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i write poetry in my mind, and sometimes on paper.
latest
poem ninety three.
the adobe above
the orange grove
my grandpa kept
the humble
gardener
grew only
to give
the bounty
nurtured
generations
shade and sun
-ny fruit
and now i
stand barefoot in
the kitchen
juicing oranges
for generations
more
poem ninety two.
i find myself
burrowed into
a purse i carry
peering over
the barrier
i build
wishing
to break free
poem ninety one.
what have
those eyes
seen
that glitter
from above
wet
with morning dew
poem ninety.
later
i lie
face down
sinking into
the bare mattress
of my grief
poem eighty nine.
the shame of sitting
alone at a stoplight
the quiet isolation
enclosed by a
blanket of rain
drenched by
torrential memory
poem eighty eight.
a starchy sweater
tumbles dry
shrinking
like distant
memories
poem eighty seven.
jazz
a chaotic ballet
of sound
like traffic
it weaves
to a destination
predicated
by
the journey
poem eighty six.
i only
remember
the quiet
when i can’t
quite focus on
what i’m looking at
poem eighty five.
a man
his eyes
rolling pins
sat squatting
on a bench
in a seurat painting
poem eighty four.
i awoke
notes etched
on the inside
of my skull
words knocking
on my brain
floating
in the space
between memories
poem eighty three.
my mother had
a roll top desk
i pressed my weight
wrestled with gravity
to open and reveal
the secrets within
clambering inside
my eyes adjusting in
the darkness
i inherited
the same secrecy
disguised as
the perfect mess
rustling in
the wind
poem eighty two.
a single bulb
illuminates
the world
light reflecting
off raindrops
and dreams
poem eighty one.
meander through
the memories
of a life
not yet lived
erect
a stone statue
iced over
in the crisp air
of a dawn
once seen
poem eighty.
graphite dust
drifts
from my
fingertips
perched upon
a new day
we begin
at the end
of fear
poem seventy nine.
i stand aboard
the sailing ship temptation
its jib tattered
by doubt
thrashing about
on the seas of
uncertainty
i gulp
the scented air
poem seventy eight.
the hum
of the world
precipitates upon
my ears
poem seventy seven.
scurrying to
cower under
an eave
my inner self
craves the warmth
i burst through
the doubt
i dance
in the rain
poem seventy six.
a joyful
proclamation
i create
the space
a cozy
comfortable
stair
i sit
swinging my legs
but ready
to pounce
upon
the next
going up
poem seventy five.
juxtaposition
of place
i am here
wishing to be
there
i cross the bridge
hopeful
poem seventy four.
a period piece
a singed
piece
of paper
floating
over
the coals
i believe that words can change the world
