In Grandma’s kitchen,
There’s the old raggety rocker,
The one that always tips back too far
And my heart skips a beat as I
Secretly enjoy the thrill.
In Grandma’s kitchen,
There’s the mounds of old recipes on
The counter, yellowing with age, being
Ripped from ancient editions of
House and Home magazines.
In Grandma’s kitchen,
There’s the constant pleasant aroma of
Cookies, chocolate chip and oatmeal raisin
And snickerdoodle, the presence of cookie
Jars that are quickly ransacked by us.
In Grandma’s kitchen,
There is the collection of teapots on
The shelf, the daily weather forecast that
Grandpa writes out every day on the table,
The forest of palms and tiger lilies in the center.
In Grandma’s kitchen,
Time seems to stand still, and everything
Is perfect, familiar, right.
Even when the room itself doesn’t belong to
Her anymore, it will always be to me
Grandma’s kitchen.

When I hear the words “marching band”,
I think of 4 am’s eating donuts on the bus,
Piled in big heaps to conserve warmth,
Not caring who we were laying on.
I think of lips on fire,
Sectionals that drag on and on in
The scorching sun, and staying
At attention for longer than you can bear.
I think of impossibly quick changes into uniforms,
Asking your friends to zip you up,
Band moms wiping off bibbers and shoes,
And when you’re all ready, realizing you didn’t put on your mic.
I think of falling on turf during
25 mph wind gusts, hearing the hail smash your instrument,
Not being able to feel your face,
But knowing you have to play on just the same.
I think of eating at weird times,
Breakfast at 4 am, lunch at 10 am, and supper at 10 pm,
But knowing that when you get you get a chance to eat,
The band dads have got you covered.
I think of laughing so ******* the bus
You’re crying, sobbing even, sprawled across
Your best friends, and you think you’ll never calm down
Enough to ever play your instrument again.
I think of the drum majors’ voices yelling
LEFT LEFT LEFT
Over and over again until the freshmen finally understand.
There’s always that one that never does.
I think of the moment of utter agony
Before they announce the last place in your class,
And you’re squeezing your eyes shut, praying
That at the very least, you won’t be last.
I think of that moment of utter relief
After you hear the last place in your class,
And it’s not you, and your prayers have been answered
That at the very least, you were not last.
I think of the last competition of the season,
When the seniors are bawling and it seems like
Your entire world is crashing down,
And nothing will ever be right again.
This poem could go on forever,
But finally: finally.
When I hear the words “marching band”,
I think of that triumphant moment right
As your show ends for the last time,
That last horns down,
And you know you’ve given it your all,
And no matter what your score is,
You feel in your heart that you have put everything
You have out there,
All the music, the drill, the blood, sweat and tears,
Out there on that football field.
And that moment, you can get no where else, but
Marching band.

I started with my dress,
The white one with the black flowery design.
I added my black scarf, draping it
Casually around my head,
Trying to stop my thoughts from drifting
To what I was dressing up for.
I slipped on my sandals and then
Slipped out the door,
Not slamming it because that felt like
An ending.
I didn’t want another ending.
Walking into the church,
The temperature went up 50 degrees,
And my anxiety went up 100.
I shook hands with the extended family,
Hugged your widow,
And comforted your grandchildren.
I made it through the opening liturgy,
Your favorite hymn, and the obituary.
I even stopped my tears from falling
During your granddaughter’s touching eulogy,
When she started sobbing up there on the altar.
Afterwards, I sat through the meal,
Everything tasting like cardboard in
My mouth as the temperature kept increasing.
Near the end of the night,
When the church was clearing out,
I went back to the food,
Craving a final bite of cheesy potato casserole
Before I could finally leave this night behind.
Yet when I get there,
The tray is cleaned out,
And there is no more cheesy potato casserole.
That’s when I finally break down and sob.
I didn’t get that last bite of
Cheesy potato casserole.

Spilled ink.
Old film.
Crumpled paper.
The click of a shutter.
Pens dying.
Wiping lenses.
Flashlights under the covers.
Struggling with a tripod.
Daydreaming.
The Rule of Thirds.
Tattered pages.
Beautiful sunsets.
Coffee shops.
Skittish animals.
3 am.
Cropping.
Always thinking.
The horizon line.
The frantic search for pen and paper.
Frustrated with trying to capture the beauty of the world In a small package.

