unable, unwilling to fix?

Why do we think they’ll be able to put our own differences aside, when we haven’t put our ancestors’ behind us?

What will it take for us to move towards a world where they can look back on us in 200 years with pride?

Our time’s legacy being that of redemption,

One of breaking a vicious cycle that we’ve already largely fallen victim to.

I wonder…

Was this future guaranteed?

Are we hopeless in this goal of redemption?

Should we just be happy with what we have?

It can’t hurt to try.

Inside the British Museum, past the Egyptian and Near East artifacts, you will come across a room.  Room 19, to be exact. And in that room, you will encounter several perfectly fine art pieces, but in the middle, there is a statue.

She stands tall, head high and back straight, carrying more than just the weight of her marble body. She is carrying worry, loneliness, and longing. She carries these, but she is not meant to carry them alone. You see, she was not carved from a lone block of marble to stand displaying her story individually, no.

She has sisters. Five of them. For a thousand years they stood, weathering storms, wars, innovations and disease, sharing their load, both physical and emotional- if you believe that statues can feel. They were connected by sisterhood, duty, and stone, until one was wrenched away.

Officially, the obtaining of this sister was legal and fair, under then modern laws made to justify pillaging and greed. She was not stolen, but freely given, many maintain. They say she was free to take as they spent hours chipping at her marble to free her from her position.

And so, she sits alone, crying out for her sisters as they do the same, the distance between them feeling infinitely more present than the millennia they spent close.

Oh my Caryatid, how they have failed you. How they ignore your pain and aching for home, How they dismiss your sister's wishes and silent protests as you sit, alone on that northern island, like an olive tree out of place in a cold, misty moor.

You do not know how much you are missed. You are longed for, fought for, by those who have seen your plight. Your sisters have not forgotten you, Caryatid. They leave a space for you where they stand, stiff and waiting, so you have a place to come home to. you are still loved, even if it is by those a thousand miles away.

Convinced that their democracy 
Is the only democracy 

My brethren fall heavily into the rubble 
A reflection of my own clay, 
A memory of our shared fire. 

I miss the time when 
They were called the creative people. 
The kind people, 
The smart ones. 

Now they are resilient. 
They are brave. 
They are hopeful. 

We forget so often that
They are also human.

We forget
And we keep forgetting.

And who's fault is that?

Every spring, we throw ourselves

unceremoniously into the birthing world, abandon

all remnants of the cold dark snow. We are sun-drunk

and terribly deprived. We give little shrieks

of joy when the croci appear at the edge of the woods,

much as we did when the snowflakes first began to fall, the cyclical

nature of the world giving us just enough time to forget.

We race each other out the school doors,

tumbling out onto the bright pavement in our haste

to be the first one to see the clear blue sky.

Our jackets lay       abandoned on their hooks. The sun is out;

we are once again wild things. And everyone else

in the state, it seems, has had the same thought -

the sidewalks are blooming with children

who stare awestruck at the petals sprouting in the concrete cracks,

elders who sit on porches and wave hello

to every sort of creature passing by. The earth smells of gladness 

and rain. The birdsong in the trees is incessant; crows seem to float

in the space between the trees and the wispy white clouds;

the deep sweet freshness of the new-made air

leaves us tipsy at street corners, gulping and desperate for more. 

A poet

kneels in the grass in her rollerblades, palms up to the bright bright sky.

She knows the day is ending. She drinks in,

endlessly, the impermanence of warmth. The breeze is shifting,

bringing cooler scents to the horizon, slowing,

carrying with it always the unwanted passage of time.

But for now it is sunny, and beautiful, and blue,

and as it is every spring,

there will be another day.

Once upon a time,

there was a cabin.

It was not big,

it was not grand,

but it was ours.

Our great-grandparents built it so many years ago,

they wanted a cabin that would be passed down for generations.

It only made it to us.

Our older relatives would like to sell it soon,

we do not have much time.

It will be gone before we know it.

No more swimming in the pond, 

or fishing off the dock.

No more squeaky spring door,

or late-night kayaks.

The Cabin will be gone.

No more towels drying on the porch,

or sunsets watched from the edge of the water.

No more exploring the forest,

or calling the loons that live in the pond.

The Cabin will be gone. 

No more games of cards played on the pull-out couch,

or simply sitting on the forest floor.

No more reading in the lofts,

or family board games played when the sun has long since set.

The memories are fading fast.

Two summers ago,

we went to the Cabin for what may be the last time. 

I didn't know.

There are so many things I wish I had done,

because I didn't know that

the Cabin will be gone.