The Language of Flowers

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Finding the right words to say—
do they collect on your tongue
like dew in the early morning,
pale and sweet

or are they like young jewelweed pods,
exploding under the most subtle touch?

Your words slip into nearby ears—
planting themselves deep  
to grow into live oaks
with strong branches and soft moss.

I want to speak flowering words
that sprout black-eyed susans in people’s hearts
and english ivy in their minds—

to yield the power of a thousand daisies
in each word I confess.

Shall I try to grow a dandelion in the crook of your smile?

I’ve been told

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It takes time,
that’s what everybody tells me
It takes time to heal
to understand
to stand on two feet without stumbling—
but all I can do is mask the stumbling,
coming so close to the edge that
I think I see my closing chapter.

Today will be a good day,
that’s what everybody tells me
A positive mindset can change your world
but what if you’re trapped in another world,
trying to escape a tormentor in a bleak landscape
only to find on the next page
you’re no longer mentioned.

It’ll turn out alright in the end,
that’s what everybody tells me
You don’t need to worry so much
about the future
about your current mistakes
about how you feel right now because this feeling will pass
even though the author has changed perspectives and no one
can see how much you’re hurting.

Once-upon-a-times always have a happy ending,
that’s what everybody tells me
but I don’t live in a fairytale
I am merely a mortal
stuck in a world that will never be as
fantastical as the books I read,
the worlds I visit on occasion,
and the joys I feel when there.

Will we ever know?

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Time passes by on a paper clock,
the hands follow each other in a syncopated rhythm,
grasping for something
that they can’t reach.

A bird calls out on each ticking hour,
expecting a return call,
but it never comes.

A boy sits in a wooden chair,
staring up at the clock,
waiting for something to change.

He grows older as the clock’s hands continue chasing,
the paper yellows–curls,
and his voice deepens,
yet he never uses it above a whisper.

Another cry in the night
brings further silence,
The boy—now a man—sits,
waiting.

His stare bores into the fading clock—
right through the heart of time,
but it never stops ticking,

Ticking in time with the rushing blood in his head
and the tapping of his fingers.

He feels close,
close to the answer he’s seeking,
but it’s still too far away,
lingering out of reach.

“Time,” he calls out,
“please, I beg of you…”
but time remains silent,
the last of its species:
a breed that died out with nothing to answer it.

The man,
reaching the end of his life,
asks time once more,
“Wait,” in a hoarse whisper,
“I almost understand,
just give me a little more time.”

Time responds,
understanding him but knowing it’s too late,
“I’m sorry,
but I can’t wait any longer…”

The Old Fireplace

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It’s cold in this house,
has been for many months.
I keep putting logs on the fire,
watching them slowly
catch,
burn,
and smolder into ash.

The flames dance like lovers,
tangled about each other,
making silhouettes on my wall.

If I had the courage,
I’d join them, dancing along
the kitchen floor in socks and an old t-shirt,
humming the words to a song I no longer remember
but have stuck in my head.

I still hum the words,
even though my feet are stuck to the ground,
goosebumps are trailing up my arms,
and the fire went out hours ago.

The Red Door

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The red door greeted me,
starkly displayed against the brown siding.
Years had gone by,
but the house looked the same,
felt the same. 

The musty smell enveloped me
as I walked through the doorway,
but it was a good musty,
like the smell of a book
from a used bookstore.

It felt like a hug from an
old friend,
one you haven’t seen in a while
but could immediately engage in
breathless conversations with.

It had been years,
years of being away
because of reasons, out of my control
and I thought time would stand still,
at least for a little while longer.

But life continued,
changing with the seasons;
cheating us out of future memories.

…

A giant flamingo stood tall 
directly in front of me, 
a totem to her
and the years of jokes,
smiles and Sunday brunches.

In memory,
I hear the sound of sizzling bacon,
smell bagels on the counter,
and taste the sour lemonade that
sweetened our souls. 

It was nice to be back,
even though I was barely holding
it together,
wearing the bravest face
I could. 

But,
She laid there,
in peaceful content,
accepting her fate,
and sharing the good word
that we should too. 

I did,
well, 
I tried my best.

