Aivy

I saw the lines of your face

etched into a past so haunting,
so full of quick smiles and 
a slow and steady perseverance 
that my breath caught deep 
in my lungs, in my soul. 

She was poise and composure, 
with a laugh that spoke to 
wisdom beyond her earthly years, 
a sound that was timeless, knowing, 
alien in its placement amongst 
hungry bellies and guarded faces. 
We met through a family as shy 
and fleeting as polka dotted butterflies. 
As they float around the temple 
do they worship the gods, or 
do they say thanks to the sun?

I found her to be fearless, a 
leader in the games we play 
as children before we understand
the underlying messages and 
warnings they teach us to survive. 
Counting becomes a march towards 
a borderland between prosperity 
and poverty, the steps in between
share the same 1,2... 1,2 rhythm.  

Her gaze knew too much, an elder, 
it was hard to tell if she was aging
forward, backward, diagonally...
pasts and presents and futures blended. 
She was a watercolor painting with
acrobats flipping in endless circles 
through hardship and success and 
moving through life's motions. 

I could hear your humor in her eyes, 
I could see your grit in the way she 
mastered anything placed in front of her, 
and as she danced I could feel the 
joy in her determination to thrive. 

Griff Graff

I saw the lines of your face

etched into a future so beautiful, 
so overwhelmingly warm that 
for a moment my heart shattered 
into one thousand pieces. 

It was nothing in particular, 
but it was a dandelion sunset, 
sunrise of promised tomorrows. 
"Morning sunshine" and "try some,"
and remember that time when 
your hair brushed your shoulders,
a protective layering not unlike 
the way my embrace was meant
to shield you from the elements. 

Someone sheared his Samson locks, 
but in his eyes was a past, was your
present, a gift to those around you.
You've always been family and when 
you were birthed into this world
we linked arms and our embrace 
was thicker than blood and was 
more sustaining than water. 
Genetics aside, we have GNA and 
terrible puns, the kind that make
your sides ache, your eyes squint. 

What did I do to ever deserve a 
brother so sweet, so thoughtful, 
and how can I ensure in this
rinse and repeat wash we call life
that when the timer beeps 
and the record is clean that 
I'll always have family like you?

He has your inquisitive mind and 
easy smile, a way of accepting and
challenging, not unlike tug of war
but more akin to a dancer.
His past is inexplicably etched into
the crinkles around your eyes.

Preah Vihear Musings

"Cultivate a heart of love that knows no anger."

Tread lightly on this world for                                        They protect and serve

it cannot always bear                                                a conflict of war and faith

the weight of our cruelty.                                                while butterflies float.

On the Shoulders of Immigrants

My father raised me.

Nourished me with empathy,
passed down love and fight. 

Granted permissions
to cast heart into the world
and always share joy. 

Always backed my fights, 
grounded in compassion and
the blaze of my fire.

Groomed a warrior,
trained me in weaponry like 
the strength of women. 

And for that, for that, 
my wishbone, jawbone, backbone
have been fortified.

Our Mother's Ideology

I love the way the ocean 

looks like the curves of your thighs, 
How it ripples the same way your
fingers thread through my hair. 
The breeze croons sweet 'n salty 
nothings as you whisper in my ear,
sea shells and sirens' calls intertwined.

I love the way the mountains
remain untouched by men.
Virgins in their own right, do their
stones ache the same way mine do,
Or does the lack of carnal knowledge 
blanket their cavities in forest greens
and pinewood, sun-kissed tans.

I love the way the rivers 
seek out paths of least resistance.
Demanding attention only in extremes
but largely gliding around the hearts
and desires of the lone wolf,
Providing sustenance and a guiding path,
only asking for existence in return. 

I love the way the deserts
are harsh and cool in their dreams,
Never yearning for rain to release them
from an unwavering, floating gold. 
Their sheriffs perched passively, 
arms waving scents of prickly pears only
punishing those who venture too close.

I love the way our mother
operates in only psychedelic hues, 
dressing herself in the finest of
lavenders and plums, befitting royalty. 
Lovely and kind, understanding of her 
own self-worth and timelessly patient.