Morning Songs

Child's Play Is A Color of Pink Paint

2009-05-01T19:48:00.001-07:00

because children play in pink

in worlds of rosy optimism and

childish rhymes, where black

is black and white is white

and friends are friends forever

for promises are never broken,

and moments stretch out for ages

to be appreciated, kept, treasured

instead of thrown away

unappreciated until much later

when eyes and fingers peruse

paint colors and there it is,

child’s play,

as if painting it on the walls

means those missed moments,

can be recaptured,

as if stretching out for a butterfly

that flew away

a moment, a minute, a second

ago.

At The Wedding, Her Dress Was Red

2009-04-26T17:01:00.001-07:00

and I wonder why

in a sea of whites and pinks and greens

she was draped in folds of crimson

was she colorblind?

had she just committed a murder?

was she just plain stupid?

was she going, then and there,

to unsheathe a sword from

the cloth of her dress

and slay the demons of

conformity

and tradition

and stain all of us

with the blood of our ignorance –

so that all our dresses

and suits too

would be red?

To Be A Tree In Someone's Backyard You Must

2009-04-25T12:09:00.001-07:00

let childish giggles curl

around your trunk

and pudgy hands pick

apples off your branches

(you also have to listen

to the crunch of teeth

plunging into the apple)

watch the house swell with laughter

and shrink with sadness

and the people who walk in

and walk out

(you will note there is a very

interesting mix of people,

you must watch each of them)

be steady no matter what

tries to plunder your reserves

and keep growing ever taller

so tall, they will say, so tall

(you should also make sure

your roots are steady

as to ensure you can do all these things)

** I’m getting creative with the titles today, aren’t I?

Anyways, this poem was an experiment in the nature of trees, which have always fascinated me.

Silence, Brushed Over With Cheap Gold Paint

2009-04-24T18:23:00.001-07:00

silence, brushed over

with cheap gold paint

trying not to admit

its mournful presence

hanging in the air

like a chandelier

its chain rusted

unable to hold on

falls to the air with a deafening crash

of the words that were unspoken

Unfortunately...

2009-04-24T12:00:00.000-07:00

...I've been unable to write poems due to the fact that I recently had my wisdom teeth taken out, and was much too sick to write anything at all, much less anything quality to post.

That said, I hope to have new poems up soon and a double dose for the poems I've missed. (:

Chatter Boxes

2009-04-17T16:43:00.000-07:00

somedays I wonder if i

have missed the point

the world`s chatter-box opens

and closes I have no

desire to open mine because

I am too afraid of what might

lurk inside

somedays I wonder if i

have missed the point

Hotel Room

2009-04-13T17:19:00.000-07:00

escape to another place for a time,

the water always hot, little hotel shampoos

neatly lined on the counter, yours

always toppled over, leaking, this way and that,

you wish you could be that neat

escape to another place for a time,

room service please bring me up a coffee, thank you

housekeeping cleans the floor, makes the beds,

you wish you could be that efficient,

but you’re so tired all the time, nothing you can do

escape to another place for a time,

breakfast in the morning, nice and hot

fruit loops color plates like sharpies,

pancakes stack, syrup trickles down, you

always burn them

escape to another place for a time,

you wish you could stay longer but

time ticks away and the pancakes burn,

you return home to your own mess and wish

it were like that hotel room and that you

weren’t so tired

My Childhood Was -

2009-04-12T17:10:00.001-07:00

the world of first person shooters –

screens filling with flashes of light

the air pregnant with

childish giggles, older brother

navigates the game, younger sister

looks on.

the world of supermarkets, shopping carts –

where mother knows best

foolish smiles and the soft

footfall of a child’s shoe, motion

and energy grace and laughter, selecting

tomorrow’s dinner.

the world of madeline and friends –

wishing for red hair while dragging

that doll around, books

falling apart from repeat readings, over

and over and over again,

memorized with a child’s grace

the world of fantasies and makebelieve

exploring the corners of the mind

inside a world where no one ever

dies where we wish we could stay forever

and ever, we say goodbye to childhood and

let it go

Garage Sale

2009-04-10T19:28:00.001-07:00

First there is the old Barbie doll

with the torn dress and messy

plastic hair and that masquerading smile,

once belonged to a girl of three or four,

when a torn dress does not deter friendship

she grows older and lets her go

Second is the coin collection,

vouched for by a balding man

who keeps the coins in perfect shape

but whose life is not in order just yet

he polishes his coins and lets them go

Third is the wedding ring,

the chipped diamond, the rusting gold

a memento of past flames that

flickered and then went still,

she gives up hope and lets it go

Fourth is the forgotten memories

and the lost dreams that

we lay to rest within our old

broken treasures, letting them go

and shutting the door on

our past

mistakes

Paradise

2009-04-10T19:17:00.000-07:00

is a land of palm trees and desert sand

foot prints trace hallowed paths

through warm wet beach, watching

the ships go sailing by, wistful

dreams slipping into the air never

to be seen again, lost between

palm trees and desert sand

Third Grade

2009-04-08T13:09:00.001-07:00

recess was better

the day we discovered boys

do not have cooties

I Am...

2009-04-07T18:27:00.001-07:00

to some I am

nerd loser geek freak whatsherface

epithets, names, labels hurled

from your pitcher’s mound,

but I am more than that, I have more names:

I’m miss margaret somedays

when my shoes click click click

against tile floors when my life

falls into place

I’m kelly-molly-jenny-barbie somedays

when I plaster a smile on my face

and pretend it’s all alright smile as

artificial as the plastic she’s made of

I’m tara somedays

when i’m being witty and clever,

sparring with my words irritatingly

outwardly confident

I’m august somedays

when my bones silently protest

summer boredom longing

for something more

I’m nerd loser geek freak whatsherface

everyday according to you

flat as letters on a page,

but really i don’t need your silly

words, I am much more than that,

I have other names.

Chairs

2009-04-06T19:16:00.000-07:00

balanced and steady,

upholstered cushions,

varnished cherry, a chip in the wood,

cradling struggling secrets

draped upon slightly curved backrest

a heavy overcoat, too warm

to keep wearing any longer.

Protists Defy All Rules of Biology

2009-04-05T15:25:00.001-07:00

but

are

beautiful

all

the

same.

try

categorize

them.

but

give

and

just

let

them

be.

Chemistry (edited)

2009-04-05T14:57:00.000-07:00

numbers and letters and signs

make things burn.

this is chemistry, you say to me.

you say it is math and science and

the subtleties of making explosions

and burning your clothes

and setting things on fire,

but your stifled flames borne

of your so called formulas burn only out

of a need to feel alive

your numbers and letters and signs

create my colors and lines and harmonies,

my chemistry is not your chemistry, you say,

my chemistry is art and your chemistry is science.

but why can’t it be art? why don’t we look

at more than the numbers and look

past what is simply laid out on

the page for us to see? why

do we have to force everything into

formulas and equations so that

it can’t even breathe?

why must you split things into

categories of this and that

science and art,

love and hate,

black and white,

you

and

me?

Something Blue

2009-04-05T14:33:00.000-07:00

blue is the color of my new

shoes and my old hat and my

prom dress it is the color of my

dreams and my thoughts and the

sky outside

blue is the color of paint I

mix with careful precision but

the brush slips from my hand and a

dash a mark a line an arrow

of midnight blue

is painted on my arm,

I try to scrub it off but

it just won’t go

how frustrating.

something blue something blue something blue

blue is all around me it’s trapping me

in its mousetrap of

depression and madness and insanity

and I just want to see red again

but my shoes my hat my prom dress

the sky outside its all blue and I

just

can’t

escape it.