Whitman, you heard the rain as I hear it now,Did you not?I lay and I listen,And I think of you—I think of how you thought of me;How you listened to the wavesLap against the ferry as you crossed that dayIn Brooklyn;How you felt the sea mist against your skin,And the sun upon your face.I feel…
Category: Poems
For My Niece on the Day After Her Birth
A new line has emergedOn this canvas of life;Been etched into the slateOf existence. Of all the linesThat have appeared before —Of the borders, barricades, and bounds —This line transcends them. I see it as Lily Briscoe’s final touch;Yet rather than birthed from mortal hands and eyes,It was (it always was) a vision divine. In…
Ideal
“You’re so good,” they told her.“A perfect example of goodness and grace—A role model people can look up to.”And with this message, she staked her flag,Mapped out the house, drew the borders,Carved out the earth, laid the foundation,And built the home—One false brick after the other,Each fashioned through willful labor and toil;Each infused with doubt…
Why does every poet have a story of woe?
Why does every poet have a story of woe?Why is the artist so familiar with darkness? Their minds seem to see fractals of hope;Their song, the tune of something broken. Brokenness their friend, loneliness their companion,Each one, it seems, has known abandonment, Loss, grief, or overwhelming darkness;Been targets of anger, abuse, or someone’s heartlessness —…
Miss Brooke
I look up through a lens of greyAnd deeply sorrowful blue; See my rosy glasses on the floor —Shattered. I feel hot blood trickle down my face;Touch my nose. Bruised. Spatters of red across my white blouse.Funny, blood looks different from this view. I look different too. November 14, 2020
Shepherdess
“Just enough,” she says.“You are?” I say.“Just enough,” she says,And leads me to a tuft of grass.I sit on the cracked dry ground.A pool of stagnant water ahead.The sun begins its slow descent. February 10, 2021
A Sonnet on Love
If love is patient, why does it always rage,Against the wind, a pin-fall, or drop of rain?If love is kind, then why doesn’t it assuageThe burning sores, the endless, senseless pain? If love isn’t proud, then why does it assertItself above the low and stifled soul?If it isn’t rude, why does it not concernItself with…
The Voice Inside My Chest
The voice inside my chest,Riles my blue blood withEvery thumping pulse,Warming me. It softens my stiff spine,Shoulders and dusty fists,Undoing what I’ve sustained,Disarming me. It caresses my arid body,Wets my cracking mind,Like aloe on sunburned skin,Alarming me. I’ve heard the tone before,Yet I still do not knowWhose voice this isThat calls me. I know it’s…