her eyes change color when she cries,
they become this amalgamation
of every shade of green
that has ever graced this earth
and some shades I have not seen
before or
since,
I admit,
I am guilty of inducing these fireworks
from time to time,
a reminder of my work
and even though I don’t like spaghetti,
watching her
stand and stir,
sneak a taste,
her hair pulled back,
all that is beauty,
to then offer me a taste
and I think,
this is better than okay,
of course,
I don’t know any better
she has this way of forgetting
which stories she has told me,
I will hear the same one
a dozen times
but each time with the same
fervor as the first,
so,
baby keep on talking
she snores,
cute little songs of sleep,
I know this is why I watch her
to know she is finally at peace,
this is the closest to heaven
they will ever let me get
and so, I breathe her in
knowing,
she has gone through more
than someone her age should,
she has lost more than someone
her age should,
or someone should,
period
I have never told her the
truth
in what I see in her,
the way she looks at him
I have only ever seen that
once before,
the way I know my mother
looked at me
no,
not a lioness protecting her cub
a lioness can be killed
this is the mountains,
sea,
earth
and
fire
at the same time
I have made some mistakes
but every flaw in her is divine,
no, it is not poetry,
it is her,
my finest art
Jan 29, 2015
Jan 29, 2015 at 2:54 PM UTC
she laughed,
a snort through her nostrils,
pig like,
embarrassed,
the most beautiful crimson gracing
her skin
my eyes well up,
the crater on my face
commences with his act,
appearance, disappearance
I wish milk would come out of my nose,
I wish to slip on a banana peel
making Curly smile from afar,
anything to ease her ego
by now, I have pushed her away
the love she felt for me
overcome by fear,
by my failure
to show her my entirety,
her lovers have come and gone,
taking bits and pieces of her as they go,
I washed away my pride ages before,
I only want her to know
what she already does,
I am mad about her,
even so
Jan 29, 2015
Jan 29, 2015 at 11:12 AM UTC
any poet will tell you
any honest poet
will tell you,
the most difficult thing to do
is write about
them,
a good poet will tell you
it is cheating,
a bad one
nothing at all
inspiration?
a muse?
those are not needed
a poet is affected
by the smallest of trivialities
‘’why the hell is jeopardy still on?’’
‘’I asked for extra pickles on this
sandwich,
and there is no mustard on here’’
by the Yankees winning the series,
again,
a poet is driven by more
than the presence or absence of
love,
god,
***
music,
money in the bank
his day will be molded
by the smallest of trivialities,
you turning off your lights,
the presence
or absence
of the sun,
a single mom crying in Toledo,
down to her last drop,
a homeless pet,
braver than you
or
I
by war,
or lack of it,
by a new president,
or an old one,
a poet is affected
by the smallest of trivialities
so be careful
when you shut off your lights
Jan 28, 2015
Jan 28, 2015 at 5:59 PM UTC