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Click, click
Scroll, scroll
Light shine in my face
Clock is ticking
As I lie awake

What time is it now?
Doesn’t even matter
The birds will chirp soon
I’ll hear all the clatter

My family waking,
Breakfast will cook
“You’re up early!”
But sleep I never took

Click, click
Scroll, scroll
Tap, tap
Roll, roll

Side to side
I rocked all night
A comfortable spot?
No, not quite.

Time to get up, another restless night.
Will I ever sleep again?
I used to read your poems
but lately you don't write
you're silent and aloof
you know that isn't right.
You can't close a door once opened
you can't abolish all your dreams
you're a poet of the heart
mustn't fall apart at the seams.
Say what you can in words
they speak the message true
spoken from the heart
the poems will see you through.
A hermit's not your style
a recluse, you are not
never give up writing
of things that you've been taught.
I used to read your poems
I'd read them once again
if you would send them out
(this one's from a poet friend)
Nine years and still
we cradle our grief
carefully close,
like groceries
in paper bags.

Eventually the milk
will make its way
into the refrigerator;
the canned goods
will find their home
on pantry shelves.

Most things find
their proper place.

Eventually the hummingbirds
will ricochet against scorched air,
their delicate beaks stabbing
like needles into the feeder filled
with red nectar on the back porch.

Eventually our child
will make her way
back to us. Perhaps.

But I’ve heard
that shooting
****** feels
like being
buried under
an avalanche
of cotton *****.

For now it’s another
week, another month,
another trip to Safeway.

We drive home and wonder
why it is always snowing.
Behind a curtain of snow,
brake lights pulse, turning
the color of cotton candy,
dissolving into ghosts.

And with each turn,
the groceries shift
in the seat behind us.
From the spot where
our daughter used to sit,
there is a rustling sound—

a murmur of words
crossed off yet another list,
a language we’ve budgeted
for but cannot afford to hear.
These little fingers
on his little hand
gripping mine
to say hello
Makes me realize
how love can
Create and grow

Helps me understand
what I need to know
That life is precious
And shouldn't be rushed
My own mortality as contrast
to his new life

I'm definitely not in any rush
When my cries for comfort
For food
For a warm hand
patting my ***
And cooing me to sleep
Are so similar to his.

I provide what I can
Because I understand
And I know what he needs.  

Two days of life
and a lifetime of lessons
I wish him better luck than me.
And will do what I must
So he can live a more robust
Life than me.
In hope we will watch you and your brother grow.
I am America
Conqueror
Conquered
Indentured
Old world roots
New world trees

I am America
To overcome
To transform
To dream
To live
To die

I am America
Native
Black
Brown
White
Mulatto

I am America
Soldier
Protestor
Fire
Healer
Flower

I am America
Christian
Jew
Muslim
Agnostic
Atheist

I am America
Master
Slave
Rich
Poor
Divided

I am America
Capitalist
Socialist
Environmentalist
Activist
Survivalis­t

I am America
Weak
Strong
Freedom
Dysfunction
Uncertain

I am America
Diverse
Tolerant
Racist
Hate
Love

I am America
So it is written
Natural born
Inalienable rights
Created equal
I am you
Forest inquires:

How do you decide, choose your design, find its guise,
give it a face, surrender to the poem's own
vanity,
        and choose the poem's alignment?


                                                  an­ answer forms:

this alignment idea,
you think it simple,
everybody understands
what your inquiry means

alignment -  the appropriate relative position

we live in relative position to each other, our poems too, for they are but written synapses of our close captioned interactions, seemingly random, but assuredly not, as we invest in ourselves, seeking the mysterious appropriate answer
                                                                ­                        from the Theory of Poetic Relativity

                                                   ­             i love your question;                              hold it to my nostrils,          
                                             ­             smell the coffee aroma wake up blast inherent;
                                                                ­      
 kiss its robust childlike cheeks for the simple   soulfulness essential arousal;
for you see sir you have found
the appropriate position that relates us, our mindful words;

                                 answer no good, wholly insufficient?
                                        perfect.
                          as i close this quick cooked to perfection laboratory solution, take note

                              
                            ­                        the earth has moved
                                our hearts have beaten a measly thousand times
                                    time and space have appropriated our prior
                                          
relativity

when you return years hence this poem's shape will perforce have moved. for words are weathered flux constant and yet inherently unchanged except for the part of us that changes with every re-reading  

and what was


**right before has left and the center has moved again
Nat,

This is probably just an insane thing of mine, but I cannot stand the center aligned formatted poetry. I want to read the poetry, but why center? I want to know why it is center aligned? If it is a metaphor for how poetry could/should serve as a balancing point, a countervailing force for a point, perhaps I could understand...but so many poems center aligned, I don't know, I am probably missing something.

A right aligned poem? Perhaps I could understand, if the content was asking me to revolt, to revolutionize, to counter the status quo. But a centered poem? What does the alignment mean?

anyway, it has been a long time since I've been around, keep writing, hope you are well.

-forest
your words are pushpins.

pushpins that held my dreams in place
on the wall of lilac lies
that you built around me.

they left termite holes
in the gypsum board
that remind me

of how useless a promise can be.
you lay on your bed,
you are naked.
i can see you
through a fogged window
or a blurry tv screen.

as you leave,
i can hear the angelic sound
of ancient church music
spilling out of your shoes.

you walk along,
i feel your body moving
closer to me
but it is walking the opposite direction.

i tell you
how i feel we are two people
standing in the same pair of feet.
you remind me
how we are on opposite hemispheres.
About me young careless feet
Linger along the garish street;
Above, a hundred shouting signs
Shed down their bright fantastic glow
Upon the merry crowd and lines
Of moving carriages below.
Oh wonderful is Broadway -- only
My heart, my heart is lonely.

Desire naked, linked with Passion,
Goes trutting by in brazen fashion;
From playhouse, cabaret and inn
The rainbow lights of Broadway blaze
All gay without, all glad within;
As in a dream I stand and gaze
At Broadway, shining Broadway -- only
My heart, my heart is lonely.
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