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.

Kiss

Softly

A breath of air

Between our lips

Our souls’ brief touch

Gentle sparks

Electric tingles

A brush of lips

They barely graze

We sigh

As our souls exhale

Eyes open and smile

Touch noses

And

Softly

Kiss

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.

Save face.

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

close

you loved me so

you never had the heart to say no

to me

when most would have been ashamed

you were proud

when most would have shunned

you embraced

when most would have rejected

you welcomed

that was you mama

that was you

i

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

but you...

don’t you see

any mother would have given me up for adoption

who wants a child who is disabled and ill and 

ugly

only you saw beyond that 

only you saw the true me

don’t cry

forgive me mama

forgive me

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

in peace

only then will i also

rest in peace

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.

Always,

Forgetting the most important thing

(what lies within?)

and leaving it all in between.

~ Blank canvas;

pure white as the snow

Pain bleeds;

brush strokes of its paint

Little, though,

years pass — she grows

’Side her image

of shame and self-hate

Hues;

ashen gray, muddied brown

Cold eyes,

shaded charcoal black

Life’s palette knife

scrapes a frown

For to smile, the aged paint

would all crack

Tossed aside

in a heap, wasting way

Her image,

discovered the artist

Humble,

no waste, for to pay

Began

to repurpose her canvas

Brushed in sunsets

and poppies, bright colors

Softened eyes,

as the blue sky, now glow

Pinked cheeks,

blushed, alight, by her lover

Lips parted,

to smile, just below

Brought to life

by his vision; a dreamer

Fiery eyes,

free from shadows of night

Her portrait

belongs to the painter

Stunning capture;

the Artist of Light

image: Van Gogh The Old Tower In The Fields