Poetry isn't just rhymes
Poetry isn't even always words
Because when I look at some people
I think
How could they possibly be anything but poetry?

The moon in the sky
Ever-changing
Always beautiful
I look at it and think
How can anyone look at this and not see poetry?

Sometimes when the right person hugs me at the right time
When I feel that feeling I think
This is poetry.

My cat on my lap is poetry
The sunset
The green of the grass you're lying in
A room full of real smiles

A parade for the gays celebrating love
Love is poetry
How could love not be poetry?

I promise you
You haven't lost your ability to create it
Because you yourself are poetry
And everytime you make someone's world even a little bit better
That. Is. Poetry.

You. Are. Poetry.

When my oldest brother, Todd,
came back for my mom's funeral,
he had this light about him.
His face was a poem.
Sure, he was the oldest, and he
had a healthy-looking tan from the
hot New Mexico sun, working
outside with turquoise, silver,
and bear claws to make
jewelry for the tourists, but there
was more than that.

He was an artist, and all artists have
a fractured ease about things, but he
lit up.  Something from the inside
projected out.
He comforted everyone else, we leaned
on him.  His eyes oozed serenity.

A few calendars later, when I traveled
back for his funeral, I saw the same
look on a few of his friends' faces.
His wife told me after the service
that Todd had gotten sober years before.

•###•

•the•message•is•so•phantom•

•strangled•
•during•the•thir­d•act•

•illuminated•
•letters•are•the•ciphertext•

•and•they•glo­w•
•in•your•eyes•
•Bletchley•Park•

•Turing•
•worked•it•out•with•­
•Delilah•

•they•killed•for•less•
•died•for•even•more•

•###•

Precocious baby, tempered to a china-blue hue, you
Had not been ripe as a morning glory
Before riots mongered in the plasma of your shapeless head.

Haunting as an omen, you
Had drank from the cord of my cold-blooded artery.
Turned my insides out like a shimmering dime bag
As we fell to the earth.

In retrospect:
all things
would have been
different-
everything
would have neatly
hung on
the right peg

You’ve given me grief, you’ve given me pain
You’ve made me meek, you’ve made me vain
I should hate you, should crave ****** revenge
It’s insane that I miss you to no end.

Youve screamed and yelled and made me forget
My dreams and wills, the futures I’ve set
I’m finally free yet now I still ship
Notes over seas that I bet you just skip.

It’s not only me that you’ve given pain to
Lots of my loved ones you’ve also made blue.
It makes it much worse to me that I still
Love you this much against my own will.