Category: Poem

In a whirlpool in the heavens, between earth and between sky
a bit of your stardust lingered with mine
before the beginning of time, of love, and of life.

On a starlit path from space to earth below,
from spirit to child to slightly-less-child,
I spotted you—stardust dancing in my soul.

But you’re on the verge of leaving now, no-longer-stardust-child,
and I don’t think you remember me.

That’s alright;
I’ll just catch you on the next go around.

I watch you leave, glitter in your eyes.
I dare not wish your elsewhere-hope dies—
it’s far too dear to you,
no longer stardust, never once mine.

It’s okay, I never did mind.
I’ll catch you next time,
on the next go around, the next earth, the next life.

And so I grew old without you and died
and my soul waited patiently life after life.

To the universe with two moons, no earth, a purple sun,
I’m convinced that I’d know you in each and every one.

And if you don’t recognize me, don’t let it get you down.
Don’t pity me;
I’ll be sure to catch you on the next go around.

As a nurse aide, echoes of life’s trials in noise would serenade.
On the fourth day’s whisper, a revelation starts to speed,
I found in silence, the rhythm of my beating heart.
Checking vital signs to hear the heart beep,
Life’s pattern in pulses, a depth full-blown.
Listening to the doctor, and seeing the family cry,
In the heart of crisis, where seconds weigh,
A struggle with life, where optimism dictates.
Through the corridors, a sprint and a prayer.
In the face of gloom, empathy set free.
Each beep and hum, a language untold.
In the emergency’s grasp, a narrative revealed.
With every measured step, a purpose defined,
In the tapestry of chaos, a healer’s design.
The doctor’s words weigh heavy, truth implies.
The oak of solace, witnessing broken hearts.
In life’s grand stage, where fates entwine,
The oak stands firm, a sentinel benign.

It’s a trivial conviction
The zephyr steals
In contradiction, it takes with it the wind
Azure surroundings from sardonic truths—
I’m left alone

Her harsh blows, they burn my skin
I can start to peel, and shed my hope
I can start to walk, walk down that road
It’s bootstrapped again and will be for time—
Time to come

Moors in dreams
Resent the rooted
The evergreen jester jests, such impudence with the rustling
It was she who felled the stature and razed my all

Voice of Courage

In a world where courage blooms, a story unfolds,
Of a little girl with dreams, brave and bold.
Sophie Cruz, at just the tender age of nine,
Lit a spark, a beacon, a flame divine.

Parents from Oaxaca, Mexico, her roots deep,
To the land of opportunity, her family did leap.
But in the shadows of uncertainty, they did dwell,
Undocumented, in a land they hoped would tell

A tale of acceptance, of compassion, of grace,
But oft met with barriers, a challenging race.
Yet Sophie, with innocence, saw a way,
To speak up, to stand tall, to have her say.

At five, she approached the Pope, serene,
With a letter in hand, her message keen.
To plead for her parents, for those unseen,
To seek justice, to mend the broken seam.

Her plea echoed far and wide,
As the world watched, tears in their eyes.
For in her innocence, she held a power,
To ignite change in this darkest hour.

From that moment on, Sophie’s voice soared,
A beacon of hope, a champion adored.
She marched with women, in solidarity,
For equality, justice, and dignity.

She sat in on hearings, with wisdom beyond her years,
Listening intently, dispelling fears.
Meeting leaders, from near and far,
A symbol of resilience, like a guiding star.

She stood tall,
A testament to the power of one small
Voice, echoing through the chambers of power,
A reminder that change blooms like a flower.

Though young in age, her spirit vast,
Sophie Cruz, a force unsurpassed.
In the immigrant rights movement, she stands strong,
A testament to courage, where she belongs.

So let her story inspire, let it ignite,
The flame of justice, burning bright.
For in Sophie’s journey, we all can see,
The power of one voice, the power to be free.

Thank you

Monday I am a raccoon
clutching a coffee mug
digging through the trash
of my inbox. Wearing
sweatpants and hoodies
in the winter but
the rest of the year
I wear pajama shorts
and pretend they are pants.
But I always have a real
shirt. Sometimes it even
has buttons.
I work my real job
typing on a real computer
making fake images appear
on a real monitor for real
people who were once fake
personas corporate dreamt up.
Real people on a Monday
clutching a coffee mug
sifting through trashy ads
on a real screen searching
for a real job for themselves.
I am sure half of them are
not wearing pants.
I like to believe it’s to be
comfortable, but I know
they’re just sitting on a real toilet.

I felt worthless
Didn’t want to breathe
One day better more or less
At times still felt like I wanted to leave

This world, god this world
Sometimes it feels like it wasn’t meant for us
And I would wallow into thought and would imagine myself in the middle of the road
And there’s a bus

And it crashed and it crashed
And I fell and I fell
Underneath
Where there was rubble

Knee scraped in cement
Hardly a dent
But in my mind,
Unrelenting trouble

“Isolation is what might fix this,” they said
Be by yourself all alone
I said okay and then laughed in my head
Oh my thoughts, if only they had known

My mother’s ancient dreams sit heavy on my tongue
her guileless disposition
the way she moves about like a child
a credulous animated character
Her wistful smile at my burning passion for literature
Her childhood that ceases to exist
giving up on her ambition because he said so with an evil shrug
still desperately yearning for it decades later
and she staggers away
head bowed with woe
Caring for far too many men in her adolescence she seldom hears from in her dotage
In my dreams my mother is free
in my dreams my mother is unmarried
in my dreams I do not exist

The door isn’t wide enough

I moved into this house long ago
The neighbors change every year
Through my two windows I see them clear
Each paints and polishes homes pristine
Each a different color
Vibrant reds, deep blues
A dizzying array of hues
my house is Dull

Their skies are sunny and serene
mine is filled with smoke
my fire roars all day and night
I never learned to put it out
so I sit and bake

my foundation is crumbling
everyday it shakes
it used to knock me over
I’m accustomed to it now

my curtains are unsightly
but they are the only ones I own
better than to let my neighbors see me

my two windows are foggy
the sunlight dissipates through them

if I could I’d leave
I wonder if my neighbors would grieve
But no matter how much I squeeze

The door isn’t wide enough

Oh, to be a gremlin child again.
Unruly and bright,
and hot to the touch.
Covered in grass stains and scrapes.
Hair unbrushed
with daisies in the knots.
With no concept of my own physicality.
Halfway up the tree in the front yard
and eating an apple around a missing tooth.
Getting scolded for ruining my Sunday best
which I wear to pray to a God I don’t believe in
for the sake of my mother.
To be unabashedly ugly.
To be unashamedly hungry.
To be healthy
and hearty
and lean
and covered in bruises
and filled to the brim with love
and sun-ripe peaches.
To feel time stretch forever,
only flying when I’m reading books
or tripping over my own untied shoelaces.
To love summer once more.
To love life.
Syrupy sweet,
and soft to the touch.

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