Please tell everyone your name, grade,
And what instrument you play.
We’re just going to go over some basics.
You can have a break in ten minutes.
Band, ten, HUT!
HUT!
Come to set!
Attention!
I said come to set!
Heels together, toes apart.
Check your posture!
Guide to your left!
No, your other left!
Your steps are too big.
No, now your steps are too small.
You have to stay at set for three minutes;
If anyone moves, we start again.
Restart the time!
Restart again!
Get your feet in time, freshmen!
Section leaders, I need to see you.  Now.
Your water break is still ten minutes away.
Drum majors, go get more batteries for the met.
First competition guys, good luck!
I don’t care if it’s late, we need to learn the drill.
Someone go run and turn on the field lights!
You’ll thank me later.
First football game, good luck!
Drumline, did I say you could put your instruments down?
Trumpets, get your horns up!  To the press box!
You’ll get it, don’t give up!
Last competition guys, congrats!
Give it your all and don’t look back!
Guard, don’t **** anybody with your flags.
GUARD!
Last football game, congrats!
Somebody please let the bass drums through!
Everybody give me your plumes!
Do NOT set your uniform on the ground!
I expect all of you back next year.
Thank you for giving me your best.
I apologize for when I was at my worst.
I love you guys.

It’s not raining
But sometimes words fall
Down like rain.
Sometimes they come in a
Deluge
        Flood
               Monsoon
Or whip around like a
               Wind storm
        Tornado
Hurricane
And instead of building up, they
Destroy.
It’s not raining
And the sky is blue and not gray
And instead of bad I kind of feel okay
But the fact still remains
That we sit here and say
“We need to talk”
And yet
All we do is sit here
Surrounded by the blue
Wishing for it to
Rain
       Deluge
                 Flood        
Anything.
But all we’re doing is
Sitting in a drought.

The first measures of your favorite song coming on the radio
The lurch your stomach gives when you go too high on a swing
Dancing in the rain, and splashing in the puddles
The relief in flopping yourself down on your bed after a hard day
Happy dreams
The moment you realize there is one more cookie in the box
Your favorite outfit
Hugs from loved ones
Discovering beautiful shells on the beach
Waking up and realizing you still have a couple hours to sleep
The joy of saying, “I love you”
The joy of hearing it back
Lazy Sunday afternoons
Happy birthday wishes
Deep, meaningful conversations with friends
Little children running in the sun, enjoying life
Helping a classmate with homework
Reconnecting with old friends
The awe you feel watching a sunset
Raindrop races on windows
That grin you give your friend across the room when the teacher says, “pick a partner”
Hot showers after a good game
Stuffed animals that don't mind being squeezed and cried on
The tears and hugs of making up
Realizing the moment you fall in love
The congregation passionately singing your favorite hymn
Spreading God's Word
Puppies and kittens
That text from the right person at the right time
Surprising your friends with little gifts
The smell of new books
The smell of old books
Capturing that perfect picture
Your unknown potential
God's love

girls like you
deserve a love that
always feels
like summer,
a love that
sings like waves against the sand
feels like freckles and anklet tanlines
smells like sunscreen and
Mackinac Island Fudge
dripping down your chin—
a love that never ends
like those rays of sun that
spray over Lake Michigan
and tickle heaven.
you part your lips
to speak and
just like that
my world
becomes
lyrical—
dipping and twisting
like a kite in the sky
flowing freely like
your baby hairs coming
out of your braid,
like your laugh as it
echoes down the
quiet shoreline,
around the chambers
of my soul.
girls like you
deserve a love that
always feels
like summer—
I pray that
your summer
never ends.

I will always be scared.
I cannot say that
I have always been nervous
Although
Now I know
This is just how I am.
I have nobody.
It would be wrong to say
Someone would care,
If I destroyed myself again with my thoughts
I am just a worthless wreck
Nobody can convince me that
I am a warrior.

