Month: April 2024

Ham is Ham
Ham is a good boy
Ham is not a ma’am
Ham is yam
Ham is a lamb
Ham likes jam

Bam is a yam
Bam likes ham
Ham likes Sam
Sam likes jam
Bam likes Sam

Her sweeping branches dance and sway,
Like waves rippling from the shore,
Her velvet flowers flow down her arms,
Cascading to the floor.

She murmurs to the flowing stream,
She whispers to the trees,
Her weeping tendrils dance and twirl,
Into the midnight breeze.

No matter what happens in other worlds,
I know that nothing can change her,
She’ll never change by will of man,
Only by will of nature.

Her bark has cut and torn my skin,
Her arms have yanked my hair,
Every time, I get new scars,
Yet somehow, I don’t care.

She’s always living in my mind,
I’ll always long to be,
Under her branches, far away,
Beneath the willow tree.

She looks at her reflection in the glass
Her gaze fierce as orange flames burns her
Wild tangled hair messes a neatly tied image
Blue sharp eyes penetrate the ambient light
Her visual appearance says it all
She is Kira, the blue silvered headed girl

That foreign, strange, weird, nasty, ugly little girl
A weak dainty thing like fragile glass
Yet never breaking even amongst them all
Those who stab small delicate words at her
Calling her more dangerous than the light
That which shows her a broken distorted image

Staring at her own mirrored image
She tugs at the hair that makes this girl
Hoping her hands erase what is shown in light
Making fists and breaking away at glass
Ignoring the cuts she forces on her
Trusting the memories will fade with it all

Picking up shards of forged truth, she sees all
What makes up that neverending image
The words, the stares, the fists thrown at her
All that pressed, tightened, and shattered the girl
She who stood tall before wavering glass
Never knew she also resembled light

Her lucid locks give off a soft light
In that moment she forgets it all
Drops the voices, her hands, the glass
Finds herself in a transformed image
Daring to see what is left of the girl
She carefully removes a piece off her

In that fragment she catches a glimpse of her
A soft messy figure enveloped in light
Wild hair, mesmerizing eyes, she is a girl
who with a transparent gaze realizes, all
those who twisted and tore her image
were trying to hide the beauty on the glass

She picks them all, the pieces that cut at her
Fixing and mending her image, she places focus on emerging light
Which she uses to make new glass, one reflecting a most beautiful girl

I sat inside a boat at sea,
Sailing through night and day,
She caught my eye, gleaming afar,
Only 13 miles away.

Her gorgeous colors lit up the sky,
Drowning out, the dark abyss,
Gold danced with red, dusted by pink,
Promising happiness.

She enchanted me at sight,
I knew I had to find,
Her waiting there, waiting for me,
I knew she must be mine.

I sailed faster faster after her,
Racing through night and day,
Tears stung my eyes, cause’ there she was,
Still 13 miles away.

My ship began to splinter, rot,
I didn’t stop, I didn’t care,
I tore faster faster through the waves,
Wasn’t she right there?

My face was cut and drenched with tears,
My ship was worn, from stern to bow,
One day, I lowered my tattered sail,
Finally, I let her go.

And now I sit here in my boat,
Sailing at peace, through night and day,
I look, knowing she’ll always be there,
13 miles away.

A summer drive.
The air is cooler here
like mild winters in Texas,
except unlike Texas,
exhales of breath are thinner, drier too
and certainly more tangible.
You can almost see whispers of wind
as they ventilate throughout the vast valley
carved meticulously from the crests of two adjacent
mountains.

At sunset, we arrive at the little red house.
The last of the day’s golden rays gently sweep across overgrown patches of leaf climbers
and worn down paint that hugs the ashwood door.
Five pairs of restless feet clamber along the swirling stone path.
Orange leaves rustle and crunch eagerly under running shoes.
Five pairs of hankering hands clutch the cool metal of an antique
doorknob.

Later, we are gathered together in the soft glow of the kitchen.
Ringing as clearly as silver bells on an arctic sleigh,
laughter stretches and swirls effortlessly along the silhouette of the room.
Like seafoam waves, it washes over each person, jolting bleary eyes awake.
Sweetly, all crevices seal.
Lightly, all hearts are filled.
So deeply content they overflow with joy.

