You were a handful of cherries,
A summertime kiss,
A savored mouthful
Some bitter, some sweet.
The colors shift from deep to bright
Unpredictable. Temporary. Ever-changing.
A stem to be tied
A tantalizing tongue-twister
A point proven and forgotten.
Fun for a moment,
And then a moment passed.
And yet every cherry has a pit
And, sooner or later,
each handful ends.

A bead of sweat trickles down my neck as I shift anxiously,
left foot, right foot, a little hop.
Two cars, barely intertwined, stall my walk home.
Five-years-old and impatient, I wait for my mom
across the street, getting the unofficial accident report
from the crossing guard.

The high wall on our right conveniently blocks out the sun,
My friends and I giggle at our independence
as we walk to Girl Scout Troop 462’s meeting.
In sixth grade we think we know how to check our corners
How to be cautious and how to be safe,
but we know we still have to wait for the crossing guard.

The sun glares down as I squint across the street,
just free of sixth period, I've started my walk home,
But the boy from science class is goofing off with his friend.
He doesn’t notice me and I try not to stare,
I want his attention but four lanes separate us
thanks to the crossing guard.

Sophomore year means I walk home with a boy holding my books,
and I hold his hand even though it’s hot out.
Those four lanes mean nothing
to me and that boy from science class.
I barely notice as I’m motioned to stop at the curb,
and the crossing guard holds up her sign.

Tears, not sweat, wet my face as junior year ends.
I drag my feet on the walk home, and carry my own books.
I am not paying attention to curbs or crosswalks,
but when I reach her street,
she gives me a smile and motions for me to wait,
And the crossing guard helps me on my way back home.

We round the corner the last week of August
in the family car packed full with my college necessities.
I wait anxiously for the light to turn green,
So I can begin life in “the real world,” be independent.
In my haste and excitement,
I don’t notice the crossing guard.

I don’t walk home anymore.
With adulthood comes a car and an insurance bill,
and the sweat and tears come for different reasons.
One day she was gone and never came back.
And when she died I had to remember
to check my own corners before I cross the street.

No one counts the grains of sand
until the last few abandon
their perch atop the glass.

We care not for the song
until the final strain of notes
fade to an eerie silence.

Unnoticed goes the sun
until its journey ends
as it kisses the western horizon.

I suppose what I mean to say,
is in a world that keeps turning,
with people that keep moving,
and things that keep changing,
we do not notice the blessings,
the beauties, or the opportunities
until their time here is done.
In absence, we find appreciation,
but in normality we find forgetfulness.

But fear not the passing things,
for in a life full of closures,
with oncoming completions,
and repeated resolutions,
in the endings we find the beginnings,
the restarts, and the chances anew
when they are least expected.

So fear not, for the hourglass will turn
and though time will not stop for you
it will also never end.

When the ballad fades to silence,
it trades places with another tune
that you will be sure to hear.

And with every sunset comes a sunrise,
so do not forget the sun tomorrow
as it caresses your skin all day long.

The girl in my favorite jacket
with my exact shade of hair.
The one with my same freckles
and that unamused stare.

She knows me more than anyone
and, at the same time, not at all.
So many noted, collected traits
but without the final call.

Kind or fun or silly
or whatever I may seem.
I know each of the parts of me
But what do they all mean?

The mirror shows me what I know
from outside, not within.
My reflection, both in and outwards,
leads to no conclusion.

I stare at them in earnest
with hope to realize
and as they stare back I ask myself,
what color are my eyes?

No stranger to brokenness,
Outward or within.
No foreigner to our damages,
Or any type of sin.
He rubbed shoulders with the beggar,
And broke bread with the lame.
The harlot and the tax collector,
He loves them all the same.
So when you think you’ve gone too far,
Cast your eyes on them.
And know the life of Christ, our God,
Who was poured out for all men.
Don’t listen to the enemy.
Whatever he may say,
And know whenever God saves “them,”
Well, we are those “they.”

Shadowed thoughts drowned out
By the brilliant light of day,
Cowering in crevices
So that they still may stay.

