Year of the Poem

Dandelion suns sprinkle through emerald green 
grass pastures as pinpoints of happiness 
scattered carelessly by the young Nature of spring. 
She knows not the cultivated rows of daffodils 
and lilac trees that line the paths in a regiment form, 
placed carefully by landscapers to optimize beauty.
But still the light of dandelions brings a smile
to passing wanderers of the field. Enticing 
yellow pillows intermingled with plush 
green is just what a picnicker needs to signal stop:
this is where you eat. 
A feast enjoyed blanket free, for the field
is blanket enough. Hints of morning dew still
cooling off your legs, and little ant patrons come to carry
off your crumbs. The self-cleaning lunch table
gives you more time to read aloud 
among the cheery dandelions 
that called you over in the first place, 
trying to return the favor of their beauty with your words.

Entangled bodies sleep
snuggled safely in their passion.

Licks of fire linger longer,
embers still glow fiercely.

Like breath, lips brush
soft and slow.

Pent up rain, released
from summer’s dense clouds.

Entangled limbs stretch
waking slowly to the dawn:

Sun kisses the horizon with golden, rosy hues;
“these first signs of morning are better shared with you.”

Lovers sleep, their entwined
bodies resonate passion.
Licks of fire linger,
embers of elm still glow.
Lovers’ lips brush
soft and slow, like breath.
Dense clouds in summer’s sky
release their pent up rain.
Lovers stretch entangled limbs
waking slowly to the dawn:

Sun kisses the horizon with golden, rosy hues;
“these first signs of morning are always better shared with you.”

Words trip on the tongue
as you try to express yourself
eloquently, barbarically, softly, sweetly.
Your voice transformed before my ears
into an incommunicable mass of sounds
as I swallowed salt water smiling.

She speaks for you, he speaks for you,
but nobody ever says what you really mean.
Subtle nuances have lost their touch
in the translation of human gesture.
True words are lost to carelessness,
your life is lost to laziness.

An ass slap is like a sexual clap; congratulations 
on a job well done, it’s been fun but I’m done 
it’s on to the next one he says smiling slyly 
slinking out the door.

Me lying naked on the bed still wanting more
I feel like a whore not because I fucked him
but because I didn’t love him, didn’t want it
when he started but now that he’s finished
I want love from him.

Ah, you’re so cool, you were always so cool
I convince him boosting egos while I break 
mine thrashing for a life line as I’m wined 
and dined by him, denied the right to say no 
by him. Enthralled by him.

You see I’m trapped in this paradox of who I should be:
Strong and wild or weak and mild my mind can’t decide 
so I hide from his eyes for a while.

Encased in ice,

work to rub down the exterior

with the warm friction of love.

Superiority blows in a wave

of frost that covers.

Attempt to peer into the Arctic waters 

but the plunge leaves no breathe. Retreat.

Unreciprocated warmth 

is hard to sustain: fingertips turn blue.

A groove is hollowed 

in ice but until fire melts ice

from the inside, it remains

Wait, patient and chilled

hopeful for reciprocal, frictional, warm love.

Light brighter than stars 
illuminates the full moon’s 
high tide tonight. Waves 
worship the sacred silence 
as they crash upon the shore.

The beckoning water holds little orbs 
of phytoplankton shining
religiously on sand. 
Salt water stars beg
me to wade in to this cool,
aquatic sky. 

A goddess reaching 
towards chimerical twinkling stars,
I float through the sacred
aquatic cosmos.

I dreamt I heard my father’s voice

while I was gone at school,

and as he spoke I heard the words

he’d told me as his rules:

“Remember who you are” he’d say
when I left for the night
“You represent our family”
and boy was he so right.

I’d see his friend while I was out

-I admit it pretty weird-

but it made be a better kid,

for his opinion I did fear.

He had some other sayings,

less ominous and stern

I heard inside that dream of mine

and for which I still yearn.

“Who are they?” he’d ask “and why

are they saying this?” I’d

roll my eyes and whine at him

and open my arms real wide,

“Oh I don’t know, but yes it’s true!”

I’d argue vehemently

and now I’m glad for I have learned

what doubt can do for me.

Towards the end of that dream I had

he asked me “When’re we off?”.

so foolishly I answered “soon”

and he had quite the laugh.

“Don’t you know, my babygirl,

what ‘soon’ is in Chinese?
It’s maybe never!—Don’t give me that

come on, we’ve gotta breeze.”

And off we went inside my dream

to dance among the clouds

where anything was possible

and all hopes were allowed.

Ah, when I woke I felt his voice

fade back to what it is

but now can carry his wisdom

inside of me with bliss.

And every day while I’m at school

I try to make you proud.

I listen to that manly voice

inside that’s very loud.

It sounds like you, for that I’m glad

(though sometimes won’t admit)

cause you always knew just what to do

when you got in a rut.

For even though it’s hard to talk

and sometimes you’re not heard,

I love you dad, with all my heart

on that I give my word. 

The world begins at a kitchen table. No matter what, we must eat to live.

The gifts of earth are brought and prepared, set on the table. So it has been since creation, and it will go on.

We chase chickens or dogs away from it. Babies teethe at the corners. They scrape their knee under it.

It is here that children are given instructions on what it means to be human. We make men at it, we make women.

At this table we gossip, recall enemies and ghosts of former lovers.

Our dreams drink coffee with us as they put their arms around our children. They laugh with us at our poor fallen-down selves and as we put ourselves back together once again at the table.

This table has been a house in the rain, an umbrella in the sun.

Wars have begun and ended at this table. It is a place to hide in the shadow of terror. A place to celebrate the terrible victory.

We have given birth at this table, and prepared our parents for burial here.

At this table we sing, with joy and sorrow. We pray of suffering and remorse. We give thanks.

Perhaps, the world will end at the kitchen table, while we are laughing and crying, eating of the last sweet bite.

-Joy Harjo 

Angel Dust Blush

The harp-like sounds—amplified angelic laughter 
in the highest octave—rain down in the form 
of powdered dust. A harsh bristled brush 
coats an eery cotton candy glow over the natural 
hue of already rosy cheeks from a compact 
conveniently pressed with Angel Dust Blush.

 Pillows of innocence—generally reserved for small girls 
and dolls—exudes false cherubic smiles on dark skinned flesh, 
masking the wears of age and the wisdom of experience.
I present the color of every flat female character 
in a D-list director’s male-centric love story:
It is the color of child-like love; of happiness 
without heartache; of triumph without failure; 
brightness but no depth. It is pretty, but hollow.


A poem about this color, that I had to name and describe to someone who can’t see.