When we are hungry, dad and I reach for cooking pans.
The skillet shines against the simpler tangerine paint clinging to the countertops.
Together, we dice fluorescent greens and mince the raw muscle of a cod
before drizzling the fish in honey and drowning it in paper flakes.
I reach down.
The pink tissue feels smooth
like the creek stones I see slumbering underwater.
We pour cups of rice into a red pot.
As sea-blue flames greedily lick the underside of the blazing stainless steel,
vegetables and meat sizzle and sear into golden-brown hues.
Swirling its contents, I suck in a gust of air.
The meat smells salty. I savor it.
It reminds me of home.

When we are finished, five ravenous heads bobble over to the center table,
Their watering mouths could fill rivers and rivers.
Easy smiles and comfortable conversation replenish the empty spaces between bites of
steaming stew.
Now, with both hearts and tummies content, five pairs of sleepy eyelids
flicker, delicately, closed.
Tonight, we’ll rest.

Tomorrow, adventure unfolds.

I’d cross any distance on a map,
Scale any mountain up above,
A knife, a cut, a tender wound,
Anything for those I love.

My family’s care is boundless,
And it only seems to grow,
To me, my friends are priceless,
Much more than they will ever know.

A stranger or a dearest friend,
No matter who’s to blame,
A knife, a cut, a drop of blood,
I’d sacrifice it just the same.

But I’ll always cover up the wound,
Look as happy as can be,
My face is wet, but they can’t tell,
With tears, they’ll never see.

They won’t notice, that behind my smile,
I’m holding back their flood,
Behind my back, I hold,
The cloth I used to wipe the blood.

No matter what, I know,
My love for them will have no end,
A knife, a cut, another scar,
And I’d do it all over again.

I’ve tried many hobbies of all kinds of crafts,
Yet there’s only a few I’ve acquired,
Cause’ in all of those pass times, though really, I try,
They do leave things to be desired.

My photos are failures, in any light,
There’s much too much smoke when I cook,
My drawings and paintings, could make Bob Ross cry,
But I’m always at home in a book.

Origami somehow ends up a creased, crumpled mess,
My sewing is sloppy x 10,
My calligraphy is a calamity,
But I’m clever, with paper and pen.

My skating’s disgraceful, on wood or on ice,
Snails laugh at the speed of my sprint,
But I manage outdoors, camping in the woods,
Start a fire with steel and with flint.

If I try making bracelets, or cookies, or cards,
I always end up messing up the lot,
If I try to attempt any kind of crochet,
I’ll end up weaving a Gordian knot.

You’d think that the mayhem and mishaps and mess-ups,
Would surely show me to the door,
But at the end of the day, I smile, unfazed,
Cause’ I can’t wait to find and try more.

To me really it’s a nonsensical phrase,
“Curiosity killed the cat”,
It’s wrong and restricting in so many ways,
And boring and useless at that.

There’s a thrilling adventurous world out there,
If you just step outside of your door,
There’s miles and miles of breathtaking lands,
Waiting for you to explore.

Don’t sit there afraid of the worry and woe,
Letting all opportunities pass,
You’ll gain nothing, learn nothing, live nothing at all,
If you watch life from behind a glass.

You’ll learn so many secrets and mysteries too,
Don’t let them tell you that you shouldn’t do it,
There’s an endless amount of knowledge in our grasp,
For anyone brave enough to pursue it.

So never look down on the curious cat,
Here is the reason I won’t,
That cat took a risk, to learn something new,
And that cat knows something that you don’t.

Nowadays, wildflowers don’t dance in December,
But once upon a time there were fairies with blue wands.
I promise I try, but it gets harder to remember.

The flickering of office building lights past the picket fence are like fireflies,
That feature ad nauseum in children’s books, and I forget when by the ponds,
Nowadays, wildflowers don’t dance in December.

It’s disconcerting sometimes to look back at the goodbyes,
And plants stay longer than people do — I run my hand through their fronds.
I promise I try, but it gets harder to remember.

And who was that who liked cardinals because they sounded like the sunrise?
Maybe that girl in the odd dresses (bluebonnets painted on their wintry fonds) –
Nowadays, wildflowers don’t dance in December.

And the chocolate milk was always sour, but third graders learn to hide sighs,
And when I’m called innocent I think back to trees’ shadows on nine year-old blondes,
I promise I try, but it gets harder to remember.

Miniscule footprints once marked my driveway, hands full of cream from pecan pies.
And once upon a time (I swear it’s true), fairies did have blue wands.
Nowadays, wildflowers don’t dance in December.
I promise I try, but it gets harder to remember.