Silencio"¡Pero no dije nada!"Silencio2 years ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
The Sum of InfinityI don't know if I'll ever tell my children about you.The Sum of Infinity4 months ago in Free Verse More Like This
(I don't know if I'll even have descendants.)
A family was never on my to-do list,
until you came along.
You made me wonder if I wanted kids, just so I could say to them
"You know, the day your dad and I met…"
because I thought we could last forever,
and I'm still not sure if we have.
Our friendship endures, even as I fall asleep
picturing her arms around you,
and I wonder if you'll ever come back to me
but spend every day noticing the reasons I'm glad you left
and hoping you'll return.
Never intending to fall in love,
we were an item
before you knew my name.
She reclaimed you,
you still belong to me
by virtue of the ampersand connecting our names
in the mind of every person
who watched us walk,
tall & short,
monochrome & kaleidoscope,
yin & yang,
through the winding, leaf-littered pathways
that are our life.
TeeterWhen I wake,Teeter2 years ago in Visual & Found Poetry More Like This
among the stars,
on the brink
between dreams and reality.
It’s so easy
to see through the
between waking life...
and the power of Imagination,
that same other world
in a sea of dreams.
HelpTurning away...hoping you'll chase me.Help2 years ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
Why Peter is not a poet.Cole is eleven. Age matters in October, when twelve is the only difference between the haunted hayride and the shelled corn sandbox. Age matters when a boy says the word "shit" in school (and Cole does). But age doesn't matter when the same boy has both sneakers dangling over the edge of a 250-foot grain silo, his hands sweaty on the rungs, the state of Nebraska breathing vacant and honeyed and infinite below him. For the first time in his life, Cole can't be quantified by the candles on his last birthday cake. Cole is young, but today, he is worth saving. Three facts about Cole:Why Peter is not a poet.4 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
1. His eyebrows are the most expressive arches his body has to offer.
2. He's so terrified that his very expressive eyebrows are threatening to take up permanent residence in his hairline.
3. He does not have suicidal tendencies, and later understands--for the sake of his mother's heart and Officer Roy's bladder control--that his strategies for
CrepuscularTo the girl teaching herself to fly,Crepuscular2 months ago in Free Verse More Like This
a hospital bird with soot in her lungs
and patchwork wings,
you only fly for a little while.
If you want to stop hurting,
learn to drift in the silence of the dark
between night and day.
We're all made from broken parts:
bird seed, letters addressed to no one,
things found in old coats,
brittle things like love.
Glass bottomed birds,
we used to make butterfly hands,
until moths swarmed into our throats,
like dancing butterflies; still
we choked on dusty wings.
Love is a smoke made with the fume of sighs,
the same smoke that you'll inhale.
Let go, little bird --
You were made for moonlight,
never for hummingbird lullabies --
Hummingbirds only fly in the sun,
and the sun was never a child.
We were not meant to be angels.
The nestlings, children of the stars,
we glide together on clipped wings
through the dark.
Two PoemsPainted over with the years’ blemishesTwo Poems2 years ago in Traditional Fixed Forms More Like This
Old. Battered. Familiar.
Case chased with filigree colored by tarnished silver
Kept in the bottom of my knickknacks drawer.
Even today, I can still feel the warmth of his fingers,
The heat where he held it, nested in the palm of his hand.
Winding the key, as he taught me to do,
Always counterclockwise, turning back the time,
Time measured in seconds, minutes, hours, days, years, and lifetimes
Colored by the memories of those who pass beyond it,
Held in reminiscence by objects left behind.
A fleeting messenger that heralds both
The birth and death of every plot and scheme,
That hopelessly entwines the strands of fate
And cuts the thread of life we all must weave
Can ne’er be understood through measured count,
Though every second ticked its weight has felt,
And when it swift is passing, this is but
A construct of our human minds in vain
Attempt to comprehend the limitless
And vast entwinéd river that is wrapped
Around our very being.
Sans regrets: Part II"I miss you."Sans regrets: Part II2 years ago in Traditional Fixed Forms More Like This
Message not sent.
Silencio (Version 2)"¡Pero no he dicho nada!"Silencio (Version 2)2 years ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
Forests of the Mind"And this, our life, exempt from public haunt, finds tongues in trees, books in the running brooks, sermons in stones, and good in everything." William ShakespeareForests of the Mind2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
In the forest my thoughts
ring unnaturally loud,
like a voice on
an open stage
when nobody’s around.