They’ll wait until the sun goes
Until they reappear,
Yet as dusk turns into darkness
They re-emerge as fears.

And their secret tactic
As they try and get to you?
When it gets dark outside,
It gets dark inside too.

an empty page
a hopeless start
a blank beginning.
the moment before the brush hits
or the pen touches the sheet.
right before the music starts
or the bridge is burned.
life is full of “almost”s
of “not yet”s
and “just a second”s.
so don’t be afraid of that moment
where your breath catches,
or your heart skips a beat.
because life is full of “thank you”s
of “never again”s
and of everything in between.

When I find myself with you
I find myself in not only this moment
But in all the moments to come
to have and to hold
from this day forward.

It’s the Saturday mornings
with their lazy light
and the birds crisp songs
and all the trials and battles
stand still as we remember,
for better or for worse

And the Tuesday nights
as the keys hit the table
after a long day is over
when work was rough
and the week has just begun,
for richer or for poorer

It’s in the Sunday afternoons
as the sun traces its way across the sky
and we rejoice in what we have
whether it be hard or heartening
or the good and the better,
in sickness and in health

Its then that I think of you
In a thousand little moments yet to come
And its then I must remember
to not be so excited for forever
that I forget it is happening right now,
‘til death do us part.

Sitting in our heart of hearts
a kindled pile awaits,
hoping for that tiny spark
that will awake its fate.
Soon to be an ember,
smoldering away,
if we allow that light to catch
and let it have its say.
Flickering to life it comes
once the fire has caught
and nothing can deter its path
with no battle left unfought.
Be wary of this fragile fire
lest it becomes a blaze
and unleash a force so very great
it consumes your ways.
For inside each of us can burn a passion
so pure, wild, untamed,
beware for it’s your only chance
to douse an eternal flame.

I’ve spent my time dancing with the waves,
Back and forth, a fun little game.
A splendid step, a tentative twirl,
this feeling becomes no tidal wave.

I’ve spent my time yelling at the breeze,
Empty words unreturned, a relaxing exchange.
No biting reply, just the biting cold,
this courtship is no whirlwind.

I’ve spent my time trembling with the earth,
Captivating and swaying, powerful and strong.
Fearless it quakes, but not in anger
this occasion brings no after shock.

I’ve spent my time with you,
A step, a fight, a world-shaking moment.
Much less safe, much more real
naturally a disaster.

If someone ever asks you
if you have change to spare,
You'll dig inside your pockets
But you won’t find it there.
You’re baffled at their ignorance,
You really can’t be blamed
For up upon that horse so high,
nothing looks the same.
And people most unlike yourself?
you think they must be taught.
but it is you who must understand,
that this change cannot be bought.

Press on the brakes
Red lights
Slow going.
Discouraging.
Just across the way
White lights shine
So promising.
Full of hope.
And happiness.
A color of encouragement
and a better day.
Yet sitting, stuck,
amid a sea of red.
Let me remind you
of the most crucial
detail you forget:
Behind every white light
glows a red.
And preceding every red,
just out of sight,
is a pair of white lights,
shining brighter than day.

the angels sang his praises
as they beckoned him back home.
their master had been absent
for some three days or so.
they knew not of his suffering
or of the tale untold
but when he sat up on his throne
his crown was now of gold.

My body hollow
The house haunted
You locked the door
And took the key.
I do not know
Why those ghosts
Do shriek
Or why the echo carries
To the depths of my soul.
Sometimes I think
That I'm heading now
To a safer place
But my feet will carry me
On the path they know.
The worn old road will greet me
And the trees beckon me home.

I'm fine,
I can promise you.
A million times,
I can promise you.
I will not forget it,
I can promise you.
Everything will be okay,
That is what
You promised me.
I guess I'm all right,
I mean,
I've only got a little left.

The sadness in my eyes
Can you see it?
It hides behind the laugh lines
Worn in by days of old.
It cowers under the smile crinkles
That have been etched so fine.
I do have that mischievous grin,
That twinkle that reflects the brightness without,
But when the lights go down,
And the evening wears on,
The sadness in my eyes,
Can you see it?

