Some say
she is lost to writing poems
snippets, little vignettes of beauty
so much nature inspired, obsessed
with green, botany driven desires
forever in skies, blue, or black with stars
meteor showers, falling, melting
like the liquid silver, red sea of mars
crashing waves, her days
tossed, tumbled, stumbling onto poetry
there is no fault, in words
no shame to be made
would be a sorrowful price to pay
she is writing to find
some truths, a sleuth, a seeker
of going within, without doubt
writing to find herself
most days searching out signs of life
to feel what it would be like, to be
in trees, in leaves, to sleep in green towers
of garden lily bowers
to finally dream in lucid colors, surreal
climbing invisible ladders
in orchards of apple blossom Springs
to sing, sing, sing

This poem will certainly be a big hit
I'm throwing everything I've got and more into it
All the bells all the whistles all my poetic tricks
Rolling up my sleeves, into my open palm I will spit

This poem I'm pulling out all of the stops
Remove the plug at the bottom, raise the roof at the top
Fill in the middle with all that I've got
Blowing it all on the entire lot

This poem will either make me or break me
Lose me or save me, I'm thinking maybe
They'll love me or hate me, all want to date me
In Mardi Gras beads they'll want to drape me

This poem will embarrass all the other poems
Because this one poem will have it all going on
From the time it's conceived to the moment it's born
All other poems will concede to it's throne

This poem may even bring on the end
All the poets of today will turn in their pens
They'll be to afraid to write anything
As it will be the blue print to how a poem's written

Now that last thoughts got me thinking that it shouldn't be wrote
As it being the only poem is a scary thought
And how this single poem could yield so much power
I'd be crazy to set it free to dispose and devour

All this poem could do has really opened my eyes
So on second thought I'm not going to write
I'll lock up that thought shut the door tight
Another poem at this time I'll just have to find...

High in the hills wends the road to your home
steeped and flowered by lupine towers
after long slumber, the waking hour - warmth of summer comes
our feet grassed and green, we wish on dandelion dreams
watch tiny parachutes glide into the sea
this place is wild resplendent music
we have become more than ourselves and slowed
have stopped to feel our breath grow
making a path cut from last year
we are slipped and sloped toward shore
silhouetted just before the end of sun
when the world sinks silent
but for the deeply toned
hum of whale song.

This is to the camera, that sees me as nothing but
Delicate bones and pearly whites
My essence captured through awkward captions and
My worth measured by likes and heart bytes
A photograph carefully composed
Of a girl with her true thoughts [boxed up tight]

This is to the boys who see me as nothing but
Geometric shapes
Circles and curves and parabolas
**** and *** and legs and waist
And an irrelevant concave where my brain should be
My “radical ideas” make me a butterface

This is to the academy, that sees me as nothing but
3.97 and a good SAT score
A scholar of great potential
That will donate millions or more
As an honored alumni
Of the greatest institution in the world

This is to society, that sees me as nothing but
A golden gal who always colored inside the lines
Mrs. Goody-Two-Shoes, no fire in my soles

“She’s never insubordinate, ‘cause she’s never been inclined”
Determined but docile
Go ahead and assume I’m not the rebellious kind

This is to myself, because I see that
My mind is a kaleidoscope of technicolor dreams
Ideas colliding like specks in sunbeams  
And I’ll call myself a feminist or riot grrl if I **** well please
You are not my dictator or an office label machine
It’s 2015; I’ll be whatever the hell I want to be.

The ice cream van
Has today reached
The melancholic realisation
That the only kids who
Chase clocks for Mr Whippy
And lick the exhaust fumes
In nostalgia
Are the kids who are not kids
But who prematurely aged themselves
With lipstick kisses
And cigarettes
Lowered themselves into nooses
Of sweet-sixteenths
From the age of six

We are a generation of
Peter Pan inversions
We ran ashore
And beached ourselves
Beyond the lure
Of Neverland
We are a generation of
Failed cloud-catchers
Aspiring rainbow-clinchers
Secretly slipping our hands
Back into a dead air
Of former innocence
In the hope we’ll be able to
Retrieve the pieces we left there
We queue and scramble
Like gulls for
Inches we can claw back
Preserving our age in
Wafer cones
And bleeding snows
That glue between our fingers
Each 99 flake
Is a time machine
Which we spin like a music box
And wait for the rewind
Copper coins and sea stains
And we hope we’ll find
Some of the things we lost
But we cannot predict or realign
The atoms or twist ourselves
Back into them
So we sit and watch
The incorruptibility we once possessed
Perished
Sexualised
Corrupted
Pool in the March drizzle
Someone once said
That youth was a process
Of being torn in half
By the past that pulls you back
And the future that tempts you
Being too big and yet too small
Longing but fearing
But an ice cream van tells me
That youth is a process
Of trying not to drown yourself
In what you’ve never had
And when that ice cream van tells me to
MIND THAT CHILD
I can’t help projecting echoes
Of its wisdom
On to all who pass me by
Mind that childhood
Before there’s nothing left to mind