I never chose The color of my skin But I am ashamed Of what It has come to mean. This whiteness Of mine Is no privilege When I burn In the light of the sun. In art White is the absence Of color, Bland Dull Lifeless. And when it is bright It blinds you To the beauty Of other things. In art Black is the combination Of all colors, The mixture That makes Midnight. Such…
Lightning bugs flicker Like drops of stardust Floating on a summer breeze. A nightingale calls From its perch Among the trees. A weather-warped board Creaks under the weight Of a rocking chair. The citronella candles Gutter and spark briefly As a moth gives itself to the flame. The buzz of cicadas Pitches ever higher Until it is a deafening roar, Then stops dead Only to slowly build again. Coyotes call And are answered In the…
A concrete desolation. The air shimmers And ripples with heat. A hard, gray monotone Radiates outward, Paving the land over With the rubble of progress. But here And there Are saving graces. Dandelions growing Up through the cracks. Dragonflies swooping Through clouds of gnats. Hawks perched Atop high street lights. Raccoons tipping over Collections of garbage cans Before scurrying off Into the night. Nature waits, Silent and patient, For us to be gone. Ever ready…
There is a hole Inside of me, A void I cannot fill. A swirling black gravity Of a soul’s collapse to nill. Some days I can ignore it. Some days I forget it’s there. Until At last A planet dies And i remember That I care.
You sprang, Fully formed, Like a hero’s story From my pen. You bled You cried You fell And you rose. But not as a puppet Pulled by my strings, But rather independent and free, As the person I wish I could be.
The small book Had bounced around From place to place For nearly three decades now. It spent its early life On a nightstand By a bed, Thoughts scribbled into it Most frequently. Then when its pages Were full, It sat proudly upon a bookshelf. It had been packed And moved And unpacked again, More times than It could count. The last packing though Had been the hardest. For it sat in the dark, Squeezed tightly…
He strikes In the darkness. Lays waste In the dead of night. He pounces Upon blanketed toes. Tips the lamp Upon the nightstand. Launches himself Atop the clothes rack. He is a Guerilla food fighter, Hitting fast And hard And disappearing again Before you can catch him. He has But one mission. To make you realize You exist Only to feed him. Anytime. Anywhere.
Something moves in the night, A rustle in dry grass. It pauses As far off A coyote cries And next door A donkey brays in concern. A moment. Two moments. Then it unfreezes And picks its way once more Through the darkness, Searching For food For shelter For its mate. A slave to instinct And the cycle of life.
You come to me in darkness, Shucking your clothes Like a layer of skin. You slip between the sheets, The bed creaking With each minute shift. Your hand finds its rest At the curve of my waist And you exhale fully, The breath of the contented.
