birds of a feather

birds of a feather flock together
at least that is what they say
and so it is today –
all the writers with their paper and pens
IPADS and laptops or any other electronic devices
they choose to use –
they stretch out on chaise lounge chairs, sofas, beds
trying to write that perfect verse
but what emerges is a string of words
that tomorrow will make them doubt their writing skills.
Twenty four hours to be inspired, to hold onto expectations and anxiety;
to feel sleep deprived and hunger
to eat at ungodly hours just to make it through-
but all the birds who flock together
who struggle to rise above
they all will flap their wings
until they realize that there is strength in numbers
it is then they will learn that together they can soar.

words of any kind

against a summer sky’s backdrop
words begin to unite
high above the plain and hills
drowning out winds of sea and sky-
worlds collide like day and night.
no clear cut message-
only empty white noise
still heard in the deep
and all around the world
and we call it poetry.

write a sestina? (hmmm, not right now)

write a sestina?
well…. that was the prompt-
hmmm, but i don’t want to think that deep
that my mind explodes-
nor curves into some dark corner unable to emerge-
so that no amount of prompting will be able to lift me out.

write a sestina?
hmmm….no, not right now.
instead i’m going to cap this off right here
eat a powdered donut and like kermit, sip my tea –
and i will wait patiently
for someone else’s brilliant stroke of genius to erupt
and i promise i will be amazed.

little girl again

when you were a little girl i used to hold your hand
and you would slip yours into mine quite automatically-
then a few years later, you were growing into YOU
and i would try to hold your hand and you would pull away-
declaring how big a girl you were;
tried to show me at every turn that you didn’t need any help.
and then you became a teen, quite full of yourself,
arrogant and always the drama queen (I may have had a hand in that)
but still, nonetheless, you were still blossoming into YOU
and I stood by, sometimes angry, sometimes sad, sometimes proud,
sometimes mad…
you still turning into this woman-child that I birthed.
Now, all grown up, family of your own and I find myself
sometimes wondering who is this person you’ve become and where
is the little girl that I often wish would show up when you call.
Most days I know she is gone, sometimes I think for good, but then
something happens and there, out of the blue, my little girl appears again.

dinner time

i will never grow tired of taking out a pan-
chopping up an onion, some celery and butter
with a firm green pepper-
that is always the beginning of something good;
the smell from that alone
waffles through the house like a
“mommy’s-in-the-kitchen alarm.
add in some ground beef or turkey, almost any meat will do-
then boil some potatoes until the fork pierces easily through.
Steam up some broccoli or carrots and peas-
it really doesn’t matter at all.

I will never grow tired of setting the tables with plates,
folding the napkins and placing the glasses just so-
then yelling out “it’s dinnertime”
so everyone will know.
Then to watch them scurry round, take some kisses on the cheek-
then sit around the table, knowing they will enjoy whatever they eat.

The Road Not Taken

i often think about the guy i didn’t choose-
the one who blew my mind.
the one who shattered all my fears and who really showed me how to love.
and though there was no pomp and circumstance he often comes to mind;
i can sit in quiet retrospect and think about specific moments in time.
Piled up like freeze-dried memories, they often take my psyche on a trip
and i allow myself to travel back down memory lane-
the long conversations spent acknowledging life-
learning each other’s likes and dislikes-
just being there, always in the moment-
always present.
Maybe that’s what I miss,
maybe that is what makes me wonder…
that road not taken-
sometimes i can’t help but wonder
where it may have led.

missing some things

just packed up my entire place
cleared out every room
folded it all neatly into brown cardboard boxes
bubble-wrapped every piece of china and all my asian art
tucked it into a giant storage bin
no place in particular
that it needs to be just yet
but i sense that every single thing
is somehow missing me.

Autobiography of a face

Withered from time
I can trace every line
Skin not as supple as when we were kids
But then again, neither is mine
There is a certain tone to her face
That looks like a royal tan
And lays on her cheeks like Ethiopian dust.
She is still that royal heir.
Her laugh lines tell a story
Whether you know her or not.
They say she has smiled a million times,
Easily, the exact same way but
The narrow thin lines at the corner of her eyes make me wonder
About the real pains that she has endured;
About the years she spent down on the farm;
The years that can sometimes bring tears to her eyes-
But still….
She is royalty…..
A queen-
Especially to me.

Love over and over

You keep loving me year after year
No strange veil to shield your eyes
and heart
Just unfailing
Unadulterated love
Over and over again

just write

just write whatever comes out
any words that choose to gather and
find themselves on the page
that rhyme or irritate
that sound pretty or crass
that look good in between the lines
just write.
write for 5 minutes or 10 if you’d like
about mice or men
moats or flies
about rainbows and fairies
or toothpicks and hoes
just write.
don’t think that hard about syntax and prose
about rhythm or syllables at all
just write.
tell stories. tell lies.
be real or fake.
just create whatever you’d like.
and when this exercise in words is said and done
everything ends up
just perfectly right.