When They Call You a Mistake

The world is too cold
and sometimes I do not have
the fire I need. 

~~~

If only you can stop 
forest fires
do the evergreens
burn at your whim?

Why do we?

Why 

Do

we celebrate the healing
of an ember;
and fear the destruction
of a flame.

Midnight Personified

I was going to write a poem about bruises. 

About how we over estimate pain,
under appreciate healing and
somehow manage to lose sight that
scars tell stories across time. 

I wanted to start with their colors.
Swirls or imprints or or starbursts 
of tortured black, royal purple, blue
so warm it brings tears to your eyes. 

But the thing about bruises is, they're left behind. 

They're left behind until they're found,
at which point we choose to ice them out. 
Scars, those indelible fuckers, we'll 
welcome into our narratives. 
But bruises, they have no place beyond
a background character, a filler
until the moment resolves. 

I wanted to write you a poem about bruises,
but there was no more space on the page,
no more room in the air after scars were whispered.

So, instead, I settled for midnight. 
Midnight, a familiar comfort blanket,
dragged around and over the world. 
We all claim to know it, but we've
spent more time asleep in its presence
than we have awake.

When's the last time you searched for midnight
in a tale,
in a scene,
between lovers tangled in sheets
or giggles shared between friends
or that picture book, the one with
beautiful illustrations in between 
tucking everyone in for bed?
What was it, midnight moon?
Goodnight moon?

And if we're wishing the moon goodnight, 
shouldn't the middle be recognized?
The point of no return before the sun 
washes everything anew, yet again?
Before we lose sight of the stars,
visible against a deep black sky.
Or forget that nightmares and dreams alike
can feature purples so regal it 
literally takes our breath away.
Or ponder why we are comfortable
finally feeling so blue in the safety of darkness. 

I wrote a poem about bruises. 

I hid it in midnight, scattered lines
about trauma and healing,
nightmares and dreams,
blacks and purples and blues. 
I buried them like treasure
in places they would likely not be found. 

Because we leave our bruises behind. 

We carry the weight of our scars,
we'll bring our wars into new battles.

But.

We leave our bruises behind. 

The Opacity of It All

He asked how she could see,
how she peered into 
the truths of the world. 

She left the question to itself for

how do you explain sight?

Is it the process or the premise or

the content of potential and promise?

She'll claim she's as blind as the rest,

let inquires float through conversations. 

But she'll remember that once 

she felt the gossamer of the world,

That She's older than Laughter and Mirth,

younger than Creation and Chaos. 

That She's witnessed the world undone,

unmade, vulnerable, with curves that 

knew no pain, only patience. 

She'll say She has old bones but

Her cage is new, shapeshifting

from one lifetime to the next. 

New materials and scars,

each an improved attempt 

to dull the ache of knowing. 

Fate, forever Her faithful companion,

Her compass as She wanders, 

restless with the weight of it all,

keeps His eyes open for

Timing and Context, those tricksters,

always promise that they're 

right around the corner. 

So when he asks how she *sees*,

she'll hide behind pretty words,

behind wit and curiosity and affection,

because how can she ever explain 

the exhaustion of what she knows.

Passion

What's a blush if not
quiet affirmation that
you're under my skin. 

The Problem with Muses

Rarely is a muse 

An amusing thing.

They’re planes in the sky 

stretching in vain to become 

Shooting stars or the 

five impossible things 

we believe before breakfast. 

They’re deep wells, steady

Until you brush their surface,

Endless, until your lungs 

Become the buckets 

they needed 

for their own survival.

They’re nothing like what 

You expect them to be. 

Their radiant feathers? 

Stolen from the sun and 

the optic nerves and 

The truth of prisms. 

But the chemistry of pain 

Is two parts analogy 

One part metaphor 

And seventeen syllables 

Of economics, cost vs benefit. 

It’s poisonous, though.

Leaving you questioning

The means when it ends. 