I was sixteen when the machines came.
The letters “C-A-T” screamed at me from across the street
As the harsh yellow tore at the roots of the
Cherry trees across the street.
Of course the orchard had never been mine,
I had not planted the seeds and curated the
Beautiful blooms through their short lives,
Picked the cherries off the trees myself.
But what about all the photoshoots I’d done
Among the gorgeous white blooms,
All the times my friend had walked through
The rows of trees to get to my house and
Left paint splatters of cherries across the kitchen floor,
All the sunsets I’d seen through the leaves
That made me nostalgic for things
I had never experienced?
What if I’m growing up and moving out
And can’t seem to wrap my head around the fact that
These plants that have smiled at me from my
Window for over a decade have returned
To the Earth?
What if these days the
Weeks are crying when they should be glowing and
The absence of trees is simply the target of
One of those odd tricks that sorrow shoots out of the mind
That remind me that change is the only thing that’s
Permanent?
I wish that the emptiness of the field could be replaced by
Happy little white blooms
But instead the CAT machines screech and moan
And all I can feel is
The ache of old nostalgia and the
Peculiar nostalgia of the unknown.

He was the tough guy,
The bad boy, the person
You never, ever crossed.
He was the owner of the old hotrod, the
House you always avoided
Because it was too loud and smelly.
He was the guy who never
Shaved his beard, kept at least
Three motorcycles in his garage, and
Had a different girlfriend every month.
He was the tough guy.
But then his dad took ill,
And suddenly he didn’t care
About his hotrod anymore.
His buddies were forgotten,
His workshop untouched,
As his calloused hands held
His father’s weak and shaky ones.
The graveside service was
A week later, and I remember
Him kneeling over his father’s coffin,
Head bowed in prayer,
Trying to stay calm, but
Tears flew down his cheeks with
An intensity that no one had
Seen before, nor since.
And that’s when I learned that
Tough guys aren’t always tough.

sparklers are for the people who
love more
than they could ever
be loved in return,
for the ones who
exhaust
extinguish
their own light for others
to only appreciate them
for a moment and then
be forgotten,
for those who run out in rainstorms
for people who won’t even
stay with them in the sunshine,
for the ones who wait until
everyone around them is shining before they
ignite their light and glow.
but you can’t live by just
borrowing love for an instant or
living with the
ashes of other’s achievements;
you die a fresh death every time you listen to
those voices
that crash down on you like hail until
you’re too numb to move
you’re too over it to try
you’re too cold to ignite
at all.

He didn’t grow up in a good home.
He didn’t have a supportive mother.
He didn’t have a father worth speaking of.
He didn’t know how to read or write.
He didn’t know that 2+2=4.
He didn’t have any friends.
He didn’t know that such wonderful things existed.
He didn’t play or run outside.
He didn’t have the permission to.
He didn’t graduate high school.
But he didn’t drop out.
That night, he didn’t stop drinking.
That night, he didn’t use his head.
That night, he didn’t care.
That night, he didn’t put on his seatbelt.
He didn’t see the car coming.
He didn’t hear the crunch of the metal.
He didn’t hear the screech of the tires.
He didn’t wake up.

Every day after school I ran through it,
Skirting around the trunks,
Ducking under the leaves,
My laughter echoing through the trees.
My cherry orchard.
My friends used to walk through it,
And when they got to my house,
They would always have red stains
On the bottoms of their shoes from
My cherry orchard.
Every year when the blossoms came out
In early May, I would take pictures for
Hours, enjoying the peace,
Playing with the symmetry when you looked down a row in
My cherry orchard.
And even though the trees were
Stripped from the ground and burned
I still visit it,
My friends still walk through it,
And every year I will look back at
My pictures and remember
My cherry orchard.

When I’m looking out my bedroom window,
And look down,
I see the big old air conditioner compressor,
Rusty after decades of use
In Michigan’s sometimes-90s summers.

When I’m looking out my bedroom window,
And glance left,
I see the faithful church,
Where I’ve spent almost as much of my life in as this house,
Where I’ve met my best friends.

When I’m looking out my bedroom window,
And view right,
I see the standard size basketball hoop,
That I’ve dribbled under my whole life,
That has seen countless children attempt at its rim.

When I’m looking out my bedroom window,
And overlook the church’s parking lot,
I see the large backyard,
Where I’ve kicked innumerable soccer *****,
And dug limitless snow forts.

