In Me

Like a tree,

there is a poem

in me,

whispering away

until May,

covering the Earth

with mud and clay–––

filling silence

and swaying

until it turns the same gray

it was yeterday, mixed

in dust all along

shys away, like veins

they are my branches,

write traditional rhymes

to fill all of my lines

because beauty

out of nothing

is everything you see,

like time melting away,

into me.

April 19, 2014

X

I would like to propose an answer to one of the biggest, if not biggest, questions of all:

What is the meaning of life?

Memoir after memoir, story after story, our Earth turns.  Our lives turn.  Our world turns.  Yet to fully grasp the “why” behind this movement, all one must do is slow down.  The world turns us; we do not turn the Earth.  Albeit, at the core of arguably every problem, is our human condition that refuses to let go of the notion that we, and only we, control our fate.

My life has been run by fear for the last four years.  It is a story like any other, one capable of spiraling into all its messy little details, or raveling up into one, neat package with a bow.  For the sake of my argument, let’s name is X.  Now, in the last four years, I have attended and graduated from college, worked at different companies and organizations, and changed and grown as a person.  Again, I am human– change is part of our landscape.  I have experienced every day ups and down amidst my greatest joys and greatest pains.  I have, simply put, been living my life.

But have I been living it “to the fullest,” as the great thinkers, business men, and mediators of our time insist is our greatest mission?  I believe to many extents, I have.  The only problem is X.  Let’s say I am standing over a solid, made-of-standard-brown-brick well, and I see X clearly but from a distance, floating down below.  Now, let’s say that this image is see-through; it still exists, fully in my point of view, and yet I can see everything happening on the other side of it, around it, as well.  I can see the clear water on the sides of X, the well’s black, concrete bottom below.  I can see sunlight scraping the edges of tiny waves, the air pushing them.  Life in the well is stable and slow and on-going.

However, X never leaves my sight.  It has become a lens through which I see everything else surrounding it–and it originates within myself.  I can try to laugh it off; I can try to battle through it.  I can try to nurse it away with medications and pain killers; I can try to bite at it with my own mental teeth.  Yet it persists in my view.  

What exactly is X, anyway?

X is fear.  X is wanting upmost control.  X is the pressure to be a mind-reader in your own mind.  X is defining yourself as a critic, a fortune teller, a future seer.  X is nothing that a human– in an un-judged, arguably never-more-true reality– actually is.

And yet all of us, in one way or another, have taken the bait and lived our lives in the presence and scrutiny of X.  Of course, it is different for all of us.  Yet they all fall along the same path– a path we must look at with not only open eyes, but open hearts to truly feel our steps as we walk upon it. We all are on a journey to find love, to find peace.  We must learn to let go of X, to not be critics of our lives and others, but peaceful observers, to keep our steps in line.   To reach the place that lives in all of us that wishes to simply “be.”

What is your X?  Once you find it, know that you can beat it.  That by “being” human, you already have.   I believe this fight– or, rather, the letting go of the fight– is the meaning of our individual lives, our collective life as one human race. 

Following the Path

I said I want

my brother to follow

my lead–

but what does that mean

for me?

At thirteen,

despise the middle ground

bow down to no one

but the tooth fairy

and leave her dust in your tracks?

His smile opens

and my heart sings

at the magical essence

of aging make-believe,

family friends that,

at one time,

belonged to you,

proper pieces

of a simple jewelry box–

not the ones that make

my mask

but break it,

“Some people are irreplaceable,”

I say, meaning,

“Only some deserve it,”

and yet others say

days don’t count

when you’re lost in the desert–

when my brother

is just groping for some water.

September 29, 2014

A Lesson

How do I know

that your dreams align with mine

when the sky won’t open up

for you the same way

it used to under the mulberry tree

we’d play classes–

you: teacher one, me: teacher three

lessons on vanilla wafers,

chocolate munchkins,

and how Dr. Seuss really needed some practice

in rhetorical grammar.

My blood doesn’t move

as he inches away,

carrying “you” back to “stranger”

and “us” back to the bottom

of the trunk where “I love you”

would, one day,

be carved.

September 22, 2014

the leaves of my poem

The emotion in nature, in ourselves. Such beauty here.

A Holistic Journey

i chew the leaves of my poem they fan green and spirited in the height of their hour veins visible like these that inscribe my hand, run with the life of dreams that have nowhere to go but back down to the branch to the root you don't see look: their asymmetry of being red oak stained with rain pollen much like the blemishes on my face t o r n by time and caterpillars that become f u l l and bloom into butterflies the leaves testify to all the seasons green ash have weathered the wild waltz of wind and rain hungry for the sun they drink from the clouds i feel the laugh lines on the maple and swallow their history - this one, curled copper like rusted edges but it's just the candor of time grain and weave of memories cru n ch between my teeth…

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Left of the Heart

Bang on the table

and you leave,

stage left

of the hand

and the heart

must realize

where it has left off

in order to set it right

on the dotted line

of friendship

you told me,

“You’re right,”

but soon our pride

got in the way–

were we both right?

How do we know

when the doors are closed,

windows open, and all my dreams

are going in one side

and out the other?

October 15, 2014