Friday, July 13, 2018

Special Kind of Magic

Bad art
Is still art

So maybe try
Just making something

Anything, really
Because

Even if it’s bad,
It’s something you made

And that’s a pretty special
Kind of magic

Me(diocrity)

Maybe the secret to self-improvement
Isn’t getting better at things:

I think practice only helps you accept
Your mediocrity

Which sounds harsh, I know,
But think about it:

Some of the greatest people I’ve known
Have been the most mediocre

And no one cares if their pie crusts
Aren’t even of their bread doesn’t rise

Or if they can carry a tune or draw
A bowl of fruit on a window sill,

But they still learned how to be happy
And generous, and that’s why I love them,

So maybe I don’t have to learn to be good;
Maybe I just have to learn to be me.


Monday, May 21, 2018

100 Poems - 100 Days, Day One

I wonder sometimes if I write too much
About monsters and cigarettes and
The girl who broke my heart.

I feel the discomfort welling inside me, great
Hairy beast with claws and fangs desperate
For blood if it cannot have affection.

This cafe doesn’t allow smoking anymore, and so
My monster and I stand outside, rain or shine,
Waiting for something to make sense again.

I hear from mutual friends that Jen is doing fine,
That her baby is happy and fat and that
Her husband is treating her well.

I try to be happy for her, but this rage beast
Inside of me screams at whatever gods listen,
Quieting only like bees, in the haze-fog of tar smoke.

Wednesday, April 25, 2018

National Poetry Month 2018, Day Twenty-Five - For Michelle

For Michelle


We found him in the dark,
In the stillness after twilight where he thought
He was hidden, safe.


He hunted us in shadows
And silence, stole our quiet calm, turned us
To fear and shame.


We grew in the dark.
Let our voices turn to whispers and make
Our pupils grow out of the light.


He hid in the shadows,
But we were waiting for him, turned his
Tricks to our own.


We made ourselves in the dark,
Piecing together the shards he left behind,
Filling in the gaps with our sisters.


We found him in the shadows,
And we are not prey anymore, and he cannot
Hide from us in the dark.

Monday, April 23, 2018

National Poetry Month 2018, Day Two

Lying on my bed I hold my breath
And I turn into fish;
Gold and silver coursing through
The currents in my bedroom.
I count to seventy,
Release, breathe in again,
And the school of me scatters.
When I come back to myself
There are some fish missing,
But I don’t remember where

Those pieces go.

National Poetry Month 2018, Day One

I was a flower,
First bud, creeping out from
My mother’s stem.
I bloomed too soon,
Tempted by the early thaw,
False warmth drawing me away
From my mother’s safe embrace,
And when the harsh air
Returned, as is its nature,
I shrivelled again, desperate
Brown thorns clinging to my mother’s side,

Dreaming of returning to her arms.

Sunday, December 17, 2017

The Road

There's a road through the park.
Well, not so much a road as
a place the rec truck drove over so much
that the grass won't grow anymore.
It's bumpy and rocky and the leaves
pile up in the fall because no one clears the road, but
I take it home every day through the gray half twilight.
The road goes almost all the way from
my windowless office on the second floor to the house
where I rent the spare bedroom.
I walk the road and rocks turn under my feet and sand
gets in my shoes and the grass doesn't grow on the road
because the truck drives there too much.
Sometimes there are still children in the park when I walk the road.
Not so much now when the air is getting colder and
the twilight comes sooner,
but in summer they swarm the swingsets and the pool and
I walk through noise thick like pollen.
In the winter, though, is when the road is quietest
and there is a brief moment trapped in gray hazy fog
before the snow falls and covers the road,
and in the ten minutes it takes to walk from
my windowless office on the second floor to
my rented bedroom it's like I'm walking
through another world, hazy underwater light trickling through dark
clouds. Twilight dips low over the ground and
it feels like I'm walking through memory and shadow and
I wonder if there’s something at the end of the road.