there once was a young girl with green eyes
who wore her soft blond hair
in braided pigtails

at the age of seven,
she watched her older sister
stand in front of the mirror before school
and pinch her stomach with a disgusted face
          neither of them ate breakfast that morning

at the age of nine,
she watched her older brother
make fun of a girl with glasses
for reading on the bus
          she went home and hid all her books in the attic

at the age of twelve,
she watched the older girls at school
with straight hair and short skirts
put makeup on in the bathroom
and discuss how boys would only like you
if you looked perfect, like them
          the next day she arrived with red lips, short shorts, and no braided pigtails

at the age of fourteen,
she watched her father hit her mother for the first time
her mother cried when she saw her standing in the doorway
and told her daddy didn't mean it
          the next year, she told herself that her boyfriend didn't mean it, either

at the age of sixteen,
she was paper thin and empty
with straight blond hair, red lips,
purple flesh, and lifeless green eyes
          while staring at her reflection in the bathroom mirror,
          she thought to herself "at least i'm normal."

I want to be fluid, I want to be smooth
With the ability to soothe
Be like the waters
With seashell daughters
Of streams and brooks and rain
Always tender, always humble, never vain
Yet still ruling with sovereign reign
Nothing should ever be able to stop me
Nothing can stop the ocean or the sea
Not even time
I want to be huge, I want to be sublime
Never hurt, never chagrined
I want to have no fear of the wind
And even less of the heat or the cold
I want to shimmer with gold
When the sun sets
Away from mortal things like hate or regrets
I want to learn to sing like water
Without ever wearying, tiring,
Wheezing or expiring
I want to be the water
When it hums to the night
Chants to the stars bright
Stroking the sand
I want to be water never bland
I want to be the water that glorifies
Which runs, which plays, purifies
Which is sweet and pure, untainted, unattainable
I want to be the water mysterious and unexplainable
I want to be the water when it unfolds
When it holds
The seaweed with maiden hands
I want to be the water when it expands
Dances, sways, flows,
Diverted from the abyss

Sometimes it happens that
a war breaks out:
the atrocities know no bounds
and we in the ‘civilised’ world
question who? how? and why?

Sometimes it happens that
a child dies:
no-one knows the real cause
but there are people on hand
to counsel and console.

Sometimes it happens that
an epidemic takes hold
and the toll mounts with
the innocent and old
the most news-worthy victims.

Sometimes it happens that
faces of famine haunt the TV screen
and we wring our hands in disbelief
waiting for those with a conscience
to cajole us into action.

Sometimes it happens that
we question our faith,
our belief in who or what
controls our fortune and fate.

There is no answer:
Sometimes it happens.

When the sun goes down
I have my first drink
standing in the yard,
talking to my neighbor
about the alder tree
rising between our houses,
a lowly tree that prospered
from our steady inattention
and shot up quick as a ****
to tower over our rooftops,
where it now brandishes
a rich, luxuriant crown.
Should we cut it down?
Neither of us wants to --
we agree that we like
the flourishing branches,
shade like thick woods.
We don't say it,
studying our tree in silence,
but we know that if the roots
get into the foundations
we've got real trouble.
John goes back inside.
Nothing to be done in summer --
not to those heavy branches.
I balance my empty glass
on top of a fence post.
In the quiet early dark,
those peaceful minutes
before dinner, I bend down
to the flower beds I love
and pull a few weeds --
something I've meant to do
all day.

Weaving words,
so carefully. Every
syl
la
ble, crafted.
Spectacularly
laced, though the
unforgiving blue lines.
Wonderfully
chased by the
deadly silent black pen.

These words,
meaning or no?
Mischievous and
deceiving. Or
hopeful and
believing?

Where do they go?
Where do they lead?
Follow them, yet
could they be
seen?

Fortitude and fragility.
Miles apart, yet
undeniably the same.
In the world of words,
it's all just a game.

Coincidental rhymes, and
sentimental times, or
simplistic virtuosity, and
complicated philosophy?

These worlds in words,
are never as they seem.
But who are we to judge,
when the words in the world
are never what we mean?

If I could live forever I would:

provide more wisely for
my loves
my desires
my dreams
my children
and theirs
and theirs

If I could live forever I would:

become learned in
art
music
philosophy
dance
science
medicine
nature
belief

If I could live forever I would:

write the story of my life
in chapter and verse
to be sung
to be spoken
to become legend
to be the root of conflict
to be comfort to the lost

If I could live forever I would:

see Man's greatest works
see Man's darkest deeds
see great nations rise and fall
see the ebb and flow of Gaia's works;
see oceans rise, mountains fall

If I could live forever I would:

be omnipresent
for I would be a memory
for I would be a hint of recollection
in all those lives I touch.

If I could live forever I would:

seek out how many ways I could die
and try them all
again, and again, and again.

Do not say the first thing first
Or the last thing last
Do not read the book in order
Do not order yourself not to cry
Take the unordinary and claim it extraordinary
Take the take the fabric and rip it until the holes are wider
Than the holes in your circumstance
Or the holes in your heart

Put down the gun and bandage the wound
That was made without firing a shot
Do not shoot the extraordinary thing
Pick it up and tuck it lovingly in your pocket
Or in your brassiere
Sew the heart up without anesthesia
Wind thread around it tightly
And say out loud the last words you would ever say
Under ordinary circumstance
Do not start at the beginning
Do not rip the book and cry over the pages

Bandage the book
Put down the wound
Read the gun
Claim the heart
Sew the pocket
Wind the rip
Fire the cry
Tuck the words
Shoot the thing

This is a poem about any teenage girl.
When she tries, sometimes she fails,
But most of the time, when she thinks she fails,
She really didn’t.
Even so, when she fails, she cries.
When she cries, she hides it.
When she hides it, she’s pretending.
When she’s pretending, she isn’t being herself.
When she isn’t being herself she becomes one of millions,
Lost in the sea of girls who are only trying to become people that they’re not.
Tossed by waves of propriety, undulating in the tears she keeps to herself and those of others.
She can’t find solid ground to stand on; there’s no way she can stay afloat.
She reaches out her arm to try and grab onto someone, someone she thinks is strong,
Only to find that they are slowly sinking too.