I see you walk towards the door, mama.
You have some bags. You seem like
you're in such an awful hurry.
I lift my little hands up to you,
the person who I love most in the world,
but you seem so distracted.

You tell me that you'll be back soon

The door closes.

I wait.

I distract myself with the few toys
that you've left me.
The TV is on Sesame Street
as Elmo teaches me about love.

I see a beautiful leaf flutter outside the window.
I can't wait to tell you about it.

It's been so long mama.  

Where are you?
My stomach is growling
but the snacks you left have run out.
I try to open the door but my little fingers
don't yet have the dexterity.

I hope you bring blueberries home,
You know they're my favorite.

I'm starting to get scared, mama
my stomach hurts so much.
I wish you were here to cuddle me
and make me feel less alone.
I whimper.  I miss you.

I've made a mess, mama.

I'm so sorry, it was an accident.

The first time, I tried to hold it in
but I couldn't.  I hope you're not angry.
I have nowhere else to go.
I didn't know what else to do
so I took my pants off and put
them in the corner.

It's been so long, mama

Why haven't you come home yet?
I'm screaming now, my tiny body
wracked with sobs.
I'm angry and confused.  
I don't understand why you left.

I'm terrified and alone.

I'm so tired, mama
my lips are dry.
my stomach is empty.
my eyelids are heavy.
I am inconsolable,
but I'm too weak to even cry.

my heart is broken.


You were supposed to protect me.


It hurts so much.

I'm closing my eyes, mama.

I hope that the next time I open them
You'll be there to tell me
Everything is going to be alright

I still love you.

Goodbye mama.

Yay!! There’s snow on Science Hill.
Finally - snow, I love it. Cold, I love it.

Science says men evolved from apes.
Maybe I evolved from polar bears
or those abominable snow people
—yeti—that no one can photograph.

You can’t just reject that outright,
say the odds are minuscule,
just because it’s new and edgy.
I mean, where’s your science—
your unbiased, clinical perspective?

We could end up in the National Geographic.
This kind of story is very much their aesthetic.
I can provide lots of material—I have baby photos
and I’m not uncomfortable about the pressure.

Maybe it’s time to put your voice out there.
The world always needs the comfort of new voices.
You could influence social media—everyone wants THAT.
This is a buffalo, a skibidi, blessing in disguise.
.
.
Songs for this:
Young And Dumb by The Bird and the Bee
Unlike me by Kate Havnevik

My backyard is like the Garden of Eden;
Where birds flourish freely, so too do lizards and worms.
I find myself opening my doors seemingly, 
to welcome the sounds of nature.
But it's also to entice me out to the heartwarmingly,
tree-lined places where I can hide my faces,
And be one, meekly, at first, then more boldly;
Naked and brazen, absent of hazing,
to sit, listen and write poetry.

The Bunsen burner’s gas flames blue –
    a searing blaze, the hottest hue –
          that heating an alembic ***
              distils the oil from bergamot.
A fruity smell imbues the room
    with floral scents of citrus bloom
          from blazing orange acid fruits
              with aromatic attributes.
The cooled condensing droplets form
        an ointment that can stop a storm.

You are a kite and the earth gives the kite a feeling of helplessness and heaviness and the sky; a feeling of infinite power and light.

How can a kite, which always dreams of blue and white, live in a palace black and tight?
So fly and always be at the top and from that height
you will see that the earth is not as pleasant as you thought.

I woke up to a sky of grey
a hiding sun, a rainy day
clouds of hail - stormy what nots
rotund, dang and heavy drops

I said to them, be my poem.

Then the clouds of storm cleared
the golden orb appeared
a rainbow spilled color on the grass
the blossoms sang sweetly - unasked

I said to them, be my poem

To the poor man on the street
and the rag picker with bare feet
the cobbler and the fruit seller
the palmist and the fortune teller

I said to them, be my poem

To a new born and then, flesh on a pyre
the wind that whisks ashes from fire
to the fragrance of spring and the frost of cold
the stench of garbage and the scent of rose

I said to them, be my poem

I turned to love, anger and defeat
laughed with humour and cried with grief
traced the many fleeting expressions on a face
fluid movements and those without grace

I said to them, stay and be my poem

Then I paused, I looked within -inside
into my heart and into my mind
so I could meet myself and know
see and hear, feel and grow

So that one day, I too may become a poem