The Branch and Vine
Clinging to the branch and vine
In wait of microbursts
Like poets at the well with lines
Hoping to quench a thirst
Scrolling, canopies of gray
Knock with nitrogen
Lightning cuts the hem and frays
Like silver words, the pen
Parched, the roots drink puddles
Veins of thought cast onyx shade
Fruit swims in sangria bowls
Kraft boxed, warm pie, homemade
Peaches, mixed with sugar
Cream and milk — gelato chills
Foggy windows, breath and verse
A la Mode melts down the sill
A run-down city, full of revolution and beer: should be my kind of city, right? Harvard, MIT, the bus that took me to work every day, picking me up outside the tavern in my square. Quaint, right? Boston was the city of dreams, where I followed a man that I now detest. The city where he met the other love of his life.
I’m no quaint catch. I’m the face you see in the mirrored reflection in the Charles River and wished for only once.
I’m not one for romance, and Boston is the city of snow, blistering summers, and heartache like chipped brick - far as the eye can see.
Boston. The city where I saw it rain, where I saw life framed: my young twenties, my future, my face in the crowd. Gone, like their autumn sun.
This place is,
This place is,
In this place,
lives the girl I buried,
in my chest.
This place is my heart.
This place is different.
Don't jinx it;
the weather will change
This place is
has little visitors,
but has its
the place will remain
This place isn't breathtaking,
as all places are.
This place is sensitive,
weather changes every now and then.
This place has ups and downs,
places that are beautiful
but it has the opposites too.
This place can be harsh,
but has a caring
air about it.
This place has high peeks,
and low creeks.
and blooming flowers.
and light rain drops.
but gentle shade.
This place is different,
perhaps a lot,
perhaps a bit,
but it has what it needs:
and the water,
Two Story Homes
I used to live in the attic.
Where it's small, quiet, and still
Where you escape from the rest of the household and the outside world
Where the air gets stifling in the summer, and there's little warmth in the winter
Where the stairs keep others at a distance
Where you're held up high, yet feel out of reach
Where the toys and books disappear when no one can find them downstairs
Where they have to call you out to come eat, drink, groom, live
Where the only walls are your imagination
Where you realize you're lonely on your own
Where the only way out is to bring yourself back down to everyone's level
I now live in a house.
Where there is only one floor for everybody
Where the layout is a circle, better for chasing each other around
Where the tree shades us in the summer and the fireplaces warms us in the winter
Where there's a bed big enough for everybody and I never sleep alone
Where our neighbor's yard connects to ours so we can chat over fences
Where our childhood toys and books sit side-by-side for sharing
Where I get up each day to eat, drink, groom, live
Where the only limits are our budget
Where we face everything together
Where the only way we'd ever move out is over our retired dead bodies
And where there is no more space for attics.
One fine summer day, I was out for a walk in the countryside, and I came across a pond. Just a little pond, skirted by a path few people came by. It was getting hot, and I was drawn to the shade of the trees that surrounded the water, cupping it like a protective hand. There was an old rope swing hung from a branch in the shade; I didn’t sit on it – it looked like it would drop me if I tried. But, there was a log, partially in the water but mostly out, and I sat there to bask in the coolness for a while. Sunlight filtered through the leaves and danced on ripples in the water. There were birds singing softly to one another nearby – I heard them but didn’t see them. A green frog sat in the reeds at the edge of the water, and watched me for a moment, throat bulging convulsively, before he plopped into the water and swam away. I felt as if I were in a place out of time – I peeked carefully around this miniature universe in hopes of seeing a fairy peeking at me too (grinning – yes, I did). A cool breeze rustled in the leaves overhead; birdsong combined with the buzz of bees in the wildflowers, and lulled me near to dozing. I breathed in the peace; and found myself in the reflection looking back at me from the wavering green water. A distant horn honked and a plane flew noisily overhead, and reality crashed back down on me. I stood, brushed moss off the seat of my cut-offs and walked in the heat of the sun back the way I’d come. Looking back, I could see nothing but the dusty path.
A grassland as endless as the sky. Though plain looking at first. A closer inspection, reveals the lands hidden potential. Mineral-rich soil, growing golden fields of wheat. Feeding millions in distant lands. Deeper still, lie elements from diamonds to gold. Though the land may look plain. The sky is alive. In winter gusts of wind blow in an Arctic Rush. In summer a mighty thunderstorm. Blocking out the sun during high noon. Flashes of lightning light up the sky. All the while pounding the earth with fist-size hale.
A beautiful land full of life and action. You just need to have a closer look.
but never quite there.
people come but never settle,
they just barely scratch my surface
for the purpose of
getting somewhere else.
and in a heartbeat
they are long gone,
far ahead of me.
My reflection is the Sahara
Her heart is an oasis mirrored by a mirage of green which makes up her eyes
You could spend hour trekking the dunes in which compose her hips
Her golden locks radiate the heat of the sun as she lays across your chest and you can’t help but feel lost
And when night falls the emptiness of the space beside you gives you chills