Places that once had names
changed by wind and rain
and sun and shifting sands
once mapped and framed
bad lands claim
dry bones.

Desert meets sky
   and rivers run dry
and road is lost
    to all who try
to find their way
    to shining pools
of silver lies
    miraged below
forgetful skies.

Days go past in time lapsed
skies changing fast to black
to red to blue to white
and back again
to no end
in sight.

r ~ 4/7/14

"Sweet dreams,"
My parents would say before we went to bed.

If only.
For my dreams
Were nightmares
Grotesque, twisted monsters
Would run after me
In a dimly-lit forest
Only to have
A car come by suddenly
And run over me
Causing my organs to burst
And blood to stain the ground.

They said,
"May your dreams come true!"
Forgetting that
Nightmares
Were dreams too.

I like the way you talk
There's nothing more I can add to that
I like the way you walk
Like you have somewhere to be
I like your smile and how it warms me
I like how your awkwardness seems confident
I like how you're caring
I like how you're sweet
I like how you want to say something
Then don't want to at the same time
I like how you ask questions randomly
I like how you're poem turned out
That you wrote when I asked so I could see your writing
I like your spelling and grammar mistakes
I like that you put up with me being sarcastic
I like how when you ask how I'm feeling
And when I respond honestly you don't judge me
I like how the more I learn about you
The more this list grows
I like you
And that's honesty

You are my moon.
I know it's a metaphor and
I know it's prone to misinterpretation
But isn't that what's great about metaphors?

You are the sky.

What do you mean?

It means what it means and what you think it means.

What do you think it means?

It doesn't matter what I think it means.

But you wrote it, didn't you? You ought to know.

That's the thing about writers. We write things and we don't know
what they mean, really. For there is not one frame for each line
and each picture we paint. It's about writing masterpieces that can be
broken down to different pieces. Maybe even to the point that it is
crushed to sand and turned to dust. Dust flies away with the wind and
if poetry might turn to dust, then I will be glad.

-D.D.

Dear Homework,
Sitting down to do you is like a little kid sitting down to eat his veggies.
In case the eternity of school every day isn't enough you add to that.
You're the nails on a chalkboard, the leg that fell asleep.
The peas in the chicken noodle soup, the sun blocking my view.

You're like an injury.
Always holding me back.
You're like getting out of bed.
Nobody wants to but we all have to do it eventually.
Hopefully you're like dinosaurs.
We just want you to go extinct.

Sincerely, Everybody