Tuesday, December 16, 2008


Remember when we were younger, and
we used to think our teachers lived
at school? I always pictured oversized
desks where they could fold themselves
up at night, packed nicely in among
their books and pens and apples. This
is how I envision you - folded up inside
my cell phone, your voice coming from
somewhere among the buttons and wires.
Occasionally I'll open up the
back and peer in, wondering it you're
really there - longing for the day
when you unfold yourself from within
and come to me. You will unfold to me,
only to be folded again into my arms,
and I'll no longer have
only your words to keep me warm
on days that I am feeling lonely.

Thursday, December 11, 2008

songs my mother gave me?

I decided that, for my mother's side of the family, I may put together a group of my poetry, about my mother, and her passing, and give them to my aunts, uncles, and grandparents. I think they will appreciate the sentiment, and something tells me it might help some of them push through and do the moving on that is so necessary in times like this. I plan on titling my collection "Songs my mother gave me," cliche as it sounds, only because I hammered out the following introductory poem (and I welcome constructive critique - is the meaning clear? does the metaphor work?). It is slightly cheesy, perhaps, but I think it serves its purpose, and my family will appreciate it:

To the Reader:

The time to sing is now -
Our grief slowly lifting, the tears painted over
with all the smiling faces of those she left behind;
It's true, she's gone - but
when the time comes, we could all lament
that we, too, were plucked early from this life,
forgetting that the most important purpose for us here
is simply teaching other people how to sing.
And my mother, she taught me many songs.
These are songs my mother gave me.

Tuesday, December 9, 2008

a poem of silence a la e.e.cummings

m (fa (words) il) e


We speak, therefore, we are -
all space and body is lost to us,
and we, the word-wielders, the wordsmiths,
shouting "love" across great distances,
wrapped each night in proverbial arms --
we, built on words.
How odd, for us, to desire that moment
when words disappear.
When the touch of your hand
and the warmth of your flesh
becomes the wordless opening chapter
to the book of my happiness,
and we become the text, realized,
and relish the moment when we
don't have to say anything, at all.

inner rooms

There's something quietly romantic about the thought of you.
The halls of my mind, my inner rooms, become porticos, breezeways.
I become large, doors to you opening, I realize my space and my
potential and connect with you in the very stillness of our words -
and real distance, and real time, and all the corporeal distractions
that people think should matter more, tend to melt away - our bodies
melt away as we become just voices, spirits, ideas, imaginings,
perfect golden beings walking hand in hand along the sunlit
porticos and breezeways that link my inner rooms to yours.

love can build a bridge.

I remember middle school, singing songs
our parents taught us,
no longer swinging on swings but holding on
to everything the older kids taught us was cool.
The wiggers, the skaters, the preps, the freaks.
The misfits. The marginals. The empty spaces.
The empty chairs. The kids that wanted,
but couldn't. The glass window separating us
from the haves. The have class. Have style. Have
I suppose, looking back, that I can be greatful
for fortitude.
I can appreciate me now, for the me I was so long ago.
Then why do so many people assume the position
of complete regret, for the years
they spent in solitude?
Those of us who couldn't laugh our way
through puberty
look back and attempt to erase it, and make those empty
and empty chairs
an empty memory.
Perhaps it's true that I can learn and grow.
I know I did.
Regardless of seeing how far I've come...
Does anybody like to look back at where they started?