A piece of furniture–
wooden-framed or not
with a mattress
or mat long enough for a human of any size
with cloth coverings and a pillow.
Small or big, puffed or flat.
Quiet, empty, unmade, made
Yet this is where we are born,
where we pray,
where we lie,
where we love,
and where we die.
Where we begin our day and end it.
We may spend a third of our life here
in sleep, in tears, in joy.
Like with a lover, we hesitate to leave--
or like with a mother that promises cover from the world,
we cling to her skirts and breathe in linen
while she pads our dirty heads.
But like children, hesitant and weak we go
stumbling over our foal feet
and blink at the newborn light through the blinds.
Day is dawning.
The world continues to spin, and with it
day grows longer.
Spring promises to knock on my window
and wash me clean in the first rain.
Winter is gone and took her shadows.
The world alive outside calls me
But still I come running back,
to the feeling of softness, closeness, my mother’s hand
on my shoulder as she tucks me in
or you beside me, your arm around my waist
and voice in my ear.
So tell me, what is it
that brings us back
you to me,
me to home
to this piece of furniture?
To this bed.
if we didn't exist,
world would be a better place.
And our parents they used to say the same,
when they were alive,
when they thought we were not listening,
but they actually didn't care about anything anymore,
when the war started, they clipped.
We were too young to understand,
but now we do. We know
how great this world would have been without us.
How rich, how joyful, how black and white!
So why we here? If no one wants us here?
Maybe thats why.
imagine a big dragon
Are you doing it?
what color is it?
"b-blue and yellow"
Blue and yellow. Cute! Isss it big as godzilla?
"no, it's smaller
likee the size of a horse"
Dats a smol dragon
I like him.
"its not smallllllllllll
a smol dragon would be like, a neck dragon
hes big, just not hugeeeeeee"
Ohhhh okay. He's a big dragon, but not huge.
His teeth are like little point pearls
do you see how shiny they are?
"why are his teeth pink"
They are pearls.
"but pearls are white"
then his toofers are white.
One of those pearls in his dragon maw
his little baby toofeers
because than you can fly with him everywhere.
Just imagine looking down through his mouth at the cityyy
as he flyyyys
and sitting all nestled in his lip
Blue and yellow leather
He could sing you storiessss and brushes his toofers so his breath would be warm but not stinky
"My small tenant" He says to you.
as you crawl out of his gum and walk out onto his tongue.
What is your dragon houses name?
"his name is roxy"
He's making a very silly face, sticking his tongue out and crossing his eyes to talk to you
he sounds silly too
talking with his tongue out
"Welcome Home. "
Roxy the Blue and yellow Horse sized Dragon House.
"Ready to slide?"
he asks you
he swallows you
it's very slippery and fun!
like a water slide
And is warm, but not smelly becaus he brushes his teeth
you fly over muscles and liquids and tongue and land on a biiiig trampoline
You can hear Roxy from all around you, quite loud "Having fun, my tennant?"
You are the small size, or a dragons tooth.
"uh oh!" He cries
you see fire from his back
it's zooming towards you!
"nooooooooooo run awaaaaaayyyyyyyyyyyyy"
You run up towards his tongue and trip into the sticky icky
The fire is warm and tingles oup your back
then is over
and you standup, the back of your clothes all burnt off and your front all sticky icky
"I'm sorry, tennant"
"its oki roxy."
Roxy fashions their tongue like a staircase for you to come back outside
"daddy? Im sleepy... Can we finish the story tomorrow night?"
me too Babygurl. ^^
Yes we can
"ninighht daddy. sleeeepppppp well.
i love you"
I love you too baby girl ^^
You curl up in roxys empty tooth spot, he covers you in his blanket tongue. it is warm. but not stinky. and you drift soft to sleep
"Good night, Tenant"
"I love you"
"i love you ttooo roxy."
The concrete slab of our front porch
Became a runway for me to strut new
Summer hand-me-down fashions.
A black garbage bag was my wardrobe,
Providing a bigger bounty of outfits
Than the clearance rack at K-Mart.
This was the largest collection of clothes
Destined for my body, bigger than the selection
My mother stashed on layaway for my birthday.
