The wide eyes blinked
It was over
The war has engulfed the pond, the garden, and the moon
It wasn’t her choice
She smiled
Too young to worry, too old to cry
The wide eyes stared at a green leaf, among the ruins
The birds might come back
She poured what’s left of her water on what’s left of a tree
The apples will grow!
(A little darker than I usually write. That is because it was inspired by my life experience…)
In a treasure chest only my eyes can see
I hide things that make me, me.
There you’ll find treasures of my own
poems too personal, drawings so imperfect, and sand from back home.
But here (in the blog world) I find chests open wide.
So I throw the key and join the fight.
#NewBlogger
I see monsters in the park, impatiently cursing the sun missing the dark.
I see paws digging beneath a stone.
Tail wagging so happy to find his old bone.
While his owner impatiently waits to make the drive back home.
The ripples in my glass of water were my proof,
There are little creatures that I can not see…
There are small things, smaller than me!
But here I stand on my kitchen floor
so much bigger yet feeling so small.
In a dream I came to know
Of what is above
And what is below
Of creatures dark and ones that glow
And I heard the earth crying out to the sun: “burn them all, rid me of this plague.”
Then I woke.
“He will save us, don’t you worry,
loving and strong, the hero will return.”
The priest found a way to calm the crowd
So they stood still as their town burned to the ground
“Will he rebuild my tree house father?” The boy wondered
“He will make you a new one, a better one, in heaven!”
But the boy wondered if he can find the way to heaven through this fire.
“Father, do we have to see hell to enjoy heaven?”
The priest said loudly: “HE WILL SAVE US!”
But everyone was gone.
The flame surrounded the red eyed man.
And the boy stood still as the fire engulfed them both.
Born screaming, he did not choose this.
Died screaming, he does not want it to end.
I have found the missing key,
but where’s the door?
I have found a key,
I don’t know what for.
I am but one voice lost in many
I shout when I can
But I doubt that I am
More than a voice in a world of plenty.
An unexpected visitor
The bird that sat on her window, it looked familiar as if it belonged to a different place
She can see that the city was not his place
Maybe he followed her train to where the trees don’t grow
Where the cars’ noises block the voices in her head
She can no longer hear her best friend—the inspiration
Looking out of her cold studio apartment’s window, she can’t see the stars
Her lover’s words resonate in her ears, he was right—she misses counting the bright pins in the sky
That yellow cheerful bird’s singing covered all the other noises around her
She wondered if he had been a messenger, if he carried a letter from The Pond for her
Although her apartment stood high above the man-made trails beneath
It was no match to the mountain she used to live on,
The broken kitchen counters that he’d promised to fix,
The cotton filled pillows, the wooden chair he proudly carved.
She closes her eyes humming with the bird, harmonies she once knew so well
She can smell it, the pond’s stench—what she hated and loved so much
But it escapes her before she can capture it; she wished to paint it on her pale grey wall
The memories were too old, and the paint has run dry.
The Numbers Publishing 