Do your dogs **** on the
green lawn of the
White House?
Does the future scare you?
Have you run through the
endless halls with your
First Lady, playing tag?
What was your first pet,
and what did you want it to be?
Are you the most inspirational
person you know?
What drives you?
What won’t you admit to yourself?
How do you take your coffee?
Sincerely, me.

Rubber scrapes
words
thoughts
answers
questions
secrets
facts
mistakes
o­ff the page
eating them up,
they never existed.

I think like a poet.
That’s why I get headaches.
Images burst
wishing
waiting
hoping
for my head to explode.

I will be okay,
I will be okay,
I will be okay.
Quiet breathing
gives way,
a building breaks inside me,
shudders quake from
my toes
to my shoulders.

“Tis but a nick,”
said the captain
of the Titanic.
“Don’t worry.”

“What a beautiful thing it is to have loved.”
Maybe.
But what if your love
tore you apart?

I deal with my
problems by
forcing them
into small boxes
for easy storage.

She was beautiful,
but she moved too fast
to get a good look
at her.

Perhaps I loved as much as I could,
       If only I’d loved less.
       I could have had so much more
       Instead of what little I have left.

If I had just kept my heart –
      safe from those who prey,
      instead of letting them tear it,
      you could have it all.

Fingers entwine
as we watch
the world burn
together.

A chameleon used to live inside me.
It helped me change,
adjust to my surroundings,
become someone new
at any given moment.
Thank you chameleon,
your work here is done.
I am ready to just be me.

There is a beach
on the other side of America.
It snuggles in close
between Massachusetts
and the Atlantic Ocean.
If you put aside your fears,
girl,
you can walk in the water.
Nothing will hurt you,
you can see the bottom.
You can discover hermit *****
and sea glass,
smoothed down from
the turmoil of churning waves
and grains of sand.
You can explore new things,
girl,
if you can slip off your sandals
and examine the tide pools.
The barnacles’ little arms wave,
snatching microscopic food
from nowhere.
Tiny, tiny anemones grow,
tucking up inside themselves
if your fingers brush them.
This is a magical place,
girl.
Take nothing but pictures,
memories, and smooth
sea glass.

Surely you have seen
that famous photo.
Steve McCurry’s
“Afghan Girl.”
Piercing green eyes hint
of innocence,
yet so much knowledge
of the world.
She is young,
unable to hide that
behind her veil of cloth.
McCurry was able to find her
years later
for another picture.
In this one,
she is weathered.
Hair grows thick on her forehead,
eyebrows give away her age.
The green eyes are beautiful still,
but no longer have the
sweet wonder
of youth.

Bleak days are upon me.
Well, everyone.
The sun has gone south
for the winter.
The trees have given up
their leaves,
in hope of new life
next spring.
The neighborhood stray
meows at my door,
cold and hiding from the rain.
She comes in and eats,
then sleeps on the couch.
It is some comfort
to have a cat.

The sky gushes
over the green earth,
crying, “How beautiful
you are, daughter!”
The earth rejects the
sky’s tears,
sending currents
where it does not belong.