An Inca Dove flies to and fro
Landing graceful in my yard
Grist for any poet, bard
Her cooing soft and low.

Warm gray body, flash of wing
Whatever does she do?
I see her as her task ensues
She does a constant thing.

Back and forth the small bird flies
Of this I can attest
She pulls grass for her small nest
Right before my eyes!

I've been sitting here for hours
Thinking on my dreams
Lazily, or so it seems
For that bird builds her tower!

She goes by instinct, like the ant
Who burrows in the soil
Ever constant with her toil
'Til she would sit and pant!

While I do nothing in my seat
She flies away, and then
She comes for grasses yet again
Until her nest's complete!

Would that all the warring nations
Sit down to agree
To make the people warring-free
With such dedication!

Emulate the gentle dove
She slaves to rear her young
She works away and softly sung

Her song of purest LOVE.


SøułSurvivør
(C) 4/18/2017

Begin with
something
broken—

a bone,
a heart,
a home—

collect
the pieces
carefully

and work
them over

over time

tumble and polish
tumble and polish

make the pain shine.

This week,
I trudged along the cold, salty
waters of the rocking ocean,

I swung my feet gracefully
and walked along the sandy shore,
a ballerina, stretching her feet
to form light, bittersweet
curse words in the sand,

I tilted my head back
to drink in all of the sky,
the stars twinkled
and swallowed me whole,

I scanned the rising horizon
for miles, reached out to abandoned shells
placed at my feet,
quietly listened to the sad, melodic
voices, of gleaming sirens
in the ocean's heart

But despite my breathlessness
in the crisp air, of the gray ocean
I still could not
find you,
the one I so yearn to meet,
the one who could
make me forget the sorrows,
the delicate, hidden pain,

the one who I deserve
to love,
because now, everything else
is no longer worth a thing,

and everyday,
is still like

the stars
going out
in my empty soul.

one deep breath to free your song
one remembrance of love
one returning to silence
one great listening to your heart.

Rain beats down on the window pane
As the flood gates of Heaven suddenly open
It is pouring out in torrential flow
Like a Reservoir, all at once, broken

It has come down as a welcome respite
To fan away the humid sweltering heat
It falls in drops and flows in rivulets
Washing the dust of summer drought

With a sudden burst from the weight laden clouds
It lashes down in steam and fury
Plummeting to form ripples in puddles
And filling pools and ponds in hurry

In slanting sheets, it almost pounds
Flooding roads and making puddle
Gushing through pipes and rushing down drains
Water floods, causing men to waddle

Rain has its abode in heavens so high
And hides behind clouds of mournful gloom
In silver strings, it spans the Earth
And cleanses the plants in resplendent gleam

Sudden is the wind, coming to shoo away the clouds
And the sky is once more cerulean blue
As the music stops and the humdrum stills
The water seeps, giving no evident clue.

After an angry couple’s furious fight,
As the house goes back to an uncanny calm,
The rain has vanished, leaving little trace
Cooling the Earth and causing no harm

at times you feel full ready to fly
to choose to leave this nest

but you have to trust
when the time truly comes

it will not be your choosing
and patience will get you there.

Our feet have
a finite
amount of space
to walk
like sunlight passing
through monolithic
towers of economic
power

Our small planet
shrinks
minute by minute
day by day

roads, signs, fences,
urban decay

walls, boarders,
wars, governments,
aggression,
& hate

We've lost our ways

limitations of a vast
wilderness we once
roamed
as the wind travels
in the spaces
between

trapped like electricity
in machines
and now we
live in small bubbles
and believe that freedom
means
to isolate ourselves from troubles
beyond
barricades

I remember the first time
that I was called pretty.
I was eight years old.
I remember feeling
a bubble of insecurity
hover around me,
like an ant
under a microscope.
At eight years old,
I had experienced
my very first wave
of expectations of women
in a male dominated society.
I had no idea
that would be the first
of many by the time
I reached womanhood.
I was just a child.
I loved playing in the dirt,
and capturing bull frogs.
I was a girl
who played like a boy.
I never thought I was pretty,
not because I had
low self esteem,
but because
I was eight years old.
I was to young
to have pretty
wrapped up in my identity.
Fast forward
eight more years.
I am sixteen now.
I am no longer
playing in the dirt,
or capturing bull frogs.
I am painting my nails
bright pink,
and dying my hair
every two weeks.
I am trying to be pretty.
I am no longer
feeling the bubble of insecurity.
I am living in it
twenty four seven.
I am always concerned
with how I look,
how I act,
and what I say.
I am a girl
who is no longer a tomboy.
I am just a girl.
I no longer know
who I am,
because I am
not allowed
to be who I am.
I am expected
to sit quietly
in the corner,
straightening my hair,
perfecting my makeup,
so that a boy
who loves my body
can tell me he loves me,
and make me his wife.
Fast forward
4 more years.
I am twenty now.
I am numb
to the insecurity.
I am now expected
to live in a suburb,
raise three kids,
clean the house,
love my husband,
and my white picket fence.
I am just another girl
who is seen as pretty.
I am living a lifeless life.
I am at a crossroads
to either stay down
under the weight
of societies expectations,
or burn my picket fence
right down to the ground.
I am remembering
that tomboy I was
before I was called pretty.
I can either reconnect
with her fierceness,
or hide beyond a mask
of beige concealer.
I can either be a dove,
or I can be a phoenix.
I think
the choice is obvious.