there's a lot
of different
ways

to
speak
english

island english
hood english
mountain english

etc

some carry
many englishes
in their heads

english belongs
to everybody
cheers

for that
on this bright
afternoon

when all of
my englishes,
in one english

or another,
are all
missing


you

All I do is dream of the future and crave the answers
This is now the future I had once fantasized
I have reached the future
I have seen what has become of my 6 year old brother, now 18
I have seen where the world progressed
I see now the places my choices have taken me
I am living out the life that was once only dreamt about
I am part of the future now
We are the futures of our pasts
And my tongue is damp with the bitter after taste of this pleasure
I have the pencil in my hand
That is connecting the dots of my past
Forming the picture of the ever-coming future
As much as I want to rejoice with my youth
Tell me about all that is to come
But I know it will make no difference if I do or don't.
Nothing would go differently.
If I tell my past what is now,
It will no longer be exciting to experience
What was expected is only as surprising as you pretended it to be.
But now, these discoveries of this now present future
I see

THE OTHER HALF OF THE POEM IS A POEM

now eleven years later
the boy whose graham crackers were high demand at snack time
who sat beside me at the table and pulled giggles from everyones lungs
who drew the drawings of dragons and dinosaurs
With angels above
The boy who was the best things before sliced bread was even invented
who
held all the definitions of importance in his tiny first grader hands
when it came to my search for wholeness.
Had I known that
I would have done everything the same
and nothing differently
and everything all the same
and nothing at all differently
And loved him no less.

Chaotic words whirl about in my heart,
Thundering, Whispering, Yelling, Sighing.
I must write them down. They scream
To be let out, and I am their only outlet.

I am not their master; they come from deep
Within the soul of the universe, the threads
Of which everything is woven.
I merely write them down.

Burning, they spiral through all feelings,
And I am caught up in the emotion
Of their power, their movement.
My mind races to keep up with them.

I write and type, scribbling and mistyping,
Hurrying to catch the wisps they leave
Behind as those words streak through
All thought, all feeling, all experience.

After they have left my hand,
A sudden emptiness overwhelms me.
I cannot change what I have written,
For these words hold their own entity.

A poet lives on these words.
I live on these words. The torrent,
The release, the emptiness, and
The excitement as it begins once more.

sometimes the feeling is too intense for a midday coffee out in the town
or even a sunday afternoon stroll along that beach we never go to anymore. but that
feeling doesn't go away simply because it's unwanted or because the time just isn't
appropriate.
that feelings hangs around in it's unwelcome nature and nags at us to give it
some recognition. maybe if we stopped for a while, sat down on a salted log
somewhere along that coastline, and listened to the silence that comes along
with that pestering feeling, we'd understand just why we need to feel like that.
so often we are surrounded by the
standards
that say, no, you can't feel that, no
you can't express that, no you can never ever tell anyone you feel that way. maybe
if one day we realized that it only takes a moment of knowing and
accepting
that you feel like it to make it all start to go away.