Seashore
The man with the large hat
Had lit the candles
And said alms and sang
Hymns about God
And whatnot
He had left them
Burning and melting
And the candles
Flickered and fought
For air while
The atmosphere
Staled and weird
People walked in
Painfully walking and
Begging for
Forgiveness
But the man with
The hat was already
Gone so all they
Had were the
Candles
So they focused
On the light while
Their pupils
Shrunk
Into tiny
Beads of black
But the candles
Did not like
It there
Where light
Only filtered
Through glass
Images of
Jesus
So the candles
Melted down
And ran
Away
Toward the
Seashore
The man with the large hat
Had lit the candles
And said alms and sang
Hymns about God
And whatnot
He had left them
Burning and melting
And the candles
Flickered and fought
For air while
The atmosphere
Staled and weird
People walked in
Painfully walking and
Begging for
Forgiveness
But the man with
The hat was already
Gone so all they
Had were the
Candles
So they focused
On the light while
Their pupils
Shrunk
Into tiny
Beads of black
But the candles
Did not like
It there
Where light
Only filtered
Through glass
Images of
Jesus
So the candles
Melted down
And ran
Away
Toward the
Seashore
Home
It’s the warmth; that feeling you can’t
describe, like describing pink, or blue,
or maroon. That feeling finds you and
follows you and shows up in surprise
locations.
It comes when you are
hugged, when you inhale spring, when
someone smiles or brushes away the
tears that were pouring through your
heart because you were alone and
forgot that home is everywhere.
Home finds you
within the pages of an aged
book in the middle of a hidden aisle in a
library, or at the apex of a park swing
set.
Home is warmth flowing inside you,
rushing to your extremities, speaking in
a hushed voice of quivering excitement.
Home is grass, prickling your back,
staining your jeans, leaving souvenirs to
remind you that you were once home
and you can always be home.
Scents:
the aroma of fresh pine needles being
rubbed until they fall off dark green
conifers, sweet lavender, rhubarb apple
pie being baked in the oven. Tastes of
sweetness and warmth, cool
collectedness, dissolving on your
tongue, but lasting in your mind to
remind you.
The warmth of a blanket on
a frigid day, heavy down,
fireplaces…smooth soft skin. Home
is inside, that feeling of sustainment and
peace you get when you realize nothing
matters, because nothing really does.
It’s the warmth; that feeling you can’t
describe, like describing pink, or blue,
or maroon. That feeling finds you and
follows you and shows up in surprise
locations.
It comes when you are
hugged, when you inhale spring, when
someone smiles or brushes away the
tears that were pouring through your
heart because you were alone and
forgot that home is everywhere.
Home finds you
within the pages of an aged
book in the middle of a hidden aisle in a
library, or at the apex of a park swing
set.
Home is warmth flowing inside you,
rushing to your extremities, speaking in
a hushed voice of quivering excitement.
Home is grass, prickling your back,
staining your jeans, leaving souvenirs to
remind you that you were once home
and you can always be home.
Scents:
the aroma of fresh pine needles being
rubbed until they fall off dark green
conifers, sweet lavender, rhubarb apple
pie being baked in the oven. Tastes of
sweetness and warmth, cool
collectedness, dissolving on your
tongue, but lasting in your mind to
remind you.
The warmth of a blanket on
a frigid day, heavy down,
fireplaces…smooth soft skin. Home
is inside, that feeling of sustainment and
peace you get when you realize nothing
matters, because nothing really does.
A Short Trip Outside… I could not breathe From the moment I Walked outside. My Lungs were stifled By hot humidity. As it scorched my Lungs, I started to Crumple and Fell onto stiff Green Pinprick Needles, which Rubbed on me And left their Mark. | Today I am shaking you awake And telling you that Today nothing matters Today there are no stakes You can fall and break your knee Slip and hit your head Today nothing matters Do what you want instead You can eat fried onion rings Gobble sweet ice cream Today nothing matters So run and jump and scream I am pulling you along Forcing you to try Today nothing matters So live before you die |
The Mass
I was the fat baby,
The one who ate a whole
Lobster and went back for
Seconds, thirds, even.
I was a golden brown
With frizzy hair
And a gapped toothed
Smile that brighten
Days. I would garden
With my parents
Or pretend to garden
Like babies do:
Imitate adults.
And one day
I was out
Pretending to garden,
Baby sized rake and spade,
Prepared to plant seeds
Of herbs like basil,
Mint, and sage
My namesake, when
I saw a fuzzy black
Crowd in a hole.
It was a bouncy,
Jumbling, moving mass,
Separate creatures
Creating one.
And I reached out my
Pudgy finger and poked
The monster in the
Hole. And, the monster
Started creeping up
My arm,
A black mass of biting
Individuals carrying
White eggs of their spawn.
I shook my arm,
But they stayed, crawling.
I jumped, I stumbled, I flung
My arm about, hollering for
Help because they would
Not go away.
My daddy ran and
Grabbed the hose
And sprayed my
Arm. “They are just ants,
Honey,” he said.
But I cried all the same
And I still do.
I was the fat baby,
The one who ate a whole
Lobster and went back for
Seconds, thirds, even.
I was a golden brown
With frizzy hair
And a gapped toothed
Smile that brighten
Days. I would garden
With my parents
Or pretend to garden
Like babies do:
Imitate adults.
And one day
I was out
Pretending to garden,
Baby sized rake and spade,
Prepared to plant seeds
Of herbs like basil,
Mint, and sage
My namesake, when
I saw a fuzzy black
Crowd in a hole.
It was a bouncy,
Jumbling, moving mass,
Separate creatures
Creating one.
And I reached out my
Pudgy finger and poked
The monster in the
Hole. And, the monster
Started creeping up
My arm,
A black mass of biting
Individuals carrying
White eggs of their spawn.
I shook my arm,
But they stayed, crawling.
I jumped, I stumbled, I flung
My arm about, hollering for
Help because they would
Not go away.
My daddy ran and
Grabbed the hose
And sprayed my
Arm. “They are just ants,
Honey,” he said.
But I cried all the same
And I still do.