To The Other People On My Bus

On Writing Poetry

and I still

don’t know where to start

writing poetry any more be-

-cause every moment feels knee

deep in the ongoing fire of the

world perpetuated by forces

beyond my control but not

my understanding. They have

names and wear gaudy ties

and smile for the camera

after lobbying to reduce

safety to up production 

and pour toxic waste into

the ground / minds / air

so if I told you I was in

love with a jasmine on a 

bonny hill as the sun rises

would that lift a child from

the ruin of a hospital? I am

running out of time

for hope and trying my best

to throw spare change over

the flames and protest to the

powers whose pockets are too

full to move the dial an inch

away from oblivion and I

don’t know where to start

but this will end one of two

ways. So, maybe I’ll write again

for the end I want see

for the day after

when I can show you a jasmine

on a bonny hill as the sun rises.

Before you a love song never took shape 

never blinked at me with blue-green eyes,

never stabbed me. 

Before you a breakup song never 

laid on my shoulder

and cried with me 

Your love made it all make sense. 

This is why teardrops were on guitars. 

This was why la vie was en rose. 

I only wish I had left love

safely buried

on pages and stanzas.

As a child I used to pray that I would get cancer

What my young eyes saw as an illness of honor

An illness that people rally behind

I wanted to have people who were proud of me for putting up a good fight

I wanted my suffering to be visible, less shameful

I yearned for someone to see me and know that I was hurting

I wanted doctors, church goers, my family, anyone at all to try to save me

So I prayed

And prayed

And prayed

I never got cancer

And I spent years saving myself

Now I’m an adult with a graduate degree and a mission

I will be the person who sees the child who is silently begging for help

I will be the one who tries their hardest to offer treatment

Because no child should suffer in silence

Praying for a death sentence so they can be seen

bury me with my money

Bury me with acorns,

Don't bury me in a box.

If you must, bury me in

A shroud of cotton.

Bury me in a simple shift

Don't bury me in a suit;

My rising will not be a formal affair.

Don't wear your best to

See me off.

Wear what you can get dirty.

You'll be spreading the mulch

On my gravesite.

Bury me with grave goods,

So if I am discovered by

Archeologists someday,

They will know I was loved.

Bury me with flowers,

But don't bury me with fresh roses.

Nay, plant on me perennials,

So you can still see me every year.

Finally, bury me with a stone marker,

But don't spend a fortune.

Carve for me the name I chose,

No matter what others may call me.

Bury me under sturdy granite,

So I can yet leave my mark

On something set for years.

While you may not see me,

These marks will be my gift to you.

Bury me with my money,

But the riches of the things I hold

Most dear.

We're neither of us angels

I

The crowd of lesser demons gnawing at my thoughts doesn’t come from us –

my mind circles because our moments won’t stand still to be captured.

I only haunt myself when you’re not in reach to remind me I haven’t died.

II

I weave secrets, around you, over you, yet in your presence nothing is hidden,

not even the carelessness of my wishing. You are the pennies winking low in the well,

taunting me. Every past moment of wistfulness for someone I hadn’t met yet arriving

with the grace and fluidity of rain now distils fears to the nightmare of losing this.

III

No angels will save us – still a barter better than any

offered at the crossroads. I’ll love the demons to death.

Desert Cherry Blossom

Under lacey shade and golden rain

Desert cherry blossom trickles

Bright desert light onto a bed of pebbles.

A verdin hops branches, calling all the time

Honeyed warble from blue-green twigs.

Florid sprigs along crooked boughs,

Silken sun-drops flit to the ground.

Bees delight in their bounty,

Bobbing from petals, bringing new life.

Soon, these skirts are traded for

Seeds, their pods forage for locals.

Gifts abound from smooth-barked

Florida, this Parkinsonia blessing

All who alight in and around her

Resplendent wings.