It’s funny how our self-doubt
Is the basis of poetry
And it’s even more humorous,
How that is the very thing
We have to get past
To write it.

How do you know when someone
Is meant to be in your life?
Is it a feeling, an ever-present,
glowing “yes,” that sings?
Or is it a subtle voice,
One barely daring to speak,
noting how gentle he stands,
how your posture lightens
When he enters the room?
Is it the kindness of his hands,
or the intentionality of his words?
His voice is rolling hills,
quiet and genuine,
But loud and boisterous
When he needs to be.
A serene peace,
a deep understanding
Of where his feet should be
Standing and direct,
yet never raised,
Or sitting and patient,
waiting for another soul
to sit beside him and ask:
“So who’s this Jesus?”
I want to be that person.
but is that seat filled?

Am I supposed to sit
in a different row entirely?
Lord, what is this wall,
this barrier, blocking me
From connecting?

They ordered velocity at the top of the list,
Pure speed the most high of achievements.
She was young, a famed prodigy
But her talents were no longer relevant
When her limbs lengthened
And her skin began to lose definition
For who wants anyone ordinary?
If only you can race to the goalpost,
swing your flag, and keep running
Quick, quick, because time
And other’s disappointment
Is chasing at your feet.
But when that day finally comes
Where you can no longer continue

At that break-neck speed,
And people cease
To acknowledge your feats,
Will there be anything left
In you to keep striving?
Or have you burned out too quickly?

Silence comes in so many shades--
Those of blue things unsaid,
or honeyed marigold,
Dancing around our heads.
There is the umber of dark,
of hearing nothing,
Yet sensing eyes in the smog
--and the sterile white,
of trepid understanding.
I value silence above all things.
Because, in it, one voice speaks
He reaches out, quelling the shades
To one of a deep pink,
An affection so rich,
That words cannot begin to express
how it fills him.
So, he shows it through silence.

She never met his eyes.
it was not intentional,
Yet she knew it was not right.
Perhaps she was afraid
That once he saw the trellis
To her mind, he would climb inside
and realize she was a fraud.

Inspiration overflows
The edges of a lephrechaun’s
*** of gold. And it vanishes
As frequently, as does
The end of a rainbow.

[Impatience. Uncertainty.
How do you know when it's done drying?]

I could smell the asphalt
As the road was paved,
A perfect rendition
Of all I hoped to achieve.
Did I step too early,
Making indents,
That could not be removed?
Did I stand by, as a storm
Passed through, and
Knocked over trees
Onto the drying ground?
Or was I the storm,
Taking chainsaws
To the cypress trunks,
Muddying the path
I had anxiously anticipated?
And was it that very nervousness
That made me finish
Before I had even started?