I cycled through constant costume changes,
Parading across the gray stage like a model,
Displaying new designs by brand names.
This was my New York Fashion Week,
An opportunity to embody new identities
By incarnating them for the public.
My neighbors clapped from their garages
As I rocked the retro sun-bleached Phillies
Championship t-shit for the first time.
July sunshine glinted off car windshields
Like a collection of flashing camera bulbs.
Every piece of fabric became new
When I debuted it for the world
On the catwalk in my front yard.
I celebrated my success with friends
By wearing a Power Rangers t-shirt
And running through sprinklers,
As our parents became backyard paparazzi,
Immortalizing the moment on disposable cameras.
my greatest joy is
I'm honored to
be a spectator to
how it unfolds
even when it frightens you
because that unfortunately
is the cost of creativity
but don't try to stop it
that will only weigh down
your effervescent spirit
that would only mix your
true colors to ashy grey
I'll hold your hand
walk you through
the gravel and sand
and remind you to
appreciate the grand
I can't wait
to see how you
Little hands, fingernails, unblinking eyes,
No songs of sleep and peace.
A muffled voice, a deepened frown,
They watched your heartbeat as it drowned.
Two birds one stone
Two lives gone
"A Catholic country," she claimed.
But what's that worth
When thousands flee
And never return the same?
Eight hundred buried without care,
Four thousand more rotting away,
No homes to go to,
Not a Christian prayer,
For the unborn, they are saved.
These are our millennial kids,
On them we should not keep lids,
As the future is for children,
Teach them to grow oxygen,
Else there'll be no air to breathe,
A dullton world one day, it seems,
Children grow up too fast,
Which generations shall breathe their last.........
Mom doesn’t like poetry
since it’s not clear like how things should be.
Until you write her one,
and beaming she’ll put it on the fridge with a magnet.
Mom likes things sorted and clean, papers off
the table or in the bin, dishes in the sink or the cupboard.
What is this? Why is this here?
If it’s clutter, it’s just stuff. Don’t save it.
In her room she has 37 years of photos
and sometimes tears up when she thinks of her parents
but she would never admit it.
So, she laughs and means it
when her grandchildren dump the box of toys across the living room
and the dogs slide down the hall past the family photos
and bang open doors after a bouncing ball.
Most of the lines on her face come from laughing, crows’ feet dotting her crinkling eyes.
Her birdcall laugh hangs high above any room
like a day-warbler or a hooting night-owl over the treetops.
So much of her is rocks and earth and order,
but every bit of her speaks of beating wings and blue skies.
Mom’s favorite color is blue, deep like the ocean, bright like the sky.
Don’t tell her blue’s a sad color;
she dressed her baby boy in the ocean and then his sister
when she could fit his hand-me-downs,
and then laughed when the disapproving daycare lady sent her daughter home in pink.
She lives with her husband of 36 years in a light blue house
and relished painting skies on her kitchen and living room walls
after 10 years of white and little time
and laughed again when her children protested at the blue walls, rugs, and curtains.
Time may pass,
and the blue curtains, rugs, and walls may have disappeared
and her children may have had children,
but blue is still her favorite color and her children are still her children,
and she still doesn’t like poetry.
Words that once tasted sweet turn sour and sear their way through my lips no matter how I attempt to swallow them. They come through like hiccups and bring tears to my eyes as I pour my heart out like syrup. My feelings are fizzy like soda pop sweets foaming in my mouth as I choke my way around the sharp edges. No matter what he says or does I always get my sugar rush. I'm hooked on him in his many flavours though I never get to choose them, he's a box of Mike and Ike's and I just have to get through him. He's addicting, he's one more bite and then I swear I'm done, but there's always another after another and I can't resist more when the box is gone. He's a Christmas striped cane sharpened with my tongue, mistaking salt for sugar and apologizing when he's done. He's kids sharing candy, I've always preferred my own. He is the candy shop I wanted to call my home. I am the Pez dispenser, people bite sweetness from my neck. I am offering my liquorice limbs and conversation heart so to pretend. His words are coated with the faintest film of sugar to make swallowing his jaw breaker remarks go down smoothly. I am a red hot lips smile, gagging on his perceptions, distracting him with candy.