I write
like I conversate,
ready to elevate
or deflate
my own ego,

learning what
I know
and what I do not
know that I don’t
know;

Fulfilling the promise of
constantly being willing to
blow myself up.

I write like I am on fire,
begging for unsmoked air
whilst choking on
the beauty of trying
to not be the one dying.

I write like
I have something to say,
but mostly
say nothing
in the most graceful
style.

I write like
I am meant to
spend a few
words on you
who need
to breath
literary
artistry,
like plants need
to breath carbon.

So, I write like
I am a tree
and you are a human being,
a certain symbiosis.
I hope you know this.

I write like I hate
and love you all
with the same verse.

Elliott is 10 today, a decade passed like the blink of an eye, yet I feel like I have loved him forever, time is funny like that. He’s closer to adult now than baby on my lap; a thought too achy to process. His toy box sits untouched most days, sometimes I’ll see him pick up an action figure he used to love, and there will be a slight spark in his eye, but it’s gone as fast as it comes. From his room, I can hear him laughing while watching cartoons. I cling to these fleeting moments of his childhood, imprint the sound of his wild boy laugh, commit it to memory, and understand that time only passes this fast when you love this hard. I am happy to love you so, my dear, let the years pass, fast as they may.

There is no place on earth
no pile of dirt
that is worth
the sickening hurt,
of treating others worse
than they deserve.

There is no spot
cold or hot
that beats this
once in a lifetime
that we all got.

So, why not,
be kind and
listen to others
and offer a
helping hand
to your fellow
humans?

T’was
a melody of
sweet love,

a poem written
by the smitten,

words weaved
for all to see
such awesome
symmetry,

but it ran on
too long,
and I got
lost.

Distracted,
my eyes
averted to
brighter skies,
and the melancholy
of his poetry
faded from my mind.

T’was as verse
and several stanza
too long,
so I have moved on
and am currently
enjoying the poetry
of nature’s glowing
glory.

I acknowledge
that life is not this
certain,
but needs
certain balance.

So, the introvert
comes out to play,
quick witted word games,
flowing faster
than a rapper’s
lyrics.

I am spitting wisdom
and she hears it.
The reapers beating
bares repeating
cause he is seeding
deep desire.

Larcenous lust,
pushing to touch,
so intrusive,

but I am consumed,
and engaged,
as I parlay
what we say
in conversation,
exchange said thoughts
for something caught
in my poetry.

I.
My son does not understand fear,
he is 3,
he thinks in color,
he believes in magic,
he says that our dog Smokey
controls the weather.

Watch him as he goes!
Jumping over cracks on sidewalks,
pretending to fly,
attempting to get near electric outlets
because he saw them spark once,
and fire,
fire is cool!

"Watch me Mommy!

watch me."

II.
Some days I stay in bed all day,
I tell everyone I am catching a cold,
a sinus infection,
another migraine again.

It is easier to lie than to explain,
that it is too difficult to shower,
to find an outfit, to brush my hair,
to make food,
to chew it.

Friends jokingly call me a hypochondriac,
my Mother thinks I am mellow dramatic,
My son asks me if I need my temperature checked.

It is too honest to say,
"I am fighting monsters, and they won today."
Who would believe me if I did?

We are taught since childhood
to not believe in the things
we can not see.

III.
The day we buried my Grandfather,
I wore my favorite gray dress,
I was scared to taint it
with such a sad memory,
but I was 8 months pregnant
and nothing else fit.

We threw dirt in a hole
as three strangers watched us grieve.
They stood with shovels ready to do their jobs,
ready to get home to their loved ones.  

All I could think about was how much
it aches to love anyone,
even in the good times, it aches.
Loss dances outside our window
like flames, waiting to engulf.

I vowed to protect my child
from any unnecessary pain,
I vowed to make him feel safe.

Now I fear I am the one
tainting him in gray.

IV.
Not every day is bad,
most days are nice, in fact,
some days are so good
that the bad ones seem
like distant memories.

On the good days I feel brave,
brave like my son;

I tickle his tummy and show him
which lights are stars, which are planets,
and tell him I love him, always,
no matter what.

A song that makes you feel nostalgic is playing in the grocery store
you pick through green apples, mushrooms, & cilantro,
absorbing sadness like a dry sponge in a soap bowl.

You wish to mourn, but not in front of strangers so
you carry this knot in your throat, like grocery bags, all the way home.

You've been so quiet for days and after a drink you feel like spilling,
You tell your brother that the moon smells like gunpowder and
about that thing you did in middle school that still makes you cringe.

your last cigarette has reached the filter.
You panic, you feel this is the only way anyone will listen.

There is a small town in Alaska being swallowed by the sea,
the article reads, “Villagers fight to save drowning city…”

You too fight a futile fight against the ocean;
You know the feeling of flailing toes in search of solid ground.

Whenever you get too scared you think about
hang drying, clean, white sheets in an open field.

You don't know why, but it always calms you.

Elliott reads aloud from some adventure book, I take over when his eyes are tired.
Luna is in the bath again, she’s a mermaid this week.
Jeremy works from home, his eyes dart back and forth, across computer screens.
If you weren’t watching the news, one could mistaken this merely as reverence for the mundane.
I turn off the news, and feel guilty for wanting to look away, I turn it back on again.
I did nothing to deserve the safety of my home, with the people I love.
I am reminded of the day the second Iraq war started,
we watched from our couch.
Black and white images of falling bombs flooding our screens,
our youngest brother weeping in my mother’s chest.
We all held him and assured him that it was happening somewhere far away,
that it was happening in someone else’s house, not our own.
I wanted to cry then, but I thought I was too old,
Sometimes I want to cry now, but I’m even older.
The neighbor’s dog howls all day long.
The kids run, laughing maniacally, from living-room,
to bedroom, and back again.
They are unencumbered by the chaos that remains unseen/unfelt in our home
I am grateful for that.

Grabbing on to the thin cigarette trees
we’d take the steep path down to the creek,
sat on that freckled stone while catching our breath,
we could hear trains in the distance,
you’d imitate them, the whistles, and hisses.
I’d throw my head back in laughter, and wait for an echo.
As a teen, you would imagine the trains arrived
to pick up the lucky, who found their way out.
I asked you if you ever considered
that maybe those trains brought the broken back home as well.
You didn’t understand then.
Today I imagine you, small suitcase, heavy heart,
on the train to inspect what is left of that beautiful, big, old house,
I see you mentally sorting through what remains;
Maybe the smooth rocks, plucked from the creek,
by a child who wanted nothing but to leave,
and today could not possibly come back home.
California is on fire.
the sky is blood orange,
the sky is Big Stick red,
the sky is end of the world blue.
The woman on the news informs me it’s fire season,
and we’ve yet to reach its peak.
I become increasingly annoyed
as she refers to herself as "on the frontlines"
while standing in the parking lot of a Wendy’s,
in heels, and a short dress,
knowing nothing of what you have lost.

This pandemic has given me free
license to engage in my unabashedly
introverted ways and not feel like
I’m a complete *******.  
In fact, I get to feel really good since
I’m still working, and I can justify
my nonexistent social life
by saying That I’m protecting my friends
by not going out and visiting them.

Pain is all around us.
Everyone wears its
hellish weight.

Some days they may smile
but other days you will see
the tears that stain faces plain,
as figures fall like drops of rain
succumbing to a tragic view.

Society will crumble
come crashing to ground,
and in the years to come
only ashes will be found.