When the ends are

Meaningless and 

They’re written like a salve 

A principle of gifting 

You hadn’t experienced yet, 

that defies the laws of physics. 

When they’re nothing like what 

You expect them to be 

their plumage humble, 

Gathered during nightfall

With consent from the 

Eyes of the forest. 

When their waters 

push and pull and 

Fill you with the slight

Sting of the ocean breeze

Their salts wanting nothing 

More than to keep you afloat.

When the moon returns 

From it’s trip around the earth

capable of so much more 

Than it’s given credit for, 

A Cheshire grin the sky… 

The sound of laughter 

Is so delicately placed 

Upon characters.

Soft consonants 

Become harder… 

Until it ends. 

When it began it was...

Two courts of the same coin, 

one a mask and the other

a cryptic invitation. 

To Be Clear

Dreams and nightmares 

have nothing more than 

a razor’s edge between them. 

Truth, Rebirth, Reclamation.

My bones are capsules 
for stardust and knowledge when
my flesh rots away. 

"It's not quite the same, but I feel you so closely."

sometimes bruises look like tea leaves.

you're not quite sure what they're saying

but you know there's a story and a message 

and they're kind of like midnight 

swirls of blues and purples

that will evaporate, be forgotten

until the next time...

and given such a bad rap, but
they're just as much healing as they are pain

... and scars
scars are unsung heroes 

literally connective tissue that holds us together 

when we split open 

in chaos, they provide structure 

protein literally cross-linking 

and yet, despite their best efforts 

to fix what's broken and protect what's inside 

they wind up being less resistant than just leaning into chaos

and why is red so frightening
what about 

passion and intensity and anger
scares us when, without it,

we wouldn't understand blue 

and wouldn't have a frame of reference
for understanding cool distance.

and why do we think we can control yellow,

entranced by bright and happy and yet 

it's a sign of our bodies failing.

and don't get me started on poor brown 

on how the earth and tree trunks and 
the backgammon case from 

home once upon a time 

how brown is comfort and 
feels like manageable warmth.

sometimes bruises look like tea leaves.

and I wonder... why search anywhere else 

for signs, premonitions, or gods

when everything you need to know
can be found at the bottom of the bruises?

That's my line, don't steal it.

Stripped down to nothing 
But the depths of my being, 
I feel beautiful.

Sight

if you look closely, 
there is a whole world beyond

your expectations

Is that a promise or a bluff?

He told me I was 

amazing, special, and great.

I heard, “beautiful.”

An Introduction: Water

Water never sleeps. 

She may become still, 

occasionally evaporate… 

Wandering suits her. 

But, 

even when quiet,

she reminisces on how it feels

to be stronger than stone. 

In between a rock and a hard place,

she erodes both to her will. 

The traces left behind are 

not those of destruction, but

indelible marks of her truth. 

She’ll daydream about 

negotiating with the sun 

to bring color to the horizon, 

Reds and oranges and yellows 

greens and blues and purples.

Alone and overlooked, just wait, 

when you shine light on her, 

when it refracts and disperses 

she’ll make you believe in gold

and leprechauns and old magic, 

the kind you knew before 

the loss of innocence and sight. 

When she leaves, inevitably, 

stretching forward, beyond, across, 

searching for her path of 

resistance or acceptance or 

honestly space sturdy enough 

to contain the life and energy 

she carries within her, you 

won’t notice the absence. 

Humans can survive without 

water for approximately a week, 

enough time to deny 

she meant anything 

before anger flashes in the pan

red hot and boiling. 

Bargains will be struck 

with omnipresent forces. 

They’re a dime a dozen, 

she’s seen them rise and fall 

across texts and sacrifices 

and monuments, she’d roll her eyes 

if it was worth the energy. 

Funny how infrequently they realize

outsourcing was so often the problem. 

Weighed down by loss, 

an irony not lost on her, 

(how can the release of something

feel heavier than carrying it?)