When I’m looking out my bedroom window,
And gaze into the past,
I see you and me,
Riding around in that PowerJeep,
And that dent we put in the church.

When I’m looking out my bedroom window,
And contemplate what’s in the present,
I see the crooked basketball hoop,
The steeple that lost its cross,
And the dead tree we don’t have the heart to tear down.

When I’m looking out my bedroom window,
And focus on the future,
I see a million different scenarios
Playing out in my head,
And I don’t even know which one I want.

All I know is nothing’s
Going to get done now,
My future isn’t going to be decided,
My life isn’t going to make itself,
While I’m just gazing out my bedroom window.

My only comfort as my tears fall with the water
Is the fact that I'm scrubbing away his hands,
His touch,
His lips,
His skin.
Washcloth against skin,
Red erupts from my pores,
But I don't care because
I need to get his scent off of me.
Just a whiff, and I gag,
My tears congealing in my throat.
Why me?
What did I do?
His hands were so soft,
But so strong, and
I could not escape.
Washcloth against skin,
I don't even know where to begin,
For he stripped me down to the very bone
And lay my soul and body naked.
His fault? Yes.
My fault? They'll think so.
Red flows down my legs because of
Washcloth against skin.
I drown myself in cherry blossom body wash,
The off brand kind.
My last thought before I stop the water is
"But I'm not even pretty."

i.
The sight of it brings back memories of
Your rival team, confronting you on the line of scrimmage,
The rain pouring down, stinging your face,
Your breath misting in the arctic air.

ii.
The smell of it brings you back to that Friday night
When you tripped up the bleachers and
Spilled popcorn all over yourself because
Her red hair and bright smile made you stop in your tracks.

iii.
The clang of the pins against each other
Follows you in the hallway wherever you go,
Reminding you of that triumphant feeling
That took over when your basketball team won districts.

iv.
The warm feeling that fills your heart when
You give it to her, the red-haired bright-smiled girl,
Matches the warm feeling she feels when she
Puts it on, drowning in your scent.

v.
You know that years later, after you’ve left high school
And everything about that place behind,
The sight of that jacket will bring back all the memories
Of football games, Friday nights, championships, and her.

I refuse to be the puppet
That you dangle on the string,
I refuse to be the person
You always count on for things.

I refuse to have everything
Dumped on me,
I refuse to always be the one
Begging on her knees.

I refuse to be lied to,
Purposefully ignored;
I refuse to be the one
Who is left out in the storm.

I refuse to be left out as refuse;
Worthless, forgotten trash
That you threw out your window,
Scattering my soul to ash.

At the end, my hand
Nor my fingers trembled as
I grasped her pale neck.

I close my eyes and
Try to imagine all the
Impossible things—

The things that God has
Done that I simply can’t wrap
My little head ‘round—

The continents He’s
Designed, the canyons forged and
The rivers that He

Made to flow, all the
Flowers He taught to grow that
Bloom in their seasons.

The world sings of the
Power of God, of the One
Creator of all.

This world He did sculpt
All for us with His perfect
Paintbrushes of love.

The slide has a 60 pound weight limit.
The slide has a 60 pound weight limit and
It smells like freshly mown grass and a
Soaked one piece Ariel swimsuit—the pink ruffles that
Cling
To a toddler’s stomach rolls as she squeaks and squelches down the plastic
Into the dark blue Made in China kiddie pool
That has creatures from all levels of the ocean together
And she doesn’t care.
The slide has a 60 pound weight limit and
Has visible handprints on the sides from
The toddler holding on for dear life before
She gathers the courage to balance on top on her own.
The slide has a 60 pound weight limit and
Sits in that yard for almost a decade at the end
Of the sickly green swing set that lifts up out of the ground
Whenever the toddler pumps too hard,
And is a end destination for the intense races across the apparatus
That occur every Sunday noon amongst the Sunday School kids without fail.
The slide has a 60 pound weight limit and
Under it is one of the best places for hide-and-seek in the winter,
When it is almost buried under the glistening snow
And the toddler can’t feel her legs anymore but she doesn’t care because
She can’t be found.
At that age she has no limits, no mental restraints that
Cut her dreams off before they bear fruit.
The slide has a 60 pound weight limit,
And of the world beyond it she is only a
Prisoner of fierce fascination.

