The Green will come back to us
it has to,
the passing of its shade
simply a setting sun.
Nothing lasts forever now
how could it,
life carves the wonder
deep in the bark and root.
So don’t mourn the leaves
it’s not water they need
and my sweet Loves
time goes on.
The Green will come back to us.
Turn and face the sun my friend
the crisp fall hues will wilt and fade –
to hide, to heal, then grow again
my endless faith
where it’s always been.
Listen to the song bird’s ode
there is a wisdom in its truth –
to pass, to feel, so gently known
a thousand things
yet you’re never alone.
So give in to this gold still here
note the honey in its passing –
to say, to deal, in no despair
for colors change
yet never there:
no not this.
“How does one become a butterfly? she asked. You must want to fly so much that you are willing to give up being a caterpillar” – Anonymous
Two wings and all the soft wisdoms
needed to weave eternal grace and
every blooming tranquility. How true
and how precious the butterfly: to
place those kisses on our open palms.
Silken bodies in their immortality,
stolen from the dreams we hand
them, to deliver to the fairies and
pixies. Our curious couriers, so
quaint in their regal spring flights.
In the quiet moments. The rising
mornings. Their silhouettes dance
on the window blinds. I trace their
journeys in notebooks and canvas,
they are truly all we will ever need:
on our open palms.
One day I will have a son.
He will inherit all my tomes of poetry.
Every book of Billy Collins,
the complete collection of Emily Dickinson,
and Sylvia Plath,
along with three copies
of ‘Leaves of Grass’
which I will read to him at night.
I will make sure our walls
are adorned with paintings
and the reverberation of music.
I will show him how to play
guitar and piano
and old records.
will be a football star
major in business
use my books as coasters
and be nothing like me.
will never be more proud of anyone,
Do not let the sunsets pass quietly
those hues will not stay
the reds and yellows and purples
will melt into recession
dripping in tranquil nightfall.
Do not let the couples and lovers
chat in unnoticed companionship
the souls and masses and families
continue to prove to us
loving sprouts in those needed cracks.
Do not let the planes fly by
without thinking of its passengers
the lost and travelers and coming home
drink deeply from a sea
glistening in perception and imagination.
Within the innate dissatisfaction
blossoms these endless wonders,
bathe in them,
hold onto them,
until the noticing
crystalizes into radiant impenetrability
while we gloriously
On an unremarkable day
a fourth grader swung his feet
forward and back
like a pendulum
(If pendulums could wear light-up Sketchers)
The world around him:
a game of Uno playing skip cards,
a Tamagotchi slowly starving in the pocket,
a field day running too slow for ribbons,
Yet to that fourth grader
that swing set stood like a castle
and he ruled as king
or maybe a jester, either way …
The friend on the other swing
laughed with him
and planting little seeds
which, over a decade later
would grow into truly beautiful
The other day she slid her feet
into cool soft sand and listened,
to a lighthouse whisper its wisdoms
into the crashing ebb of waves
showing through stalwart radiance:
How to weave a quiet serenity
in the moments of solitude
and vast wild openness,
How to be the only structure
in an endless sea of blue
and find substance there,
How to truly inhabit one’s self
in such a voracious authenticity
and beacon that light out to others,
So she wrote that light house
a thank you in the sand then watched
as high tide carried that gratitude
to the wise lighthouse.
On my balcony I watched a child
play with an imaginary friend,
and while texting my own friends
I laughed and laughed at him.
Then the kid starting slow dancing
with his little invisible partner,
‘how cute’ I thought to myself
while texting some girl.
The boy then started talking, talking to it
this intangible person of his mind
but I had seen enough
and had all my laughs.
So I stood up
started my shift
of talking, talking
into a computer screen.
I sat in my car scrolling
scrolling until my phone
grew a face on the back
that scowled and hissed
and laughed at me.
So with tears in my eyes
I threw the phone
in the glove compartment,
then I drew a nicer
on the wind shield,
it was the second realest thing
I’d seen all day –
right behind that boy’s imaginary friend.
Among fields and skies and parkways
I trace my dreams into dirt
across my forehead.
I swallow pens
and chew paper
screaming at sunsets
petting lonely fires.
I squeeze my work until
it hardens to coal
seething for spark
lusting for ember.
Yet the clouds are heavy
with rain and thunder
so this wick is made wet
to hide from the flames.
But how fortunate,
among all this chaos
I was baptized:
by 100 famous poets,
moving my hair
kissing my forehead
by 100,000 nameless writers
straightening my tie
dusting off my shoulders.
Only for them.
JUST for them.
I will go on with this.
I scan with my eyes
I notice patterns
see the shapes and sizes
that this piece could fit into.
I gently glide my fingers
across a forming landscape
feeling for opportunities
that would benefit
from this piece’s presence.
with firm resolution
I attempt to insert this piece
maybe it fits
contributing to a more complete picture,
maybe it doesn’t fit
and more force
only bends the piece…
So once again,
I scan with my eyes
I notice patterns …