I know life is not linear,
it’s an inevitable cycle
that we follow
round and round,
like a carousel,
in a park.

She shared stories
of life that I never heard before,
and I learned more about her soul
in those scant hours
than in the years of staying there.

It’s sort of funny that way,
life, I mean.
We don’t always see the threads
weaving to connect us
in different ways, to different people

She remains a force of nature,
no matter the degrees of separation.

She was a wildflower

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There was once a young girl
who saw the beauty of life.
She gave herself to it
completely, not understanding time
or her inability to reach the sun.

With hands outstretched
in a field of poppies,
she laid herself down to
feel the movement of the earth
in her bones.

She accepted
life, dragging her along
without reason or intent,
waiting for the right moment.

Fear wasn’t a concern
for it was just another day
with endless possibilities.

…

A phone vibrates on the counter,
drawing attention away from the tasks
at hand, like a bee trapped in a spider web.

A cutting board clatters to the floor,
spilling zucchini
that shaking hands don’t reach for.

Eyes seek comfort in each other,
too late, trying to process the news
as she smiles down
from her poppy field,
hugging the sun to her chest.

Movements of Light

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Moonlight dances across their faces,
shining through the cobwebbed windows
and tapping along their lips.

It waltzes over the plane of their cheek,
dipping into the dimples
and trotting around the nose.

The moon shifts higher into the sky,
and the waltz becomes a series of allegro pirouettes,
each spin carrying it closer to the eyes, 
until collapsing on the iris,
out of breath,
shining.

Laughter raises the light once more,
coaxing it into a tango,
weaving through the eyelashes
and up between the eyebrows.

Clouds obscure the moon,
and the light completes it’s last dance.
A Pas de Deux,
adagio,
across the smooth forehead
before taking its final rest in the crook of their ear.

Home

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Rain falls like bullets on our old tin roof
I clutch a pillow to my chest,
hoping it will end soon. 

Lightning crackles through the sky,
lighting up the dismal view outside my window. 

The cows have taken shelter and a lone donkey stands beneath a tree. 
The usual smell of animal waste and death is dampened by the storm,
and I sigh with this small relief. 

…

As the storm lets up,
the cows begin to graze the near-barren landscape.
The sun peeks out of the clouds,
and the heat of mid-day comes back. 

I choke on the air,
thick with decay and lost hope.

A plane rumbles overhead and the house quakes.

I was built to withstand this life, but is it enough? 

Poor Boy (Lost #2)

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He lifts his chin to stare into the sky,
fingers floating up to touch the clouds. 

He chases the phantom of a girl he once knew.
It’s crazy, he knows,
but she still exists somewhere.

She is the rustle in the hallway,
the reflection in the window on the bus,
the voice in his head after all of the fighting has stopped.

She left too soon and too fast,
searching for something no one else could hear,
never knowing a boy was left scared and alone —
a boy without the right words.

He wonders what it would be like to float, 
to follow his red balloon daydream.

It must not be hard, he thought.
Anything would do…

As he dreams of red balloons,
a girl stares at him, contemplating his issue.

He doesn’t hear the drumming, not yet,
not like the girl she could not save,
but he must want her help.

So she wears her hair long, hiding behind the curtain,
hiding her truth —
her ability to stare to people’s souls,
her ability to end the drumming.

She sees pain in the poor boy,
looking at the clouds,
dangerously searching for something
he cannot fathom.

Lost

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*I wrote this poem in 2017 and added it to this blog in 2019. It is the first to a series of poems that I just got new inspiration for, so I am editing and re-releasing this series. Enjoy.*

The ground was too difficult for her to stand upon.
It was easier to float, effortless,
yet she strained to reach something outside the atmosphere,
like a red balloon slipping from the wrist of a young child.

What she reached for,
she could not say. But the drumming,
the drumming fueled her,
kept her blood pumping,
until this day —
the day she would find the sound.

A boy calls out to her,
but she doesn’t hear him, continuing 
to float away.

He mourns for her,
without her knowledge;
she felt so isolated,
consumed by means outside their reality.

But the boy, 
the one who remembers,
now carries her burden —
the pain she left to destroy,
displaced to him.

Poor boy, always looking at the sky
wishing to catch a glimpse of red beyond the clouds.