humans will construct 

simple reproductions, hide them

in shirt sleeves and tissues, 

vices and liquor and pillows.

Eventually, accepting that 

Water never sleeps. 

She may become still, 

occasionally evaporate… 

Wandering suits her. 

Blush

I like to play with
my words before I eat them. 
Doesn't everyone?

Brunchtime Prayer

In the sport of believing in 

five impossible things before breakfast
I believe in love, in people, in 
the way being held can feel like quiet laughter
and the beginning of time. 
I believe in you.

Childhood

Sometimes I think about the
inverse relationships between 
puddles and sidewalk cracks. 

When and How and Why 
we gain reverence for  
the depths and chill of water
while losing all respect for
the places in between,
as if we're afraid to admit
our determination in avoiding
the cracks of our relationships.

"Don't step on the crack,
or you'll break your mother's back."
What does it say about me 
that every crack seemed like 
a secret escape route or a lifeline?
These are the thoughts
probably best kept to myself,
or at the very least myself
and my certified professional.

With every puddle a reflection pool,
serving as a memory to when the
sky cried or she cried or they all
just leaked before they could help it,
I didn't quite pick up on the joy of jumping 
until well past when others somehow
lost the secrets we know as children.
That only you can prevent forest fires,
ice cream tastes better and hurts more
the faster it's consumed,
and sex ed is horrifying but not deterring.
(Sorry, folks.) 

While not always a core ingredient,
water serves as Gaslighting's henchman. 
Puddles its minions, fog its hounds. 
It portrays reality, sure, but its truth 
is in the distortions, choosing to show
not ~quite~ everything and hiding
the rest below its surface. 

And ironically, it's authority figures
who teach us to listen and accept
"this message brought to you by"
sponsors who have no ulterior motives, 
afraid of what you might discover
when you jump into challenging
the discrepancies between what 
we know and what we're told. 

Supposedly, 
I grew out of avoiding
sidewalk cracks. 

Honestly,
I think I grew into
cherishing them. 
It takes time to realize
that which keeps you afloat,
consumes and demands
something in return.

And, while deemed foolish 
by the majority of my peers,
I will take every opportunity to
celebrate the rain, to revel in it
in anticipation
of shattering
the puddles.  

Sometimes I think about the
inverse relationships between 
puddles and sidewalk cracks. 

What Do You See?

the sun is setting behind the bay bridge right now, 
and the remaining sunlight is causing 
houses on the other side of the water to glitter, 
like flecks of gold in the horizon. 
contrasted with such muted 
grays and 
blues and 
purples. 

and that's how I feel right now. 
like there's this shimmering thing, 
out of my reach but in my line of sight, 
and I don't actually know what it is. 
but a piece of it is stuck behind my rib cage 
and everything feels intensified. 

the bridge is alive now, 
a thousand electronic fire flies 
with stories to share of fish on the move.

Define: Boundaries

The worlds formed within

paper, embraces, and smiles
can be fragile things.

An Introduction

Her

She was written into being as a salve,

not the kind the wounded seek but

the respite and relief they need. 

The bandage of a friend's knowing smile, 

a well timed embrace under sunshine. 

Her healing guided by her worship of

Timing and Context, and Fate's endless love, 

she locked away her own pain, kept it

to study sympathy for how can you heal

if you do not know what it is to be in pain?

Strong and delicate, she met him where

the roads join in their singular mission of

delivering the gifts of now and the promises

of tomorrow revealed in the path ahead. 

Him

Stories are often told in hearts and minds,
in battles and scars, in the fulfillment

of a goal accomplished and wars won.

But the best chronicles are quiet

featuring unknown beginnings and ends.

They are told through the drumbeats of

connections shared with all those

you were and are and never will be.

His soles were callused, encompassed

by skin self-sacrificing for his protection.

Familiar with the gnaw of hunger, with

the drive that propels people through

the impossible and the unimaginable,
without saying anything at all he told
a story of his wounds, a salve, and
the road he trekked to find her.