Dried pods rattled in the breeze,
such a hollow sound,
echoing deep emotions
and driving a sigh from my lips
as I stretch in the dim glow
of early morning.
I pull on my old white shirt,
a dingy color
much like the lightening sky.
Stained and torn jeans follow,
the jagged edge of a rip
rubbing against my callused fingers
reminding me of work ahead.
I frown at the sight of my boots,
crusted with mud,
a chore that lies ahead
and a longing for a day without shoes.
I feel the flakes of dirt
when they stick to my feet
as I take to the kitchen
grabbing coffee and biscuits.
Breakfast in the field,
lungs soaking in the cool air,
watching the moon as it tried to hold on.
A losing fight
much like my own.
The moon peeked between skeletons
of plants past.
The song of death sang once again
as the breeze cut it’s path.
I swallowed coffee
letting the bitter taste
and hot water
replace bitter
and burning memories.
The sun was soon to rise though
and I had life to live.
Like a switch,
my hat slipping on my head
tucked away any distraction,
and I was whole again.
I gave a last glance to the moon,
tipped my hat
to the light that fought the dark.

By the parking lot you sit
just behind the village stores
tall, white fence box
flaking paint.

Sun streams in between slats
casting lines across the dirt floor
stopping a few inches in
dark mystery.

Bending down to peer inside
slipping fingers and hands to reach
searching by touch, EW
crawling bug

Once I climbed up the side of one
but there was just a big metal box
I dropped down inside
locked doors.

Some I could climb, and some not
what was being hidden inside the shed?
Eager and curious for adventure, knowledge.
Never enough.

A glass jar lay in the refrigerator
a shallow pool of dark juice inside
dated last summer
last legs.

Rewind a little and its filled to the brim
white blobs are packed tight
white but purple
color revealed.

Rewind even farther and it's 'new'
I say we should make it last
dad's excited too
pickled beets!

Rewind more and two friends are picking
***** hands, sweaty brow, farm day fun
thanks for company
kind charity.

Rewind more and friend is picking beets
family trip to the farm for groceries
preserving the extra
time shares.

Roots like community spirit,
purple juice infectious like kindness.

One hundred and fifty two posts in 2 weeks
a small camera surrounded by a sea of pink
is to blame
and be praised

Crisper, clearer, views of how I see the world,
easier than ever to see through my lens
my POV
picture it

Foot prints in the snow, beer pong, Dustin Lynch
retro diners, favorite TV shows, and hiking trips
this is me
easy to see

Words can be hard to find, ideas to describe
Hard to share your life with no one around
here's Instagram
post away.

Fat, tall, and poor, well a young girl
couldn't be anymore different or
shouldn’t.
Hard headed with no tears, I
so wanted to be made
in that single moment of creation, of
fire.

There they stood in black
huddled by the books on
‘craft
in the aisle for young fantasy
we stood glaring, laughing, judging
not glass, but a shiny mirror
reflecting.

Slipping out of school early,
brandishing new bags and clothes,
lies  
feet treading along the linoleum tiles,
of halls and malls, sitting in cafés
the pressure changing what showed on the
surface.

Needle pierced skin over
and over again, so much
fire
the pain throbbing, spreading
as ink sunk into my skin
crafting little by little a symbol
pagan.

Just down by the lights
at brokenland
there is a small patch of wilderness and a park,
where three cats roam.

The first is white with big splotches of grey
as if it built its camouflage
betting last winter would never end
now an easy spot amongst the hill of green.

The second was a dark grey
the color of the shade under a pine tree
on a partly sunny day
or a storm cloud ready to light up the sky.

The third was black head to toe,
body slim like that of a dancer,
and eyes of bright amber that shined like searchlights
even with a sky full of clouds.

The first I saw on high alert
nose up high, ears pointed, standing tall
a dog down the hill of unkempt grass
it’s owner leashed and in tow.

The second I saw on the hunt,
weaving in and out of wildflowers
leaping and pouncing gracefully,
steadily and quickly traversing the hillside.

The third I saw leisurely sitting by the road,
legs folded underneath it on a rotting log
watching traffic like a king on its throne
yet in seeming awe of its steady flow.

I have seen each cat only once
always when I am moving boxes to the new house
and I wonder if they have an owner
among the white row houses off Little Patuxent.

-- of an era,
the tip of the stage
of my life here and now.

Today I saw the end of my job
and it was in the shape of a tall gay black man.
I helped name him my successor.

Today I saw the end of youth
and it came in the form of a compliment
a young guy asking if I was a teacher.

Today I saw the end of college
in the awkward rejections of plans
new friends I wish I had met earlier.

Today I saw the end of waiting
for the moment I would meet Taylor Mali
and he didn’t disappoint.

Today I saw the end of peaceful nights
tears and heartache relentless
and not a true friend around to hear.

Today I saw the end
and boy if it’s not just the beginning