read my original poetry

This poetry is written and owned by myself and may not be reposted or printed without my permission.

Collaborators (October 2023)

They lied on our ancestors, they lied on us, they lie to our children.

They instruct us to earn our keep. Keep watch over what is yours, even though nothing (that they find worth in) is yours.

We are sold the indentured life, with hidden fees, packaged in the thin veil of the promise and pride of freedom. 

You never consented. And your vote is not your consent, but obedience. Sometimes the only choice you have is to die. Sometimes your only choice is to hope that someone’s descendants, if not yours, will be birthed into—birth themselves into—a different world. Where sharecrop contracts of consent are not valued by rotting constitutions.

We pray for this. Pray it into being.

We are being. Still, somehow, as we are used and destroyed.

So keep on.

Create stories of comfort and legend that will be lost to everyone but those who are listening.

With patience, teach your young to listen,

and implore your elders to follow the dreams of the young.

They have been here before, too.

Look back, and look around, and look forward, and be it ruins or rich soil,

plant your feet on solid ground.

Soothe your soles in calm lapping waters.

Whisper until it is our time to stomp.

We build tsunami waves with the movements of our lips, until we create the shaking.

Until the lies crumble and collapse

under the weight of their own poison;

which strengthened us,

even as it halved our flock.

Move our hands together and pull brothers caught under from the rubble.

Drink in the thick air.

Now we are liberated.

Now, we can create anything. Lies will destroy us no more.

Where they collude, we collaborate.

So lay down and rest.

The work is done.

The working has just begun.

there is a warmth (december 2024)

the feeling of love to me has become even more a tangible thing of late,

in my chest I used to feel the overwhelming specter of sorrow and panic

now in the same place there is a warmth, a flood of sparks, a progressive giddiness 

that pierces dawn and retires dusk

when I stand by my friends’ side

these are rays of nutrients that the Sun cannot provide 

a churn of cheer that fires up the body like a most excellent cup of tea,

head to toe, body and soul heat, emanating from the heart

where now many other joined joys are safekept.

Journal at Sunset (July 2024)

My most stable and sacred ritual is to watch her go

every evening from my third-floor bedroom window

my neighborhood watchtower,

my Desert Recesses, my spirit-haunted cave, my precious treehouse-castle.

In that transition the sun smells and tastes sweet

Orange like you want to swallow, pink like made to blush

Dips sure below the palm tree sentinels 

Dresses the mountains in purple for this royal occasion

Illuminates the spikes on the saguaros, the spokes on the crowns

Makes way for the stars beyond the smog

Oh, it’s so divine, the interchanging of heaven

Gifted to us every day for us to marvel.

I am flummoxed and saddened

That every day humanity does not stop to witness and join

For however many minutes of the second solar ceremony

To together admire, ooh, ah, and attempt to capture, or rather, release, this solar burst of freedom

Of this sacred going.

Somehow, there are better things for their attention,

Somehow, the mind wanders elsewhere as the night marches in on time.

I hope then, at least

Every one of humans’ dreams is just as brilliant as that painting

Let them sip a facsimile of the sunset

That everyone our hearts draw in.

Oh, now she’s peach, now she’s maroon

And I feel the sparkle dew on my eyelashes

Wordlessly she promises to meet me tomorrow 

Same coordinates, same hour

(this is my mediation.)

poems that sink (8-22-24)

poetry is writing riddles to make sense of the senseless

conjuring form from the limitless churn of violence

and identifying a start and an end

to divine routes for the passageways we’ll need to dig with our own hands

to sacrifice that which we cannot survive without,

forging lifeboats from splinters to carry our ashes

send them across the waterways inimmune to the harms of time..send them home.

the ripples will be etched by the words

the concentric circles will bypass, envelope, and fill the gaps between

what we managed to carve on feeble stones

that sunk with our peaceful dreams tied.

What Happens, Will

what happens, will, what happens, will.

what happens, will –  in fate these words I do instill

within me and without me, and after me and before me, 

unleash the nightless divine

those ancestors who’ve yet to be born, the descendants yet to have died

they, children of waters and I,

riding the scythe-wheel of time

what happens, will succeed.

until the end, the beginning when seas recede

sooner still and ever again, drown shadows as you grow

as rainbows drip into cosmos over cliffs and falls,

once blown like ash, matter flows,

climb in circles, and sail gently to unseen climes

breach the dam, and let memory drift

recover maroons; receive and answer the messages encoded

in you to build anew, and write sequels to my stories

it is you — bring our dreams to life.

Sky Full of Gods (October 2024)

above us, the sky full of gods

laid eyes on the Milky Way

there is a reason our ancestors saw this

there is a reason we should see this every night

Grandmother moon reminds us

there are so many more of her kind

so many other children under so many other guardians

arrangements and patterns and stories of stars 

If you look humbly, if you open your heart and your spirit

you will be invited and immersed

so sink forward

dare to seek for what is ever beyond.

Crumpled Papers (2024)

If I could, I would propose marriage to you every day

but actually, who’s stopping me?

so in crumpled papers placed in your habitual corners

in expo markers on our kitchen chore-board

on the scrapbook pages I add to our storybook

glossy photographs 

snap-captured by my own lips;

and draft the next pages 

to be themed around what you are to be.

I’m sentimental

I print out my favorite messages from you, frame them on the walls, bring one to work, give them an honored place in my everyday spaces

on display in my phone case

These visages are not because I need to be reminded –

Just inspired ‘cause everything I do is with you

looking out of one of my eyes 

Reviewing your trail, appraising your apprentice in vice

Looking out for you..

And us.

The season of endings and illness has come

—not to pass

Upset

The leaves in the yard haven’t fallen,

naught is settling

But everyone is leaving the family table

Having eaten their fill

But me—

I’ve just been propped in the chair at the Head

for how long,

I cannot remember

Anymore.

But there is dust on my utensils

And I’ve just been puking on my plate

‘til it overflows.

My lap’s cotton napkin is soaked,

more enough to drip onto my crusted toes

The chime of the grand-plastic clock is clicking like thunder 

And the candles on the glass mantle have burned through their beeswax

Gourds on the counter rotted like

my meal,

my flesh.

And I am so tired

But I’ll never shut my eyes

Until I’ve emptied my plate,

As Commanded.

So I wait to see the Christmas tree hoisted,

Pine needles should tickle our tile

Cats’ bells rifling under the brush 

Wait to feel the rainbow lights reflected off my cheeks and lashes

Shut out and gone,

I wish,

And wish, and I wish

To be buried in the perennial ashdust

Just to have some semblance of a substance

to fortify me.

I haven’t heard from my loved ones in 30 years, 30 minutes,

30 cut-short lifetimes 

If they’re there standing behind me, I’m unable to turn my face a fraction.

Tragedy.

Seasons’ greetings never uttered in my earshot 

Windows dressed with drooping blackout curtains 

I sense only that the Holy sun never rose once again

After the last midnight on

my-born Earth.

Send for me, next year, please

Send for the bones of mine

Anyone who cares to search for will find

Send for the salt-tear stained china and silver

So festive as they were crafted to be.

God above and below,

whispers to me whether the leaves have fallen

And Your sacred secrets about Solstices  

I have to know in my peril

Last suppers were never meant to be endured

Alone.