The Oak tree in the garden fasts
her luscious bodice skinned
Though dream we did that autumn last,
none could conquer cold coarse wind

Ethereal laces, red and gold
once cloaked her graceful form
As sun-warmed skin, turned white with cold
flesh falls like ladies’ laces torn

Light which drenched her leaves ’til soaked
has vanished long with autumn’s coat
Instead, bare arms, broken and *****
Fight November’s bitter, bleak demote

And then one day I check upon her
Has winter’s brutal beating claimed
vict’ry by that cruel crisp monster
gainst my garden’s fairest dame?

Alas, my prize has not been slain
her beauty ne’er been thieved
For in the night the winter came,
but dressed her as a queen!

Under folds of whitest silk she stands
draped in drops of diamond light
Defeated crude and forceful hands
bow down to such exquisite might

So once again she rises,
sleek and silver stands she now
Transformed by winter’s laces whitest
she shall remain my garden crown

I wish you could see what I see here.
Smell the beautiful stench of sewage and un-showered people.
Feel the African wind fly through your hair,
bringing with it a mouthful of dirt.
Pick dry black boogers from your nose, and
bits of dirt and grime from your eyelashes.
Clean your teeth of the ram you watched them **** last night,
just before you ate it.
I wish you could feel the Ethiopian sun on your bare arms,
licking dry lips because you ran out of clean water to drink.
See millions of curious brown eyes as you fly down dirt roads
in a squeaky dust-covered van.
Watch the African sun rise upon a city of stories,
stories which walk the streets every day without fail.
I wish you could be here and experience this.
I wish I could bring you here.
One day.

sometimes I look at myself and I see a rock

hard

angular and solid

never bending to the will of another or the force of the wind

incapable of being morphed

except by the sharpest chisel

rocks know no time

everlasting

never changing



but to be honest I wish I looked and I saw a tree and not a rock

for trees may be weaker, yes

they do know time, they fall powerless to its passing

they are weak against wind

they do not always make it

but trees, they grow

and the wrinkles they earn they never try to conceal

trees have seen things, they know stories

they’ve lost branches

they’ve grown new ones

trees see death and new life again and again

and the mess of a tree tells the tale of many years

they morph, and they change

they may be powerless to outside forces

they may bend and sometimes break

but when a tree makes it, there is something glorious

and admirable

because rocks, they exist.

but trees, trees actually live.

sometimes all I want
is to feel the wind surround my face
capture my hair and send it dancing
pulling me toward the unknown
adventure that waits.
I want tiny glimpses of glowing lights
twinkling flames
hidden scents, delicate and sweet
I want grass beneath my feet
even ants between my toes
I want to brush dirt from my heels
and to feel silk against my skin
I want to see every color
hear every sound
smell every smell
taste every spice
touch every thing!
I want to find all the beauty that there is
in the world
and all the beauty that there is
outside of it
I want stars above my head
new lands before my eyes
every people at my side
and nothing in between.

I am buried far beneath everything and anything that is good.
Or that is how I feel at least.
I often wish I were the cat, or dog, or squirrel
they have so few worries, I envy them.
The list never decreases,
the rain never lets up.
In here, at least.
I am like an old empty house.
Cold, dank, dark, dusty.
Sometimes the sun shines through my windows.
But only at just the right time of day,
and even then it is usually cloudy.
It feels cloudy, anyway.
Even if you see the sun.
Not everyone does.