Golden Age

What do you call that Far East Asian ancient sailboat?

The one that’s always amber-orange and silhouetted, multiple masts

Sailing slowly but deliberately to anywhere but here

Help me because I can’t think

What, with all the noise in my head, contemplating your silence

Your confident cowardice

What do you call it

I want to hitch a ride to anywhere but here


No — what do you call it?

Universe Adjust

Who’s not been here before
This wist-filled den
Tucked far too far from the sanctuary a full heart holds
Green grass growin’ somewhere else
Front porch swing still
Once again
Happy eyes in those old photos
Haunting now
Hurling anger and anguish and gnashing of teeth to the heavens
So the universe may adjust

Said And Done

I speak for the masses
The sides of me inside of me
The arrested phases that do not know how to grow
The girl who grew, too tall too soon

Somewhere in there, a woman walks
Head held high, chin and forehead gently jutted
To the sun, she says
And she does

She does love
To do, to be

She questions me
To lead in love

That gives me pause
First steals my breath, then intuits me to question her back

What of the times you sought to love, to befriend
To be a friend, although in need?
They knew nothing of love!
Friendship foreign to them, they offered an attack
An inevitable abandonment

This is life, and you cannot opt out
You cannot, too, jump ship
You cannot not love, friend
She says to me

She strides onward
To the sun

Courting Anger: A Writing Prompt

I’m encouraged to channel my anger, 

to sit with it. Take it to tea. 

“So, you’re real,” I’d say, half looking away, hoping it would not take note of me. 

“Is this about the table I bought you for Valentine’s Day?” I’m sure it would respond, looking at me in its superior way. “Because I was sick of looking at the other one,” it’d quip. 

Sigh. Seeing its sad state of insight

and a lack of rhythm or kind goal,

“I release you,” I’d murmur, feeling more self-assured, “but I’ll take back my eyes, mind and soul.”