maybe my hands shake because
i've been told settling is wrong,
and my fingers have been kept
in their skin for too long

(if i shed, i'm sure i'll grow wings)

If someone writes a novel,
You don't assume that it's a snapshot of their entire emotional self,
So why do people assume that of a poet's work?
I am not my most recent poem,
Or any of the others.
We are wordsmiths, weaving a linguistic labyrinth
And inside are hidden codes and meanings, layers upon layers.
We invite others to explore, without judgement or condemnation,
Though we welcome comment and interpretation.
And yes, sometimes we write exactly what we feel,
And sometimes we make that clear,
But if we don't, please don't assume.
Poems are not novels, but they can be fiction.
Words are never just words,
And all writing contains something of the writer,
But even for the ultimate narcissist, there are other sources of inspiration
And other subjects, than ourselves.

As the dust settles in
On the coffee table,
I smile.

The rising sun
Elusive and innocent

Illuminates their faces as they sleep:

My brother-
All stubborn scowls
And groans.

My father-
Weatherbeaten and wizened.

My mother-
Pining and tired.

Youthful shadows creep into our home
On tiptoe,
Grinning impishly.

Barefoot, I greet them.