The earth is not flat, yet
we talk of corners and I
Am loaned a smile, in
knowing you are in one
Your daily business, gone
about and your thoughts
Turning sometimes, twice
to me in my window seat
Watching the tumble of
grey-white cloud kings, riding
Across the same sky that
may adorn your brow, so
Quizzical, full of wonderment
that on this sphere of mud-flats
There are still new findings
to be had and jewels hidden
In the dazzling form of persons
in the corners of my globe

dad left
for his second tour of duty
on my third birthday

mom kept
a jar full of jelly beans
on the living room coffee table

every night
she gave me one to eat, saying
"when these jelly beans
are all eaten up,
dad will come back home"

sometimes
i would sneak another,
to help dad come home sooner

one night
the phone rang
and i watched mom
wipe away a tear
as she filled
the jar
back
up

A rainy day,
an acoustic guitar,
a notebook,
a studio apartment overlooking the city.
"I want to measure my mornings
in spoonfuls of coffee
and my nights in empty cigarette boxes."
I don't remember the name of the poet who wrote that
but it couldn't describe my life
any more accurately.
I want to measure my mornings
in spoonfuls of coffee
and my nights in empty cigarette boxes.
I want to measure my happiness
in rainy days and soft kisses,
poetry,
I want to measure my recovery
in full meals and trash bags full of razors,
in tears shed by my eyes
instead of my skin.
I want to measure my free time
in independent movies
and 4 different kinds of music-
indie,
hard rock,
classic rock,
and pop-punk.
I want to measure my infinities
in starry night skies,
galaxies, constellations,
physics books I got in middle school
and his eyes,
his smile.
I want to measure my victories
in minutes without smoking
and my losses
in blaring headphones
and labyrinths of white smoke.
I want to measure my work ethic
in sick days
and missed bills.
I want to measure my heart
in belly dancing
and ***** converse,
in beanies
and minutes spend holding him.
I want to measure my life
in written chapters
and highlighted smiles
in blue Christmas lights
and TV show references,
in my favourite movies and novels and songs
and my dependence on myself,
in cans of Peace Tea
and Pringles
and not regretting eating,
in pens that help the words flow
and laughs,
smiles,
hugs,
kisses,
and hope that in the future
things will be alright...
More alright than they are now.

Have you ever...

Heard a color? Seen a sound?
Smelled a thought, or all around,
Traversed an inward universe,
Where waves of mind abound?

Have you ever...

Climbed upon a ray of light,
Ascending towards the peak, and
Visited a place, of which
Mere words could never speak?

Have you ever,

Felt yourself expanding,
Out into the atmosphere, and
Glimpsed your tiny world below,
While laughing at your fear?

Have you ever...

Stepped outside that little box,
The one that some call "you?" and
Probed the depths, to question
Why you do the things you do?

Well,

...have you?

Find a Poet Not a poser, not a "it's just a hobby" poet. Find one who mumbles lines as they scramble for a pen at breakfast; who shakes their head randomly when their thoughts aren't rhyming properly;  who has notebooks stashed around the house that you must never touch.
2. Listen Savor the spoken words, for those are harder to express. Keep in mind that they can't be edited and re-written, and be forgiving when a mistake is made.
3. Read The body speaks as loudly as words on a page do. When their eyes are closed or focused on the ceiling and the fingers are tapping out syllables, recognize the unique process. Respect the need for quiet, because if you look closely, you can read the poem on their face before they write it on the page.
4. Write Write your story together. Grab hold of the pen and hang on as you move across the page of life. Sometimes you will dance across, others you will be dragged. You may have to cross out a word, or a line, or a page, but don't give up. Discouragement is a poet's biggest enemy, inarticulateness their biggest fear. So end each day with a semi-colon, because the story will never end the way you think it will, and there must be room for more. There is always room for more, more words, more laughter, more tears, more love,
When you love a poet.