my mother's love showed up in slices of pink lady apples 
tossed in lemon juice 
the sweetness cut with a sour finish 
they sat in my faded vera bradley lunchbox until lunchtime at school 

every single day that i went to school 
i had a lunch that was carefully curated by my mom 
my palate was immature, yet complicated 
i stuck my nose up at sandwiches 
so mom got up earlier than she ever wanted to 
& she got creative 
preparing anything that protected me 
from the simplicity
of peanut butter & jelly smushed between
two slices of bread 

there were always apples
mom said the lemon juice kept them from browning
i think she caught on that i loved the taste 
she took the extra time to 
perfectly peel 
slice 
& dress them 

today i bit into a pink lady apple 
i still eat one everyday with my lunch
& i thought of my mom 
i thought about all the quiet ways she showed her love
all the little things that have stuck in my brain 
& about how her love showed up every single day 
even when it was tucked away in a lunchbox 
in the form of lemon soaked pink lady apples

it's the taste of a biscoff cookie
when i am miles high in the air 
alone on a plane 
that reminds me of all the times i sat with my grandma
on a wooden bench in the kitchen of the home that she grew up in
having our breakfast of coffee & cookies

i cradled a tea cup full of black coffee
the taste too bitter for my 7 year old sweet tooth 
but i wanted to be just like her 

drinking coffee black 
having finger curled hair held neatly with a mess of bobby pins 
dawning a pink nightgown & matching robe until noon
painting fingernails with red polish 

i sat next to her on the bench in that tiny
sunlit kitchen 
even though there was a whole dining table
in the next room 

we finished our coffee & she decided it was time to
get ready for the day
i watched her do her makeup at her own mother's vanity 
lipstick patted into cheekbones
eyebrows & lip lines penciled on 
she told me i didn't need makeup 
but she dotted lipstick on the apples of my cheeks 
it made me feel pretty 

i loved the smell of her hairspray 
the way she used a hand held mirror to 
fluff up the back of her perfectly shaped hairdo 

my heart aches for these small moments
the memories my younger self had no idea she was making 
but in some realm of this grand & unknown universe 
granny & i are still sitting on that kitchen bench

the rain let up for the first time all day 
i was craving fresh air 
a break from the screen 
a moment away from productivity 
to put my mind at ease & to catch my breath 

i step outside & begin my stroll
i fall in love with the dampened scene 
the greens of the trees are contrasted by the gray sky 
everything is brighter now 
the quenched earth bursting with new energy 
cleansed of the stagnation that the summer heat brings

i'm thankful for the rain
for the healing it brings 
for the sound it makes as it falls on the leaves of the trees
outside my open window 
for the way it gives me permission to stay inside & curl up with a book
but if the sky cries for too long
i too start to feel her pain

i walk on 
steam rises from the wet, hot pavement 
some puddles still remain 
the one just before my feet reflects the drifting clouds
a sliver of blue is slowly revealed 
i carefully step forward & the water ripples
the sky ripples
what is above is also below

i am walking on the sky 
surrounded by shades of green that i cannot even comprehend
there's nothing quite like the world after the rain
verdant, glistening, revived

he excites me 
but it is not fourth of july fireworks 
it's the first day of spring 
it's the silent fluttering by 
of a purple butterfly 
it's catching a swatch of violet 
hidden amongst the patch of clover in the backyard 
i saw a budding willow tree on my way home today
bubbles of joy rose from my stomach 
& popped a smile onto my mouth 
that is the excitement he awakens in me 
seeing sunshine spill on his sleeping face 
is spotting the crocuses 
in the midst of a long february 

to be honest, i haven't done a lot of writing lately
they say that those who create 
are the loudest in times like these
so maybe i am not a creative 
maybe i am not an artist 

man, folk music is getting better
melodies ringing in with hard truths 
brought to us from the machine that 
woody guthrie famously says 
"kills fascists" 

i hear a lot of loudness
so much so that i've had trouble sleeping 
pleasant dreams turned nightmares as a 
cold sweat wakes me 
& my peacefully sleeping dog suggests to me that maybe 
ignorance really is bliss 

but it's a privilege to be ignorant 
but life is too short so ignore the bad stuff 
but don't turn a blind eye to the state of your country 
but don't get caught up in all of the fear 
but don't end up on the wrong side of history 
don't be quiet 
but don't be sooo political 

the dichotomy of society 
splits my mind in two 
inner voices from right & left brain at battle
until the act of saying words 
or writing lines
becomes inundated with utter confusion 

this is what i'm writing lately 
maybe it's relatable 
or maybe my stream of consciousness isn't meant
to be shared with you 
maybe i'm not a creative 
maybe i'm not an artist 
maybe you are 
have you expressed yourself lately? 

