I rest, I rest,
Under the sun.
No way, no way,
It can't burn.
I look up,
It looks down.
The glare, the glare,
I speak out my prayer.
The sun, the sun,
I want to be there.
The grass silky beneath,
As I blindly stare.

If you suddenly bumped at him
along the way,
Please don't turn your back,
Don't look away.
For years of loving him,
I have only been
stealing glances,
staring
when he is busy laughing
with his friends
or when he is talking
with the girl he admires.
But to you who will love him,
stare all you want
like as if you'll never get tired.
I'm sure he'll love that.

He cracks jokes
when some funny words
can be used as puns.
Laugh for him
if the joke is funny
and laugh at him
if it's nothing but corny.
Love him still
even at his funniest
or corniest moment.
I'm sure he just wants to see
and make you laugh.

He loves to draw
and that
will make you
love him more.
Don't envy other girls
if you see their faces
painted on his canvass.
Your face has already been etched
on his sketchpad,
some has been laminated,
some in picture frames.
But I am sure,
more than those arts,
you have already been sketched,
painted and etched
in his heart.

He can be a poet.
It will give you warmth
when you read your love story
written in his poetry.
Write for him,
don't mind the rhymes,
just write
what your heart wants.
Make your I love yous
a poetry
and he will drown you
with his I love you, too.

To the woman of his future,
he gets tired sometimes
but don't give him up.
Rest with him
and be his home.

Love his every imperfection.
He is flawed but he doesn't mind.
So love him no matter what.

To the woman of his future,
let me be with him for a while.
Just in this present times,
even just in this short now.

The woman of his future,
I hope it's me
so for a lifetime,
I have him
to call mine.

© Tres

The chill breeze, long awaited, finds its whisper
in the tall grasses,
tilting the hydrangeas, full and round, pink and purple
as the hewn lawn, more fragrant as dusk nears,
cushions the fawn,
the newborn to again perch precariously
atop unsteady spindles,
to weave through his mother’s legs as she pokes,
then slides through the brush.
And as I raise my brow over the hammock's edge,
the squirrels hunch and chew and hop in unison
as they laugh quietly, my idleness risible,
before a third and final turn of the paragraph
renders me drowsy, the tome now abreast my breast
as a lazy arm falls without the swaying catch in surrender.

I wake up everyday to the sight of the New Normal
Open my ears to the sounds of the news
A black man killed before he could breathe
A child bombed before he could eat
And I think
What is normal?
What is rest?
What is hope?

Normalcy doesn’t sound normal these days
Rest doesn’t sound restful these days
Hope doesn’t sound hopeful these days
And I wish they did anyway

I wish writing, making art, cooking,
playing games, short naps, or social media
Were enough to make us forget about
Restless civilizations
These days
Heartless politicians
These days
Senseless discrimination
These days
The failures of the system
These days

I sit with my heart on my hand
Comprehending nothing at all
These days
While chaos all around us ensues
These days
And months seem to go by as quickly as they can
Yet nothing seems to change
Racism is still racism
War is still war
Hate is still hate
These days

And yet we’ve just realized
These days
How much we valued other days
And there’s no longer any returning to
Those days
Cause if it took us a pandemic to realize
How much we’ve failed those who needed us the most
On days
We’ve looked past reality
Just to see what we wanted to see
And believe what we wanted to believe in
That we chose right
That we’d never be able to fear going out
Since we’ve kept ourselves inside our social bubbles
That kept us from seeing
That everyone else had always been suffering
Before these days
I’d rather have
These days

So what is normalcy?
What is rest?
What is hope
To those who couldn’t afford to have those in the first place?

But I’d like to think that we haven’t completely forgotten
Those days
I’d like to think there will be better days
Where we’ll finally be able to settle down all our differences
That we won’t differentiate black from white
That we’ll finally know wrong from right
And we’ll see that days
Are not just days
But everyday struggles for many to live
In a world that hates living so much

So don't just wish these days
Instead help these days
So that others may be able to live their days too
And not just you
Today.

I shall sit,
On a shore I shall sit
And let the Ocean
wash the dust Off my feet
While golden rays warm my face
And I watch
The big orange sun set,
Upon a day
On a shore,
I shall sit

Pride of place, you take any you positions, I am
at the bottom, fit wherever yous can,

spread thin, ele-mentally thin, surface tension,
truth be told,

as thin as any bubble skin you can imagine being in,
with me,
crazy-- no, not crazy, as in irrational unstable,
with no stashed redeemed idle words to use to make,
ferventingly and effect ual affectionate
art. Art art art, I am art, Ai ai ai, I am in fection per pro
fessorial critque
AI
cuty pi, french curvature sure to pitch that screwball,
Fibbonacci's sion, seeing

so many things follow this curve from a point, might
I?
So, if I were a pinecone, why would I take this
golden progression in materialization,

printing, as in 3-D, at geo-speed, indeed, but we can see;
now, is 2020 and it only gets better,
once.
"This is your life"
Oops, the object orienting this program has slipped

the surly bonds of earth,
in his mind... is that crazy enough? Are you content?

Little one,
My precious one,
What now have you gone and wrought?
What is the fruit of the toils,
Of all the trouble you've sought?

Little one,
My dearest one,
You've gone and ran so far,
Won't you stop running and come here?
Come rest here in my arms.