Roses grace the sky in a bouquet,
And a few fall down to me.
The last fleeting rays of yellow sunlight
Shoot up into the sky like fireworks,
Illuminating the beach for a brief moment.
A cool breeze whips across the shore,
And the sands drift in my face,
The sands that tell the stories of all
Who have watched these pink moments before.
The ocean whispers to me,
Its enticing scent pulling me in,
Saying, “the world is not so bad,
Watch this beautiful sunset.
Everything will be alright.”
The last rose petal falls,
And the clock reads 8:12 pm.
The taste of salt lingers on my tongue
As I turn and head for home.
The sunset says,
“Come back tomorrow!”

What I’m craving right now is a
Shot of July,
Fireworks flying high
Over this town that everybody wants to leave
But I will never get over,
Never get over his smile,
Friday night,
Pulling up in my drive,
His voice so full and alive,
Making me want to dive
Right in,
Right into the lake that’s too cold
But I’m too old
I guess, to laugh out loud,
Do something just for fun,
Be happy for no reason,
Be optimistic and cherish hope for a
Better season-
I’m supposed to be already
Battle-hardened, war-ready;
I haven’t reached twenty but I know
There’s evil in the world.
That doesn’t mean there still isn’t good.
I’m craving a shot of July when
I’m not old enough to take a shot,
But I’m old enough to take a stand,
Lend a hand,
Understand,
Witness injustice firsthand
And use my voice to try and mend.
So please.
No more gunshots in July,
No more mothers wondering whether
Her son is going to survive the night,
No more human skin grated against concrete,
No more hospital beds surrounded by weeping,
No more lives lost and priests kneeling
And children screaming for their fathers,
Both earthly and eternal.
What I’m craving right now is a
Shot of July,
Fireworks flying high,
The loudest screams out tonight
Are the children chasing each other with
Sparklers in the yard,
Not yet marred
By the ideas of the world.
So please.
No more gunshots in July.

She was allergic
To pollen, but she jumped in
Flowers anyways.

She was terrified
Of thunderstorms, yet she was
A storm of her own.

She said she didn't
Know how to love, yet she loved
Him to perfection.

Silence
Can
Have
An
Echo.

He hurriedly glanced at his wristwatch again,
The shadow of the cross from the steeple
Landing in the middle of the watch.
A sigh echoed through the church courtyard,
And a few rats scurried out of their hide-aways.
They should be here by now.
The moon hung in the sky,
Trying and failing to shed light on what was below.
The harsh noise of a truck on gravel reached his ears,
And he breathed a sigh of relief.
The newcomer parked the truck and lumbered out,
Holding several filthy beer bottles in his large, grimy hands.
“Here you go.”
His voice was gruff, calloused even, as if it was being
Grated like cheese.
Money from the priest’s hands went into the driver’s hands,
And when the priest looked into his eyes,
They spoke legends of ******.
The truck drove away, and
Pretty soon the courtyard was silent again,
Except for the hoot of an owl,
The contented sigh of the priest, and the
Pop of a beer bottle being opened.

There are scars on my
Body that I will never
Know where they came from.

There are tearstains on
My pillow I don’t even
Notice anymore.

I’m told I need help
But I don’t even realize
That I am broken.

My words stick to the
Roof of my mouth like peanut butter,
Like white bread,
And no matter how hard they try,
They can’t escape.
Lucky to make it past my brain’s thick fortress,
Now they sit useless at the tip of my tongue,
Wishing to come forth but my mouth
Not forming the words.
My vowels languish in my throat and
My consonants sit listless,
All my verb phrases and direct objects
Lie in a jumbled mess,
Too disheartened to make a move.
They know that if they leave my lips,
Others will take them and cut them up,
Mince them like onions,
But the only person who will cry over them is
Me.
Eventually, too many letters will clamor at my
Lips for attention, and my throat will
Close entirely,
Never fessing,
Admitting,
Confessing,
The things I feel.