at a country house in the suburbs 
I wake to the cacophony of metal clangs 
heavy footsteps, grunts & coughs
& the beeping of the old coffee maker 

grandpa wakes early & takes his proper place in the kitchen
its 7 am on a weekend morning
the familiar symphony of sounds lulls me back to sleep

grandma wakes late 
a mess of bobby pins lost in her tight swirls of hair 
& a pink robe wound tightly around her small frame 
she holds the collar around her fragile neck 

she teaches me to drink my coffee black 
& to pair it with her special dipping cookies 
i let them soak too long & suck the coffee down too fast
slurping the mushy crumbs from the bottom 
of a flowered mug 
we laugh & gossip sitting at the wooden table in the kitchen 
the leaf pulled out so mom can join us in our ceremony 
of sipping & dipping 

& that is how every morning 
at the country home in the suburbs started 
until old bones grew too weak to carry over 90 years 
of memories & lives well lived
until furniture became unwanted obstacles 
& unwanted obstacles became dangerous 
& grandma & grandpa couldn’t live in a place full of danger

goodbye to slow mornings at the country house in the suburbs
a farewell after 50 something years 
that we are all still surely grieving in our own ways

my grandpa speaks in gibberish 
until i’m about 9 years old and my young ears grow accustomed
to his mountain accent escaping in blurry lines
from the side of his mouth 
& that’s when i learn 
grandpa speaks in stories 

canned green beans in calloused hands 
his barefeet feel every stone & splinter 
on an uphill trek to a one-room schoolhouse 
a feather tick with feathers freshly plucked by his tiny hands 
already showing signs of hard work 
sits atop a newly stuffed straw tick 
he remembers the thrasher had come ‘round that afternoon
the handmade mattress holds his aching bones come dark 
only seventeen years in his pocket 
when he finds himself on a ship & he greets the pacific 
as he arrives in japan & the world is at war 

he intermingles his stories 
with those of long-lost soldiers & appalachia folk
who carry our family names
he is a son of the revolution 
he tells me i am a daughter of the same 

we stand together in the kitchen 
steam from black coffee fogs his george jones glasses 
sausage sizzles in a cast-iron pan 
as he whisks a rue that will soon morph into the gravy 
that will smother his buttermilk drop biscuits that are browning in the oven 
my mouth waters, but my heart listens
as grandpa speaks in stories 

one moment i'm in a free fall 
a beautiful, peaceful, slow motion sail 
through life 
taking in the magnificence of my surroundings 
as they pass me by 
never getting stuck on one moment for too long 
present 
drifting through cherished landscapes

in another moment i've stopped
caught in an intricate web 
the sticky silks hum with the vibrations 
of thoughts from a shadowed side of my existence 
i can’t break free
the more i struggle, the louder the noise
i cover my ears
shut my eyes 

and pray for the free fall 

we can't go back 
we've made our bed & now we lie 
lonely & aching
heart racing
mind screaming
in a bed that reeks of loathing 
all calls for unity deemed wasteful & pathetic 
empathy has become the enemy in this war 
where "us vs them" has taken on a new level
each side living in crafted realities 
only surrounded by those we see 
eye to eye with 
while refusing to look into the eyes of 
the humans we dehumanize on the 
other side
what a heinous crime to want love & peace
apparently it is apparent we need more hatred & violence
to "end" this 
but where does it end?
what could possibly be the end?
we've gone far past the territory of resolution
the only possible solution a stalemate 
but further separation will never be impossible
given this divide 
nobody likes where this is heading 
but what can we do? 
we can't go back. 

pieces of my heart and glimpses of my soul are scattered around this earth
some dance across the peaks and valleys of the sierra de guardarrama mountains
some float in the gentle briny breeze above the beaches on the coast of georgia
while others sparkle in the sunsets that span across the eastern skies 

there are humans who gently hold these parts of me 
ones who spend their weekends with me
or they carry out their days on the other side of the state or country
they may wake up in different time zones 
but my existence is still fused with their own
& there are others that exist worlds away  
they carry me only as a memory 
or they may never be bothered by the sheer thought of me 
ever again
yet they still cradle me in the deep crevices of their beings


i was created from stardust & light
that has seeped out from my pores 
&  intertwined with the energies of the people & places 
that have ever made me feel 
connectedness 
wholeness 
oneness 
 

it begins
with calloused heels grinding into ancient dirt
arches like rainbows 
connecting the four corners of bare feet 
being tickled by dewy grass 
with eyes closed 
voice projecting to the heavens 
raw emotion bubbles up  
& it can no longer subdued

running, twirling, skipping 
i am no longer afraid of the nighttime 
no longer apprehensive 
of what lurks in the absence of light
i am part of all that surrounds me 
the shadows, the mountains, the trees, the sky 

my mind shifts into a more primitive state
anxieties dissipate & dissolve
like the tails of the shooting stars that soar above 
while synapses fire & neurons coalesce
allowing me to see outside of myself 
my body moving effortlessly
swaying in serenity as surely time passes 
but i remain mesmerized by the dance

when you can only say what you feel in so many syllables, you get creative. how cathartic it can be to put thoughts into haikus. 

