Category: Poetry

I struggle with the code
And living by morals
That I chose by birth

My face is worn by a million men
With a mouth that speaks for a multitude
Each word must be beaded
On a narrow thread

I struggle with the code
Because it is so much bigger than I
And means more than my single life
It isn’t a burden
But an honor
I do not deserve

The question isn’t how
Because my brothers dig paths
In the world my sisters birthed
From ancient, immortal loins
Where a home awaits
Vacant
When I come home
I will no longer struggle

Cobblestone and brickwork from an alleyway emerged
At an intersection where two narrow roads converged
Opening a pathway to a seldom traveled street
This is the location where I’d like for us to meet

Covered by a shadow while the sun hangs in the sky
Still revealing slowly floating clouds that pass on by
Guided by the pitter-patter of our anxious feet
This is the location where I’d like for us to meet

While the air is incensed by the dining lying near
And the crowds are over leaving open walkways clear
Bring your happy laughter and a smile for me to greet
This is the location where I’d like for us to meet

Long before the hour comes to take you far away
While you travel distant and I’m forced by fate to stay
Hidden from the beating of the waning Summer heat
This is the location where I’d like for us to meet

He didn’t make it far before
he realized he had forgotten his wallet
but he already decided
it wasn’t worth continuing on.
However, he wasn’t ready
to accept the defeat.
He wouldn’t continue,
but he wouldn’t return.
Nearby was a park and he
decided that was
where he wanted to go all along.
It was a short walk.
About as far as it would have been
to return home.
He was now twice as far as he was.
His brow furled
trying to keep both
sun and sweat
from his eyes.
It wasn’t that warm,
but frustration made everything
more intense.
He certainly wanted the park
to help provide the peace
he wasn’t willing to for himself.
Every exasperated sigh
was redefined as a mindful breath.
He was exceptional at self-delusion.

In the park,
there was a bench.
On this bench,
there was a squirrel
and nothing else.
For whatever reason,
he decided that
this squirrel needed
to be bothered.
He walked to the bench as if he
wanted to sit next to the squirrel,
but really he knew he was
definitely going to disturb its peace.
On approach, a tail twitch.
Two steps, standing alert.
Three steps further,
a retreat away from the bench
into a tree.
As the squirrel jolted the man smiled.
He decided this was his favorite bench for the day
as he sat down.
This time the sigh wasn’t a sigh,
it was actually a mindful breath.
His eyes closed and he allowed
the warm sun shards breaking
through the tree canopy to shower
him with solar massage.
He hadn’t forgotten that this wasn’t
where he was really planning on going,
but he acted like it.
His smirk was convincing.

If I lost my name
How would I be called?
Would it be by my calling?

I would like that to be
How I am known
To mold my spirit to
My purpose

Forsake my id –
And keep my
– entity
Nameless

An introduction
is the act of colliding my ego
against social expectation.
Whichever is most brittle
determines how awkward I feel
when I walk away.
Oft times
I simply imagine the outcome through
vivid prognostication,
just long enough for others to leave
for some other,
braver
interest.
If I can experience abandonment
before there’s even a salutation
I meet with it less violently
even if more frequently.
After all,
I’d rather be on the wrong side of a good event
than under the spotlight of catastrophe.
Those who stretch out their neck
invite nooses.
They’ve finally gone.
Just one more semester left
of hiding behind my glasses.

It’s ironic,
when asked to recall my family’s voice
my first thought is a threat
to literally put words in my head.
My great-aunt was a collector of knick-knacks
and curios,
and was also my default care-taker
while my mother worked.
Her West Indian and Panamanian heritage
was always betrayed by her voice,
her idioms.
She was caring of us,
but protective of her collections,
“An’ if you break it,
I’ll cut your initials
into your forehead
with the broken pieces.
I’ll do like so…”
She continued to mime the action
I am relieved never came to pass
despite the stunning number of pots
and vases
I destroyed in careless play.

That I never really listened
to my family
never occurred to me before.
That my memories
of their voices
are a din of sounds,
not language.
And their words are divorced from the audible
to my recollection.
Mannerisms and attitudes stay
in well preserved packets of cognition,
but their phrases are not words to me.
Those phrases are meanings,
themes,
shadows of a trope.
“You have more luck than sense.”
They have told me.
Maybe this is what they saw.
Senses dulled to my inheritance of wisdoms
and just enough luck to survive without it.

Billowing Earth and voluptuous hill
Sonorous hum of the deep valley creek
Cavernous mouth that no supper could fill
Billowing Earth and voluptuous hill
Dusk comes approaching, celestial will
Afternoon sun but her shine cannot peak
Billowing Earth and voluptuous hill
Sonorous hum of the deep valley creek