The power line outside my window is like me in so many ways.
It is long, but skinny.
Just like me.
The energy, it courses through it and explodes at random moments
Just like me.
It has great potential, but it is confined.
Just like me.

The energy in the powerline is not like me.
It always chooses the simple path, the easy one.
But I like to challenge myself.
It always chooses the path closest to the ground.
But I am a climber.
It has a chosen destination. It knows where it is going.
But I don’t.

I have no idea where my life will lead.

Outside my window I hear planes. They buzz by all night. All day. They are like busy bees, but instead of helping the world they hurt it. Sometimes I like to  watch them as I fall asleep. Two seconds it takes for the plane to disappear and reappear in the next window of my room. One...two...plane. One...two...plane. One...two...no plane. Where is the plane? Three… Did it crash? Four… Did it explode? Five… Are the people okay? Six… My head starts to spin. Like an out of control top, about to spin of the table. Seven... But right before it does, there it is, that plane. Seven seconds later. The fog of Seattle is scary, it hides things. So is change. Scary I mean. When two seconds change to seven, all my thoughts pause for a moment.

My skin is like sand in Hawaii.
Completely white.
Not in a good way.
From afar I could blend in with the whiteboard.
There is no color,
Accept when I run.
When I run, my whole face flushes with an ugly shade of red

My skin is so white that all the other features of me are hidden,
My hair that streams down my back, detailed, shiny,
Unnoticed.
My eyes that sparkle in the sunlight, thoughtful, unique,
Unnoticed.
The freckles that stretch across my face, powerful, plentifull
Unnoticed.

The jet black alarm clock reads “6:45” in neon green numbers. I moan and hit snooze. I feel safe in bed. Not at school. I feel safe in bed. Not at school.  I feel safe in bed. Not at school. But I have to get up. I have to start my day, I have to continue my life. I will do the same tomorrow. And the day after that. And after that. On and on until I die. With that, I sit up…


and hit snooze

Creative. Stubborn. Those are the words that describe Kestrel when she makes food. She makes the food from her mind. No help. Never recipes. Sometimes the food is yummy, like a plump juicy tomato coated in a thick covering of butter, cheese, and salt. Sometimes however, it turns out bad. And I mean really bad. Like the time she made banana toothpaste. I yawned and stretched my arms as I wandered downstairs in the morning. I was hoping for a bowl of sweet cereal and cool milk. When I came down there was no cereal. There was instead a sheet of mashed up bananas. Above the mush was Kestrel, happily adding a white powder that could be salt, sugar, or crushed up altoids. There was no way to tell. When I asked her what it was, she said “Banana toothpaste”. I stuck out my tongue at her, making my eyebrows into little arches, and walked away. Another time, I asked Kestrel why she never uses recipes. Her answer was “I like to create”. I wonder who she will turn out to be. Sometimes I see her watching her shows and I worry. I want her to be her own person. And then I remember the toothpaste. “Banana toothpaste. Banana toothpaste.” She’ll be okay. No, she’ll be amazing. My little sis and her banana toothpaste.

The past of my mother is non-existant in my name. Although, she is half of me. She birthed me. She feeds me. She provides for me. She understands me. She listens to me. She hugs me. She loves me. But her name is not in mine. My father’s name is in mine. That’s good. He cooks for me. He works hard for me. He advises me. He helps me. He waits with me. He supports me. He loves me. He deserves to have part of my name. But so does my mom. And she can’t have it. Just because she is a woman.

I don’t know where my home is. My house is where I sleep. Blankets cover me as I try to rest for the next day. But my neck aches from the long day before me and for the long day that is sure to come next. My cabin is where I play. When there is warmth, I spend my time splashing my sister in the icy water. When there is cold, I slide down the mountains on my skis with my father. But when I am there, I feel alone. My school is where I learn. For the future, for my good. At school my “friends” don’t feel like friends. But they will soon. I know. My climbing gym is where I play. There, I have friends. There, I have confidence. There, I have fun. My people is my home. Family, friends, whatever. My home is where I feel safe, my home is who I love, my home is where I’m loved.

Knock-knock

The door opens
With a creaky sound
Resemblant of that
Of an upright.
I tremble
And dissipate
Under a distinct impression
Of a mellow fingerdrum
As the elder brother rushes
Towards the second son
For a goodbye hug
Or, perhaps, a goodnight kiss.
Walls become wet
And gently crush me
Into a coffee bean sparkling
Glittering mass of yesterdays.
For what was, is and to come
Is surely hidden inside a matchbox
You keep in your inner pocket
To protect from rain, burglary
And other troubles.
Look up at the sky:
I’m standing close to you,
Garlic and tobacco odour included.
Even when I’m not actually
Here.

The stars;
They aren’t other worlds
(although some people say they are);
I propose a toast to my self-control
And to the sweetest place I’ve ever visited —
The corners of your mouth.

The Ocean Inside

I

a place made of cosmic dust and water is
inside of me, birthplace of poetry
red voices are echoing through the ocean
in order to create words of vignettes
the lines are floating above the water's surface

II

how can they escape from the dullness
of my mind? my thoughts are not a poem yet
i have to lure them with music, with adagios
the strings are playing and they are dancing
green layers of feelings transcend me

III

my hand is not writing on the keyboard
the keyboard is writing on my hands
i can not dictate my muse, she is shy
she only comes out when i rest

IV

the muse wakes me up and overtakes
rivers of oblivion, streams of consciousness
no thinking about the reader or the trophy

V

a place made of muses and flow is
inside of me, birthplace of poems
pink voices are echoing through the vignette
in order to create words of a special form
the verses are drifting through clear water

The door, half-open, the sound
Of piano keys one by one
Accelerating, rushing,
Then, softly and gently
Fingertips only
On your neck
And my hair;

The doormat, greasy,
White stains on black,
White stains on white,
White saints above,
And below — white Snow.

Hands jump
From one place to another,
Passionate, yet thoughtful,
Albeit slightly nervous;
A black bough
With a little cloud atop,
Red on white,
White on black
And white on white again.

A lucid view
Through an opaque surface,
Chills mixed with warmth
Within and around;
Muted soft sound
Goes on for a while,
Numbs the senses,
Then, suddenly, a couple
Of accurate and precise
Touches make such
Clear and dazing notes,
That you just sit there
Overwhelmed.

The drum, slow and steady
And swingy and lazy,
As the body trembles,
Bends slightly, freezes
And goes crazy;

Translucent wings
Flutter over white
And black and gold,
The bird serenades
In the dim, shivering light.
He puts
his hands
Around her body
And a calming, warm,
Quiet sound
Of a pulsating heart
Blurs and blends
All the colours:
White on gold,
Gold on black,
Black on white,
White on hazel
And so on
And so forth;

An upright bent
Of the bent upright;
Hold on,
Forever.

The end.