Dream Life

The kind of life that’s calling me

cannot be found in this world–––

not in its perfection

to love with your whole heart

is always enough for me

and yet faces I see

have decided differently

under armed forces and divided

nations hobbling for a squabble

and some land on the side.

The type of love I look for

cannot be found on war-torn soil,

turned over by mindless antics

and more mindful of racism

because someones gotta fill

the shoes of hate,

one to one

to be even again,

not to consider defeat

but to win and to succeed at this

is to fuel the cynics’ cycle

spinning away

from my widening wave,

carrying me home to remind me

of the shore, the last time

I saw my dream life,

sailing by.

August 13, 2014


The Shore

We’re all

on a journey

to let go.


Who said

that the cat’s in the cradle

when my arm’s in a sling

with my head wrapped down

like four corners of a box

under the tree?


I can break a limb

but not my heart—

and God forbid my mind.


When flashbacks come to me

like scenes from a movie

and all I can think is,

“Was that me yesterday

or 7 years ago?”


Could it be both?


Could it be

that our “selves”

are continually packaged,

not perfectly with a bow

but pinned down like craft paper,

a collage of foam

on the edge of the wave

that must crash down

before we reach the shore?

August 7, 2014