Here's to the pennies
Returned at the register;
Here's to the sweaters
In the midst of summer;
Here's to the instrument
You can no longer play;
Here's to the book
At the back of the shelf;
Here's to the song
You loved in childhood,
Or this poem you read
In the days to come;
Here's to the things forgotten
That will always still be.

I never much wished
On a fallen eyelash
Or a drowning penny,
Never truly laid hope
On a dropping star
Or a moment on a clock.
I suppose I did place
My want on one whimsical,
Liberal, fanciful thing.
I placed my longing on you,
And maybe the chance
That your wish would be me.

No wedding bells chimed louder
Nor laughter or evening caller
Not even the gold that sits around my finger.
Rings better than my name
With yours to finish it off.

He had every item
on the checklist
but yet there was
no spark.
When I met you,
you left every box blank,
but burned that notepad
to simple ashes.

I gave up pessimism,
abandoned optimism,
and embraced realism;
I thought I would know reality
but now all I know is fear.

It does not matter
Whether the emotion
Is laughter or tears
Love or terror:
It will always
Bubble forth
Gushing out
From these hearts
Fragile and true
All because
We are human.

It's not you
It's not me
It's us.

The problem with us people
With all of our emotions
Overflowing ourselves
And spilling into each other
Is that while we are stumbling
Through our own blind confusion
We fail to remember
That there will always be things
We say but could never mean
Outweighing those
Many, many things
We could never say enough.

I think the first time
I held your hand
Was the first time
I realized that I
Could never let go.

I wasted every single moment
Of a life I should've lived
Hoping to see a place
Better than the arms you held
Reaching towards my figure
As I looked to the hills
For they say the grass is greener
On the other side
Yet I must admit for me
The problem always stayed
I was worried about the grass
I had not discovered yet.

Our name is the thing
That connects us to our life.
Every event, moment, action
Of importance can be simply
Conjured by one name.
Few, simple words spoken
To become emotions so strong
And link us to a being
That we may call our own.
And though I know this to be true,
I am haunted by this one dilemma:
Why is it the speaking of your name
To which my life is tied.

He said he couldn't find her
That one he always dreamed of;
I guess she dances within his mind
But never passes his line of vision.
He searches the few steps ahead
As if she will appear with ease.
I suppose when he is so intent
On that girl he wants right here
And right now, before him in whole,
He forgets that I stand in earnest
A little farther off and to the left.

You were the needle
Stitching me together
I was the hay
So brittle, so fragile
And when you left
You left that needle
Hidden within me
A part I could not find
Nor could I remove
And just so I could
Remove from me
That small part of you
I burned that hay stack
To the ground.

A crinkle of newspaper
The simple sideways glance
And a half hidden grin.
A shyness that stops
And a hope that intrudes
The next stop is mine
But you're here to stay
What a question I'll ask
What if everything
All I wanted
Was simply waiting
One seat over.

A burning bush
A cloud in the sky
A donkey's bray
A man hung to die
A walking *******
A tablet of stone
A swarm of locust
Three men stand alone
Word of a *******
The most hated Jew
Humble, poor fisherman
And a washed ***** too
Is there a difference
Between us and them all
So what will it take
For you to answer the call?
                            tsk

Oh are you better
You think you stand so tall
A head so big and growing
And yet a heart so small.
The shaking of your fingers
And pulling of those strings
The sneering at your equals
And lying of said things.
You thought yourself higher
The entire way done through
Yet now you have gone on
And you're 6 feet under too.
                          tsk

No strings attatched
They loudly proclaim
As I feel a subtle tug.
This way, that way,
Upwards, down:
A guiding force
So small, so menacing.

No strings attached
They tenderly whisper
So close to my ear.
Do this, play that,
Lie here, forget:
My tiny concious
Easily crushed, easily displaced.

No strings attached
They persistently hiss
As I back away.
But why, what if,
How come, explain:
Life is a stage
So who is the puppeteer?

I could write you away
Into a million poems
Escape from your being
As you are sprawled out
On a thousand crumpled sheets
Thrown in many dust bins
Or caught under the bed
Maybe lying on the desk
Or trapped inside my mind.