Stories unfold in my mind,
new leaves in the spring
unfurling from pale green buds
like butterflies emerging
from their chrysalis,
the pages of a never-ending saga
written in birdsong
and soft, wind-rustled branches.
My mind flows like the brook,
smoothing the rough edges
of my narrative, fluid and free
until time catches me
and my thoughts are drawn irrevocably back
into the endless revisions
of the real world.
lacunae of longing, loftiness of wordsinked and reaching, this is my remembrall fleshlacunae of longing, loftiness of words2 months ago in Free Verse More Like This
and if we were to never speak again
you'll find the rest of my bones in the graveyard eaten by a dream
i hear knives in the wind and earth inside me
survival is a balancing act-
a selection of extrasensory impulses
a fracture in late august
a week of kisses
and i am crying out for time not yet lost
when stars collapse,
the sunshine shaking heart of the universe will burn with me
while looking for a silver lining in the sea
on the edge of nowhere laughter speaks with death
about maps not meant for following
when i think about you, i remember it all wrong
maybe you were just a hit and run
strange how the mind fades o
Brushing Up Against HistoryNovember 1963Brushing Up Against History4 years ago in Philosophical More Like This
I'm eight years old and sitting in class (I strangely recall that my seat was in the middle of second row, on the side away from the window), when the principal comes in to tell us that the president has been shot.
I do not know
what it means, but I know
that it scares me.
My mother meets Senator Robert F. Kennedy while he is campaigning in San Francisco and gets his autograph. I live with my father in a small town in Michigan, where every year leading up to Memorial Day, I sell paper poppies for the VFW.
blood of soldiers on the field
war has come home
I watch the news and see the body count, arranged like a scorecard. The numbers say we are winning, but one of those numbers is from our town, the only casualty that week. I don't know him, but I see his picture on the cover of Life Magazine.
I turn 17 the next month
and try to join the Marine Corp
my father will not sign
As a small-town b
A ClicheI wish I could sing you a love songA Cliche3 years ago in Traditional Fixed Forms More Like This
about roses and stars and the rain
but I couldn't sing like the blackbird in spring
so I think I will simply refrain.
I wish I could tell you a story
about beauty and trust and my heart
but all I could say's what they say every day
So I don't even know where to start.
I wish I could write you a poem
'bout the birds and the bees and my bed
but all I would write's being said every night
So I wrote you a cliche instead.
Sans regrets"I love you."Sans regrets2 years ago in Traditional Fixed Forms More Like This
Message not received
Tragedy"A tragedy...." They whisper. I survived.Tragedy2 years ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
MomentsRemember that time we sat on the bench together, waiting for the bus? You were quiet, like you always were, and I thought nothing of it. But then you turned to me, an unreadable look in your eyes, and you asked me what I liked most about life. I just stared at you, unsure how to answer. You seemed to take my silence as something bad.Moments8 months ago in Short Stories More Like This
“Never mind,” You mumbled. “It was a stupid question.”
“No, no.” I hurried to assure you. “I was just thinking. What I like best about life would probably be all the little moments that happen that end up meaning so much and all the people you meet along the way.” I shrugged and you hummed, turning back to face forward.
You didn’t come to the bus stop the next day.
Remember that hot summer day, the one when it was too hot to even think? I was complaining about how much I was sweating, and you were, as usual, responding with noncommittal noises. The bus was running late that day, and I was cursing every
Growing Upscraped knees. broken hearts. dying memories.Growing Up2 years ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
She promised him forever....Forever never lasts long, does it?She promised him forever.2 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
The Boy in the CornerHe curls in the corner of the lit-up room,The Boy in the Corner2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
watching from the shadows
The women, they laugh, with pearls 'round their necks,
And men in fine suits sip from delicate glasses
Golden chandeliers hang from the ceiling
as society's elite mingle seamlessly
And the boy-
his face is unwashed, his hair unkempt,
but he watches, and he learns
and he sees
So he makes a vow:
Never be like them, the ones within the light,
the ones walking past his corner without a glance,
the ones laughing their polite, gilded laughs,
the ignorant, the ones never knowing
what it was to reside within darkened corners
That vow is kept:
the rest of his days is spent in the darkness,
lonely, bitter, not knowing what it was
to live within the light-
but he is never like them,
and that is consolation in itself