public media 
words more dangerous than guns
shut mouth and close mind 

hate is a strong word
acts of hatred are stronger
our people cry out 

education fails 
the people grow ignorant 
false monarchs rise up 

in the name of christ 
you shun those who need love most
oh, the irony

"mama, what's a pencil?" 
a small, soft voice barely whispers
screens flash as consumption of information happens unconciously 
behind thoughtless eyes
a genuine, thoughtful question
a rareity in these times 
it brings you back to human reality
it takes you out of the numb, mindless state
a pencil 
you can feel your brain working-pulling images and feelings
from the almost empty filing cabinets 
your hand starts to curl
you run your thumb across your fourth finger 
on your right hand 
a crater still sits just below your fingernail
it was created as you furiously wrote down your thoughts
before thoughts were taken away 
it was your own way of quietly revolting
there's no way to express yourself now 
too dangerous
too independent 
so you say, 
"a pencil is freedom, and both were lost a long time ago"

why would i want to be happy if everyone else is sad? 
this question stuck with me 
i pondered & wondered & reflected 
isn't that what most people hope for? 
to be on top while everyone else is at the bottom
to be number one while everyone else is considered a loser 
to be successful while others fail
but what if we disappeared the element of competition?
what if we held hands & reached the finish line
together?
what if we carried those who cannot climb on our backs?
what if we went out and bought a bigger table 
and invited more people to it? 
community is so much more than a group of people in close proximity 
the sense of community is becoming obsolete
to so many 
individualism rising above unity 
what if we rejected this notion
one small step at a time
in survival 
in collective solidarity 
with compassion
respect 
dignity 
giving humanity to others
believeing "i am what i am 
because of who we all are"
ubuntu

her voice is sweet 
she's been taught to only speak in pleasantries
or lull a baby to sleep 
her words can only be soft & fluffy 
clouds as fragile as egos
she has been forced to silence 
& in her silence, she has done what they have not 
she has listened & she has learned 
they mistake softness for weakness 
so she appears beautifully docile
a belladonna 
tempting them with shiny, sugary berries
her melifluous voice need not change pitch 
as she delivers her poison.

in the glow of the blue light
my face conveys no emotion as i consume
consume 
consume 
one second it's bombs, blood, & screams 
the next second it's glowy, happy people
telling me what foods i should & shouldn't be eating
i consume
another second it's a politically fueled rant 
brought to me by a man who
probably cannot even spell the word "filibuster" 
my mind races
i consume 
i become angry, stressed, dissappointed, nostalgic, self-destructive, existential
in invisible silence 
i consume 
my happy thoughts left for dead after risking it all to enter the minefield 
that is the world within the screen
i consume
no
i am being consumed
it is the damn phones. 

this existence carries weight 
the tragedies that come with it are heavier than i can bare alone
our world has been coming to an end since the beginning 
of mankind
everything matters and nothing i do is big enough
to put out the seemingly eternal flames
my life is not valuable enough to bring about change 
my voice is not loud enough to command peace 
everything matters 
but i have no role in the everything

i am a tiny paint splatter on an infinite canvas 
my time here is merely a morsel of stardust in a grander galaxy
how beautiful to think - nothing matters
i am not here to perform monumental tasks
how freeing to consider my life to be intrinsically meaningful 
i am not 
the smartest, the strongest, the richest, the most inventive, the most beautiful 
but the universe chose for my soul to find this body 
at this divine time 
and it has decided that i get to stay here 
on this earth 
for a little while 
to love, to feel, to share in the human experience
and that is enough

i spent so much time with the floodgates open
words gushing out 
flooding my mind, my vision
poetry pushing me, pulling me to my pen & notebook
lines upon lines tumbled out 
describing the world around me, my experiences, my introspective thoughts 
i wrote without even thinking 
"i need to write today" 
an innate behavior & unforced habit

where did the words go? 
was it the shift to comfortability from newness 
& my experiences, though joyful, started to seem mundane? 
did other things start rebuilding the dam? 
work, money, politics, the future - metaphorical logs blocking 
the raging river & forcing it to a trickle? 
did i stop giving myself time? 
forget that i exist in the here & now
not in the there & later? 

as i sit & write this i already feel relieved 
"i need to write again" 
i thought 
& now here i am 
consciously making the decision to break down the barrier 
& find my words 

this poem is written from roam the dog's (perceived) perception. 

every day brand new 
short term memory & naivety make me egregiously ignorant 
& blissfully unaware 

overcome with excitement as i wake & carry out 
a routine that i do not know 
is routine 

i show jubilation outwardly without 
second thought 
to every human i encounter 
why live a life of happiness 
& have it go unnoticed? 

eat, sleep, run, play 
until the end of the day 
which is my favorite time of all 

i squeeze myself into the crevices 
amoungst everything in my world that 
i unconditionally love
& drift into dream 

my life may be short 
but everyday is truly 
my best day ever.