My mother was a writer.
I remember her,
papers spread out upon a bed sheet in the sand,
stacked pebbles protecting her work from the wind
as I made drip-castles at the water's edge
and braided crowns from wild poppies.
I would run to her so she could
rub grape sunscreen into my sandy shoulders
and I asked her once,
“Mama,
is that poetry?”
and she said “No little one,
you are poetry,
this only tries to be.”
and I thanked her,
and ran back to the water
to search for flat stones to skip,
and thought no more of poetry.

Putting words together is a devolution of self;

the soft underwash of sea darkens sand,
a faded sun burns out over rooftops of rain,
a snow train stops in frost under polar stars;

but this is beyond me, over the edge.

.


   I love you,                          I hate you
I scribbled in the       places where my
   tissue paper heart   should   be   full
      jigsaw puzzles made whole again
        poor broken hearts made new
          taped it to my battered chest
             regretted using black pen
               hindsight knows us best
           {==I let you back in again==>
                     picking  up  pieces
                        drying my eyes
                          a new  thesis
                            I won't cry
                               alright?
                                 good
                                  bye
                      ­               .

A brown leaf lingers
At the mercy of the wind --
Hanging, like the stars.

We can't always be strong

even the toughest
and largest things
on this earth
get worn down a little
here and there

I have strength
and courage inside me

it yearns to come out
while the tears fall down my cheeks
and erode the skin
on my face

I'm not gone, yet

only small pieces
have been chipped away

I'll be okay

here I am,
I'm still standing

I may not be what I used to be
but maybe there is a new beauty
to be found
from what I have become