They say to hide my scars
But I don't want too
They say it's OK
But it's really not
They say I'm crazy
But I'm completely sane
They say that I don't try hard enough
But I try my hardest at everything
They say I don't know what pain is
But I fight battles everyday
They say who am I battling
I say myself...

I have no name
I am but two days old.—
What shall I call thee?
I happy am
Joy is my name.—
Sweet joy befall thee!

Pretty joy!
Sweet joy but two days old.
Sweet joy I call thee;
Thou dost smile,
I sing the while
Sweet joy befall thee.

~~~

My memory of grandpa
Was that his hands were red
Showing me some pictures
A kid's book before bed.

The bones were raw and gnarled
The sinews looked all sore
The skin was thickly callused
Spotted, lined and scored.

They showed wear and tear
They echoed his toil
Grandpa was a farmer
A tiller of the soil.

Grandpa couldn't read
But we could laugh and look
His hands delicately turning
The pages of a book.


SoulSurvivor
(C) 5/12/2015

Where do I find a poem?
In the space of a blink,
Between heartbeats,
When idle or moving,
With family and friends,
In a cemetary,
At school,
On a beach,
On-line,
On a bench, sitting beside me.
In the four seasons,
Beneath the blue, black and starry canopy,
In the wild, sapian or worldly,
In the arts and prophets,
Crawling on the floor,
When I'm cooking;
And, when I'm not looking,
A poem will find me.

Dandelions are the most independent flower.
They grow where they want.
No one plants them.
They’re free.
They’re infinite.
I felt infinite picking them in the apple orchard with you.
We were free.
We were infinite.  
I couldn't handle my smile watching you,
Rip them out of the earth by the handfuls.
Your face was covered in sunshine and pollen.
It might have been the pollen that resembled sunlight.
Regardless,
You emitted the sun in a way I've never seen before.
I refuse to accept that dandelions are weeds,
Because I want to be a dandelion with you.