Flowers

These flowers are growing again

in my head

and like a vine

they neither swoop nor swing–

they cling

to each side of my brain,

try to determine what type of learner I am

but either way, thoughts can’t be pushed

out of the way

so I’ll plan out another day to pluck and prune.

 

For now,

let me sit, lay down my head and rest

let nature have its way

before I run and play, amidst the gardens

outside these walls; in each season

they grow flowers, all their pinks and blacks

and greens– they look familiar to me.

 

In my mind I see a mirror,

one I can’t protest:

an image of you, an image of me

and sweet, pink, spring flowers,

scattered at my feet.

 

Each petal falls so slowly;

I do not stand in their way.

 

I watch in perfect silence;

I pray for peace today.

 

February 28, 2016

Something Worth Fighting For

Do you

have something

worth fighting for?

 

Under the depths

of a powerful river

do you think,

“I wish I could tell you,

‘I love you,'”

then yes–

you have someone worth fighting for.

 

In the next snowpocalypse

do you go drifting off to your bed at noon,

arms full of magazines,

gin on ice

and a mad idea of hope–

you,

yes, you,

have something worth fighting for.

 

Last week,

the last one in class,

sweat dripping down your neck

and pair of unfortunate yoga pants,

determined to be in the now–

oh, you dear–

you have something worth fighting for.

 

The way things are these days, we all do.

 

All terminology aside, cutting

the “fight” off “ing”

allowing Being

to simply be

the one thing worth illuminating:

there is no fighting to be done.

 

I am not the only one.

 

We are all, deep in our bones,

careful risk takers,

taking empathy by the hand,

showing them a good time,

and then, with a faint smile,

letting them go.

Yesterday I watched Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix on a whim (and it was totally worth it, naturally).  The final scene really got to me.  Dumbledoor tells Harry that he has one thing that Voldemort does not have: “something worth fighting for.”  Sadly, I couldn’t find any good clips of this part on good ol’ YouTube, but here is one nostalgia filled video, ending with the classic line, for any of you fellow HP lovers.  https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iNhHqLYEMVU  

 

February 12, 2016

Morning Commute

Take

your hand

off the door

and take a step

with me.

 

Flex

your eyebrow

while your side eye

grants me a grin–

did I say it

again?

 

“I like you,”

and all those messy thoughts aside,

“I know you,”

or at least I want to.

 

My steps feel lighter

now that you’re part of the story

rolling through my head–

or is this my stop at Penn?

 

Don’t want to miss my train again…

M-New-York-Subway-Paul-L-via-Flickr.jpg

January 28, 2016

on lunch break

how nice it is

to sit by the river and unwind,

blink by

blink.

 

you know your same-old view

in the city:

skyscraper tree tops

that leave you wanting for a chickadee

 

where can I find just one bird?

(the pigeons are beautiful, mind you.)

 

I yearn to hear a song;

the water gives it to me–

it gives it to us

as long as I keep my ears open

I can hear it all the way from the skyline.

 

remind me how love songs go, again?

does he start?

am I the minor chord?

 

the wind trickles in;

between my toes

the water hums.

 

my shoulders sigh

as I remember how easy it must have been

 

to let

doors open

before windows closed,

families eat meals together

after swimming through the day.

 

the world stills;

my eyes close;

and I tell my heart,

“It’s okay

to remain

open.”

623d119e2a5debfd6b756495d7778af9.jpg

January 21, 2016

You

So you–

you–

want to write a poem?

 

Start by walking out your front door

and saying hello to every face you meet:

bird in the sky,

leaf on the lawn,

a summer wind falling gently over you

and you still–

still–

want to write a poem?

 

After an over-worked day at the office

gray cubicles and clear ice cubes clinking

on paper cups I just want to make sure

I’ve heard you right:

you,

who wakes up every morning

just to paint the sunrise;

you,

who tallies ticket orders

and buys Christmas presents,

builds log cabins

and feeds the homeless;

you

who has ever wondered

what your place is on this Earth–

you

want to write a poem?

 

The Earth hears your beckoning,

is waiting for you

to open up

open the door to your soul

and realize that man-made

will always have its limits…

the mountain peak will always

surpass Mountain Dew

and wild thoughts fall flat

onto to the blue horizon,

spread out like a quilt

nature made just for you.

 

Hear it whisper,

my dear,

that beating in your heart.

 

You mustn’t

simply

write a poem.

 

You are the poem.

 

December 9, 2015