Poetry & Prose
Let It Be Known
“I want you to leave. They’re all sadists here.” — Beth (friend)
I want to leave.
I want to run –– fast and far away.
I want to scream, Come back to me!
when I visit you in that place.
Looped in memories
of childhood and fantasy.
Your once bright eyes smear
across my face with half recognition.
Meds and malaise sip
at your soul.
You say, Listen kid. I’ve always been honest with you. Leave. Save yourself.
Your mind is your jailor.
Your message in a bottle
says, Save yourself
when all I want—
is to save you.
21 years of friendship
21 years of unconditional love
21 years of finally having what felt like a mother.
Let it be known that I believe you.
Let it be known that I love you.
But I can’t save
you from the sadists,
who clean you, dress you,
and baby-talk to your once proud face.
Walking in Circles
“Most poets find a walking practice essential to their craft. I’m usually so deep in thought while walking in circles that it’s a disaster if someone stops me…” Evelyn Lau
“Stop! What are you doing?
Didn’t you see the sign!?”
I did not, could not,
because I was walking.
Walking in circles
through worlds
of worries and wokeness.
Deep in thought
ambivalent to a sign
that tells me to stop
when I need to keep walking.
Don’t break the momentum or the meditation.
A poet's hesitation
becomes rumination.
And there goes the meaning.
Walking in circles
making sound bites
over sense.
To Talk About Trees
To talk about trees is to talk about old friends. As a child, they watched over me as I slept in my bed, painted on the bedroom walls by my father. The trees had tiny eyes peeking out and elves nestled inside. For some children, this might be scary, but trees are my protectors. I often rode my bike deep into the forest to be amongst the scent of cedar and fir. Surrounded by majestic conifers, I felt safe before anyone told me not to feel this way. The trees carried me high in the sky, sheltering me from sun and wind. They sang to me their stories through whistling leaves and dancing branches. To talk about trees is to talk about life.
The Hunter
A scar remains
where I freed myself from you.
While you hunted for my heart
I hid in the woods of my soul.
My love buried deep within
so difficult to find.
You were a fine marksman
and your arrow struck me.
But I forced it out
like your love.
Cliffhanger
You’re a master
of meaning. Sharp
as a knife
your words carve
up our tender
union. A bloodletting
that drains desire.
Why do this? What’s the purpose?
I’ll need a transfusion
before it’s over. Or I can stand
at the threshold, dangle off the precipice,
and
free
fall
in
the
freedom
of
being
alone.
Uncensored
My words are not always words. Sometimes they are sounds. Hmm. Rrr. Rah! When I find myself feeling feelings so intensely this is how I communicate. Guttural. Staccato. Loud. None of this is practical—it's natural. When my lover and I connect, sounds speak when words will not suffice.
When I write, I write to myself. Uncensored and unchanged. Free and untamed. Sometimes with long pauses when I sigh deeply, and a song or a movie plays in my head, and I wait. Wait until I am clear on my message. Wait until the weight of my father's pen pulls me back to the thread of my intentions. Memories mixed with metaphors, rhymes and rhetoric glide along the pages of my journal. By hook or by crook.
The journal is a document to return to over and over again. To write is to record what stirs in my soul, moments I place under a microscope. It feels good to swim in these familiar waters with memories and dreams afloat on the page. When I communicate with others outside this journal, I must work hard to focus on voices and the meaning of words. But here in this journal, the sound is only of one, one voice to record the voices of many. Now I sound schizophrenic.
I let go of this fleeting thought with a smile. The pen draws me back as I draw each line. It's a pathway, and I take it, weaving along with the unknown and trusting where it leads. Perhaps there's no end, or maybe there's no beginning. Life flows like a river into the sea, reborn as rain and eternal springs into infinity.
4:30 AM Saturday Night
ANSWER your fucking phone bitch!
Answer your FUCKING phone bitch!
Answer your goddam fucking phone BITCH!!
—male voice in the alley
Unsafe. I feel unsafe
and bury myself under
the covers of my bed.
Who is he yelling at?
Do they feel unsafe?
I hate violent language
and I hate it even
more when it wakes me.
Why does he have to use that word bitch?
Maybe he’s drunk.
Maybe he’s locked out.
Maybe he’s homeless.
In my city there are homeless
and addicts everywhere.
On my walk to work
I watch one hunt
the ground with his knife.
His body bent
like his spine
is a concept.
His focus
on buried treasure.
A crystal of crack.
A medallion of meth.
I lean over his broken
shadow, and place a coin
on his cardboard sign.
It says, “I have no one.”
I know this feeling
of being alone.
The man stops
and looks up.
He whispers a word
of gratitude,
“Bitch.”