One Day

Inspired from a line in Steal Like An Artist by Austin Kleon. Wrote this in September.
-----

one day it will all make sense,

the times you failed,
the love you spent.
the moment she pushed your hand away,
and said there was nothing left to say.

one day it will all make sense.

one day I will see you again,
yellow knit sweater,
turquoise jogging pants.
I’ll ask you why our sun set so soon,
You’ll smile and point to the moon.

one day,
one day,
one day it will all make sense.
I know it seems like punishment,
but one day...

the night will come when we look to the sky,
and mysterious stars will mysteriously align.
god will reveal his ancient face,
and explain the reasons for all his mistakes.

one day,
one day,
one day it will all make sense.
I know it seems like punishment,
but one day, one day.



This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.

Revised: Somethings Never Change

Somethings Never Change

I still hide chocolate in little nooks around the house,
Behind a pile of books,
In a small pocket of a backpack,
Under the pillow.

The other night, my late night munchies led to a discovery.
When opening the snack cupboard,
I saw the blue wrapper, two squares left.
I wanted to place the extra piece,
already sticky with my finger prints,
into your palm.

Chomping  down on the little squares,
I felt the milky coalesced sugars slowly crumble between my teeth.
You always thought it odd to bite down on chocolate,
preferring to take your time, to let it melt in your mouth-
until that night Smuckers started barking in his dreams,
slowly breaking into a slumbered run,
our laughter causing you to choke
on the gooey pond of cocoa swirling on your tongue.

The refrigerator hum brings me back to my kitchen.
I see that I am alone, the wrapper empty.
I throw it away, and return to bed.



This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.

Revised Popcorn and Sitcoms

When I am old, I will do handstands and cook with my feet.
all my children will call me by my moon name
and swear allegiance to my wool socks.
Upon rows and rows of spices on hand painted racks
they will they learn their mothers magic stews and potions,
on tree top forts they will sing Shakespeare and dance Moliere,
with broken bits of Sea Green and Electric Blue crayons
they will scribble their stories onto pristine walls- and I will but smile and look on.
 I now live enslaved to an overlord of practicality,
With rows and rows of stale books and withering magazines.
In a plain white room I writhe to the droning buzz of a gleaming screen,
my stories too banal to remember.

When I am old I will let down my hair,
and kittens will live in my newly dishevelled nest!
I will dress myself in homemade gowns from the 80’s,
my face adorned with goofy smiles and glitter face paint.
my children will see me and laugh ‘till they pee.

For now, I slave away for  acceptance and pedigree,
my hair rigidly coiffed, my body restrained in pant suits,
khaki’s on weekends, pastel coloured dresses in spring,
maybe, maybe a bold dash of Revlon Super Lustrous Rum Raisin
for a birthday, or a wedding.

When I am old, I will love life again-
For the sake of my itty bitty babes,
so full of promise, so full of light.
I will feed them the milk of my body,
the nectar of my blossoming heart,
and show them all the Muppet movies.

Until then, the woman of my dreams waits for me,
sitting in the summery backyards I knew as a child,
sprawled out on moist grass,
a dog licking at her toes,
and a lemonade on a side table, sweating in the heat.




This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.

growing

dead leaves crisp on autumn ground,
brittle, breaking.
once young,
green.
the lucky rot into the ground,
nourishing former roots.
others fall into the gutter,
swept away in rain and debris,
unable to again touch the earth.




This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.

A Worm

a worm digesting it's surroundings
the world travels through and out
expelling waste so trees grow.

our shit is what's valuable.




This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.

our hearts.

irreverent and impossible.
fragile clumps of ash.

with each touch
dim traces of residue are removed.

the heart
aches to be blown away.




This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.

Sand in my Ear

grains of earth holding onto the curves
clusters of black and brown specks
a few clear granules resemble salt
I run my finger along
gathering a small coast line.




This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.