The Boy and the Stars
Under a sky that went on forever,
Sat the boy, staring up and wondering.
He wondered many things everyday
Where did the sky end?
Who hung the stars?
He’d have liked that job.
The stars always got so much attention.
Everyone looked up at them and
Spoke of them.
They were his constants in a world that had none.
He grew to a man and still he wondered
Not about the sky any longer
Nor about the stars
But now about his path.
The stars had always been there
He could depend on them still
But now he’d be on his own
He hoped the same ones would follow him
Would they light a different sky
In a far off place so he would feel safe?
The stars are still lighting his way.
And through hazel eyes he sees them
As his way to remember his home
at the other end of the endless sky he sat under as a boy.
Do you see it?
The little yellow flower,
Blooming despite the cold.
It lives loudly and proudly,
Never apologizing for who it is.
It lives through the rainy days,
Basks in the sunny days,
And stands out most on the cloudy days.
This little flower lived outside my window,
In the little garden across the way.
This past week when I looked over,
All I saw were its wrinkled leaves,
Brown and dying.
When I looked around it though,
The other flowers were bursting to life all around it,
With their bright pinks, oranges, and yellows,
Although the yellow flower is no more,
There is still color in the world to be seen.
A breath of air
Between our lips
Our souls’ brief touch
A brush of lips
They barely graze
As our souls exhale
Eyes open and smile
If I should someday fall from the sky
Or hit my a head a little too hard
Or any other event that causes me to die.
I wonder what fate awaits my soul so charred.
If energy can neither be created nor
Destroyed, then where does it go,
The energy that shifts and soars
From the world to me and to and fro
Will my soul open eyes to an afterlife?
Will my light echo through space and
Time like a fallen star felled by some strife?
What rest awaits our souls so burdened?
As you can see this is the best poem
Because it returns to that age old question
Picked at by philosophy, science, and religion.
Yes, indeed, it’s better than the rest of them.
Play the part.
Be the picture of politeness.
I'm faking a role,
but so are you.
Loneliness is loud,
but isolation is deafening.
The true me is uninvited.
i remember when you held my small hand
i remember when you took me around the park
you held me tight
you loved me so
you never had the heart to say no
when most would have been ashamed
you were proud
when most would have shunned
when most would have rejected
that was you mama
that was you
a mental child
with dyslexia and cancer
who couldn’t even properly walk at the age of 8
would have been repudiated by all other mothers
don’t you see
any mother would have given me up for adoption
who wants a child who is disabled and ill and
only you saw beyond that
only you saw the true me
forgive me mama
i couldn’t fight off the cancer
but i know you can fight off the grief
cancer got the best of me
but don’t you dare let grief ruin your life
be joyous, forever
forgive me for leaving you
forgive me please i beg you
because even though I’m not by your side
holding your hand
i will forever live inside your tender heart
you have to move on
you have to forgive me
because only then can you live the rest of your long life
only then will i also
rest in peace
Without a Life to Live
Lying plainly, writing poorly, with heat of envy on your cheek;
Staring sour, wishing dour, while smiling fake in your sleep,
Aloft a cloud in a solemn facade, wandering in your tainted way;
Writing lists of course and courage as you watch the crumbling days
Bending to the wind of pleasure in your cold, collected play.
You sing of harpies in your head; a feather without a home
Is a sad and sullen image; these monsters that you call your own
Listen to your every cry as the night takes your pain away,
Step through cold corners and warm rooms in their stay,
Watch the borders of your mind, counting wolves and blooded sheep,
Taking what they please away, choosing this and that to keep.
Hate isn't passion, it's a shallow writhing through your veins,
Love isn't empty, it's a mark of trust that leaves a stain;
Jealously is a lie,
But without it, certain things would change.
You'd never call across the ocean to that something that you need,
You'd never search the shattered rocks, never caring if you bleed,
Never opening the earth to finally plant a dying seed.
Yet, it came as no surprise when I finally slipped away.
You'd stolen far above the line, and in the light I couln't pay.
The dying roots that you pulled from my chest began to burn;
You said, "Without a life to live, your world will never turn."
"Let me catch up to you",
says the boy with the poem in his lips and the flowers in his hands.
"If I slow down I'll never catch you",
says the girl with the music in her feet and the kisses in her eyes.
And so we run,
from you to me and me to you,
right until our very lives are through.
Forgetting the most important thing
(what lies within?)
and leaving it all in between.
if only each kiss
stayed upon your skin, freckled
like stars in the night.
The Artist of Light
~ Blank canvas;
pure white as the snow
brush strokes of its paint
years pass — she grows
’Side her image
of shame and self-hate
ashen gray, muddied brown
shaded charcoal black
Life’s palette knife
scrapes a frown
For to smile, the aged paint
would all crack
in a heap, wasting way
discovered the artist
no waste, for to pay
to repurpose her canvas
Brushed in sunsets
and poppies, bright colors
as the blue sky, now glow
blushed, alight, by her lover
to smile, just below
Brought to life
by his vision; a dreamer
free from shadows of night
belongs to the painter
the Artist of Light
image: Van Gogh The Old Tower In The Fields