The sky is dark
An impenetrable black
Ominous and true
And I am losing track
There is no real telling
I cannot comprehend
Oh where it does begin
Or when it may end
But as I look to nothingness
And see no touch of lighter
When it seems so dim
Do not the stars grow brighter?
                                       tsk

They sit it a box
Under the bed,
Waiting to be opened,
Waiting to be fed.
And to their dismay,
Well, I hope they understand
I can never see them
Or hold them in my hand.
Oh, I left them there on purpose
With a hope but to disguise
The real pull within me
The truth to realize.
I wish I could explain
Just tell them oh but once
I shoved them there in earnest
And it must stay as such.
They cannot hope to comprehend,
Those broken memories,
That everything they now hold
Was once you and me.
                                           tsk

Idle hands:
Idol hands.
One the same,
Not sure again.
Sit on the fence,
Yet who owns the yard?
The power of that prince
You disregard.
You forget the One
Who called you here;
Now to decide,
The choice is near,
For He said "hate your
Parents, sister, brother"
So if you don't serve one,
You serve the other.
                                     tsk

They say the sea
is a place for freedom,
for the strong willed
and the liberal spirits.
They say the country
is a place for humility,
for the hard workers
and the level headed.
They say the forest
is a place for mystery,
for the subtle explorers
and the quietly brave.
But the sting of the salt,
the pull of the grass,
the shade of the trees,
they haunt me so:
for there is only one place
I could ever belong,
and those arms, that heart,
have long since departed.
                                                   tsk

When it's three am
and the cold water splashes
against your face, wiping
away the sweat of another
nightmare,

When it's just about noon
and the old fork clatters
from your hand, moving
beyond the loneliness of another
meal,

When it's half past six
and the exasperated sigh escapes
from your lips, easing
aside the tension of another
day,

that is when I hope you recall,
remember, that once--
much more than once--
I was your gratifying well,
your overflowing banquet,
your everlasting breath.

Another choice
Another line
Another symbol
Another rhyme
Simple diction
An extra word
Punctuation
Pentameter
A mournful meaning
A broken heart
Another poem
It's my art.

A fragile little rose
(It's always a rose)
Petals clinging on for life
(Are they ever healthy?)
Soon to fall to the ground
(Probably smoothly)
And be trampled underfoot
(I dare say it's a symbol).

I live in the desert
Where the snow doesn't fall,  
Losing myself in the wanderings:
Endless, restless, hopless.
For there is no return
To the home I know not.
The wind heaves,
The dirt stirs,
And I remain.
There is no escape,
There is no alternative,
For I live in the desert
Where the snow doesn't fall.

                                  tsk

You gave dusk
A whole new meaning.
The coming of darkness
Has become my greatest
Most terrifying fear
The one that knocks
On the door
At the end of every day
And that creeps past the threshold
Welcome or not.
And it all become a game
Of hide and go seek
As I run from the pain
Cower from the emotion
Flee from the memories.

                                              tsk

shall i make you immortal
turn you into a poem
a mournful sonnet
a worshiping ode
should i press your figure
between the pages
or to form you as a masterpiece
this beautiful creek of thought
to make you a poem
is to remember you
and to remember you
is the uttermost fear.

The problem, I realize,
Is that the way
I protect myself
From the innermost pain
Is the same way
I protect myself
From the innermost pleasure.

They used to say
"you make a better wall
than a window"
meaning don't stand
in someone's way
because they can't see through you.
Yet now I dare not stand
in any one's way,
and more than one
seem to look
right through me
as if I weren't there at all.

I laugh
Not because I'm in love
Nor because of insight
Or wit
Or humor
I laugh
And I laugh because
You think I know
What love is

If I find myself hating what I've done
If I find myself repulsed by who I am
If I find myself losing whom I know
If I find myself loathing things I think
If I find myself forgetting what I love
If I find myself looking for what I have
If I find myself unsure of where to turn
If I find myself not knowing how to feel
If I find myself wondering what to do
If I find myself standing at the choice
If I find myself, then I will know,
I am truly lost.