I’ve never learned the way to be content
with scummy hard wood floors in studio apartments
and falling asleep to police sirens and the rush of cars over city bridges
and drug dealers outside my window whose business is only recognizable by night.

Boxes stay kept in the closet where I can’t be bothered by their stares
that beg me to loosen the layers of packing tape wrapped in every direction;
I can’t remember if I’m going to like what’s inside of them and I really,
really don’t want to not like it.

What makes a hundred stranger’s old homes become a home of yours?
Imagination is turning white walls that hold thousands of secrets
between each new layer of paint
into something that whispers familiar things to you before the lights go out.

There’s not enough bleach underneath the sink to wash away the stains of everyone who’s been here first,
no matter how much I scrub,
no matter how many bruises I’ll be willing to find on my knees tomorrow.
Ledges gathered dust of skin particles I hadn't been here to shed
And the bathtub is left with soap remnants rinsed from someone else's body.

My bed fits perfectly over the faded circle of wood in the corner,
and I’m sure theirs did too.
Tonight I’ll sleep to all things made here
and all things lost.

I’ll set my life up on the floor beneath two more
I'll memorize the routine of footstep patterns above me.

I never expected that a fresh start would feel so much more
like a lot of tangled endings.

Just yesterday
I stared at the dead blue sky
Yawning wide and high
Over Georgia

As a solitary bird,
Feathered wings extended,
Surfed the gusting wind
White, uncaged,
Thirsting for life

And song...
For reasons known
Only to gifted thespians
Like Maya

She painted words
Like rainbows
Through our rainy days,
Each cryptic line
Enriched with incandescent
Colors of light

She filled our cups
With infinite wit, allegory
And a whimsical slice
Of hope

Rippling springs
In the desert
Of our thirst

For inspiration
And clarity
Are the rocks
That weep this day
In the dark unknown

As angels smile,
And the uncaged bird
Sings goodbye
From the dead blue sky
Yawning wide and high
Over the world

~ P
#ForMaya
(05/28/2014)

we have rain today
the kind that collects
runs in small rivers
down the road
everything is dripping jewels
so needed say flowers
vehicles splash through puddles
sending sprays of rain
back into the air
but its summer rain
the refreshing kind
glad to be alive kind

Poet, be not afraid.
There are far worse things than
Bad poetry.

Keep writing; like a child keeps
Drawing with the purest of
Disregards to likeness.

The more stones you turn, the more
Gems you produce.

The more ink you rain,
The more gracious your written
Children grow.

All flexing builds muscle.

Rough bricks form castles.

Even Dalì carved canvases to shreds
And started anew
Not caring too much.
Not caring

Too much
To keep painting.

Whose woods these are I think I know.
His house is in the village, though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.

My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.

He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sound’s the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.

The woods are lovely, dark, and deep,
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.