you are not my life
only a part of it.

you are not the sun I revolve around
nor am I the soul that gave you life.

no you are not my tide nor my moon
my vine or my rain.

you are a part to the whole
a mere part
a mere soul.

let us not run
to the gift we receive
nor forget the cost
of such a gift,
like a child on Christmas morning.

let us not cling to the gift
but to the giver.

I crave it.
Like a mother longing to kiss her child
and stair at the contour of his face,
as lovers stair at each other's smiles for hours
because it fills them

with a hope that beauty can come from
the simplest of objects-
nose
mouth
cheek,
brush
pigment
canvas.

If it please God,
renew the girls.
Let them breath in
again, take in
oxygen, live in
the world again.
Take away
all the fire,
make them sparrows
to soar the land,
remand your
wretched offenders
and silence
their using,
soothing and saving
all beloved daughters
to yourself,
Take off their heavy chains.
Make them worthy and
free of pain.

(In the form of Blandeur by Kay Ryan)

I sat in the car for an hour today
reading and
writing
poetry.

She said it wouldn't take too long
but that's okay.
An hour of wasted time
some may say.
No, not to me.
An hour of wasted rights,
maybe.

I never knew it was so cool to vote.
So I'll just sit here and
read and
write
poetry.

like a torpedo
plunging into the ocean
nose-down and self-propelled
it dives in.
leaving a great splash for all to see
the ripples following flow freely
and I cannot stop them from spreading.

like a fledgling finding the ground
my heart falls fast.

Out of place and all alone.
I find myself searching
for someone like me
with blonde hair, green eyes,
same tongue.
I connect to nothing,
except the wifi signal around me.

But why?
Why do I not connect to the woman next to me?
To the man with his daughter asleep in his lap?

I see no smiles or laughs
only a woman crying.
At least that is something.
There, there it is.
Real emotions.
Something to connect us.