poetry

When You Ask What I’m Thinking

Lost in the hallucination of my mind

where reality is Schrodinger’s experiment –

both fact and fiction are one and the same –

I traverse the land without a map.

How can someone keep track

of such an endless, unstable landscape?

I sure as hell can’t –

but is hell even sure?

Straying, trying to find the path –

a path, any way to navigate this place

with some fragmented level of certainty,

I want to unlock the box,

to figure out what in this whole mess

is actually real, to find some way out;

but the box is shut tight.

I’m locked inside,

and in all this chaos

of everything and nothing,

I still can’t find the key.

poetry

2018

What is the distinction between 2017 and 2018?

All that changes is the last number on our calendar

and we start a new cycle around the sun,

but people all over think that makes a difference.

When the clock strikes midnight,

people think their lives will start to turn around

like a fairytale that never made sense to me.

Cinderella didn’t really do much

other than sing to mice and take care of her house

and then BAM –

the fairy godmother gives her a nice dress,

suddenly she has a nice prince,

and they live happily ever after.

 

How does she get such a happy ending?

The animals make her dress and tell her to go,

the fairy godmother gives her a new one

and the means to get to the ball,

and the prince likes her after knowing her

for maybe an hour or so.

She just goes along with it all,

and everything falls into place

like pieces of a puzzle

that weren’t even taken out of the box.

She may deserve it

after dealing with her wicked family,

but happiness doesn’t get handed out

for tolerating those around you.

 

Maybe I missed the memo,

but when the new year comes around,

everyone seems to think that the change

from 7 to 8 summons a fairy godmother

or that the list they make will be achieved on their own.

We’re in the 21st century, not a fairy tale.

There is no fairy godmother.

At the stroke of midnight,

a new year will start,

but a new you takes more time

than clock does to chime.

Push forward into the future

and start writing your own story.

poetry

Rain

Drips turn to torrents,

drops turn to puddles

that run down the sidewalk

pulled down by unrelenting gravity,

raging through the drains

and into the darkness.

 

But before the drips

take the form of tears

dragged to the lowest point,

the rain dances.

Wind draws the drops

from their downward paths.

 

For a moment,

the beads of water hang there,

drifting over the world.

They are destined to fall –

suspended, silent;

but only for a moment.

poetry

Main Street

Stepping out of the parking garage,

the blinding summer sun poured

into the shadows and must

as I opened the door,

the familiar flashes of food and fun hit me:

laughing, honking, warm pizza and popcorn –

I hurried down the alleyway,

a drab gray road with plain brick walls,

a complete contrast to the street it led to.

 

Main Street was spinning with people

crowding the sidewalks

like the wheels of the shiny antique cars

they were looking at.

Gray haired men with their veteran caps

sat in their lawn chairs and laughed

as the meat sizzled on the grills

they brought from home today,

just like every Friday.

Children ran around their parents

and shop windows and the colorful cars,

telling the adults that would listen that

that one, right there, the blue one –

that’s the one he wants when he gets big.

 

I ducked and weaved through the crowd

past Angelo’s and the goozy slices

of bread and cheese warming outside

and couldn’t help but get two –

one for me, one for a friend –

and continued up the vibrant street

to the sound of the revving engines

and tooting horns,

taking in the happy faces of families

spending that quality time together

that they’d miss in a few years.

 

I adjusted my backpack with my shoulders,

hauling it into a more comfortable,

stationary position as I ran

to my favorite store on the street

to be at this time on a Friday afternoon.

 

The bell on the door tinkled an old-fashioned chime when it opened,

and the young tattooed guy behind the counter looked up at me,

smiled, greeted me by name.

He took my “hello”

and five dollars kindly as always,

gesturing to my friends sitting at the tables surrounded by shelves

filled with games –

cards, board, new, old, popular, not so common –

games you have to play with your friends in person

and not your television screen in isolation.

Old rock played softly on the speakers

as I slid into the seat next to Benny,

the sophomore in high school

that mistook me for younger than him,

and passed him my extra slice.

 

“College girl” –

the high school boys nicknamed me;

the men just call me by my name.

Once they thought they might scare me off –

the only girl in a group of geeky gaming guys.

but that night – my first game of Magic,

as we set our colored cards on the table,

I knew I had found another family

and a place where I could be myself.