Some think that a well thought out compliment
Is the best gift to give me.
What they don't know is that it stifles me,
Buries me under yet another layer of self doubt,
Wondering yet again, “What if I fail them?”
What if I'm just a fake, a fraud?
What if suddenly I wasn't so amazing, so perfect?
I love to be treasured,
But what happens when everyone
Finds out I'm just fool's gold?

Sometimes I wish for a war
So I could hold your velvet hands in mine
Wrap my arms around you maybe for the last time
Have an excuse to tell you how I feel-
Tell you that your smile is sometimes the only reason I’m still here
That your kind words light up every part of my soul
That you are what makes me whole.
I want to hold your face and say your name
And tell you it will be okay
That even though the world around us crumbles,
I will stay.
I will listen to your fears,
Hold all of your tears,
And love the heart you wear on your sleeve.
Sometimes I wish for a war
So I could hold your velvet hands in mine
Wrap my arms around you maybe for the last time
Have an excuse to tell you how I feel-
You are
What makes me whole.

Please practice the art of giving up on giving up.

Listen to me.
This is going to sound cliche,
But I think you need to hear it.
We are in high school,
We have our whole lives ahead of us.
Yes, I know you love them,
And knowing that they don't return
Your feelings anymore is heartbreaking.
I understand that.
But please, please,
Don't fall into the trap of
Thinking less of yourself because of this.
You are a beautiful, talented human
Without a partner.
Yes, a partner is a great thing to have,
But loving yourself will get you so much further!
You are simply YOU.
Nobody should be able to give that to you,
Nor take it away.
If they don't understand and appreciate you,
There will be somebody who does.
Just because this one doesn't work out,
Doesn't mean you have to
Give up on love.
I'm not saying go out and date right away,
But take your time,
Live your life,
Do the things you love to do,
Find yourself.
Once you find out who you are,
Nobody can touch that.
You will be unstoppable.
You are a determined and talented person,
And you are going places in life.
Yes, breakups are really tough.
But you are tougher.

I am on Mackinac Island,
Lying down on a big white lawn chair
In front of the Grand Hotel.  
The faint scent of fudge
Lingers on the air so I can almost taste it,
And my hair is getting constantly blown
By the wind that flows among the
Chairs, grass, and music.  
The music comes from the direction of the water,
Where an old style jazz band has
Temporarily set up shop,
Creating gorgeous silhouettes
Against the orange and pink sunset sky.  
The purring of the clarinet
Bounces off of me like the waves are
Bouncing on shore,
But even lighter than that,
Even lighter than the
Wings of the seagull trailing overhead.  
The clarinet drops in and out of sync
With the waves as the silhouettes start to
Bounce to the music.  
A distant bike bell dings,
But it matches so harmoniously
With the music that I don't notice it.  
Waves, bike, clarinet.  
Waves, bike, clarinet.  
A constant cycle interrupted only by
The saxophone and drums occasionally.  
Waves, bike, clarinet.  
The sun is set.  
Silhouettes turn to shadows.  
Waves, bike, clarinet.  
Waves, bike.  
Waves.

People frequently ask me,
“Please write this for me?”
“Can you make a character based off of me?”
“Can I be in your story?”
“Will you write a poem for me?”
And every time I get a question like that
I just want to scream,
I want to shout in their ears to
Make sure they understand that
I only write things I’m passionate about.
If it’s not a topic or a character that I am
Willing to put my entire heart and soul into,
I’m not doing it.
Please understand that this art for me is
A release, not necessarily a hobby.
I can’t take requests.
And I can’t control this passion.

“I love you,” you say,
But I hear,
“I’m just lusting after you.”
“I need you,” you say,
But I hear,
“I'm just keeping you around
Until someone else better comes.”
“You're beautiful,” you say,
But I hear,
“You're fake, you're nothing
Underneath all that makeup.”
“You're talented,” you say.
But I hear,
“I'm just trying to humor you
And make you feel better about yourself.”
No matter what you say,
Or how you say it,
I refuse to believe that I mean
Something to somebody.
I've been hurt too many times,
Been told I'm ugly,
Stupid,
Crazy,
Depressed.
All life has told me is that I'm
Worthless,
And I will never deserve anyone.
I'm sorry.
I'm just never enough.