March #15

Walk soft, boy.
Tread lightly.
This is my heart.

You stand on
bruised ground
abused ground.

I can love.
And I can give.
But not to those who can't return.

I need you
to wear soft gloves
and take me out
and be happy
by making me happy.

I need to go back to those days.
I thought we were.
Headed back to the good times.

Maybe
I am lost in those good times
of the past.

There is no time machine.
There is no easy button.
I can try,
and we can try,
and we can make it if we pull hard enough.

Do you know that?

We can.

But will we row our boat,
or, convinced of a leak,
jump?

March #14 (Good News Bears!)

I'm glad for you, boy.
You're growing up.
I have known you through
what may have been
the four most awkward years of your life -
because after all,
high school
is pretty fucking awkward
for all of us.

I remember a few summers ago
when we
stayed up all night running up our text bills
talking to each other
in living warm nights.

You asked me out,
and I
had no interest
but you were graceful
even then
maybe used to it?
and took it well.

Now you forge ahead
again
but this time
with more favorable prospects
and your usual cynical mood
has been blown away to reveal
what you used to be,

the hopeful, happy,
funny, untainted boy
that I value.

Let hope thrive, boy. Let it feed you.

March #13

It's funny how wind
rippling in hanging leaves
sounds like rushing water.

March #12

The truth isn't always easy.
Sometimes it comes bursting,
like a mountain spring,
ready to jump raging to the forefront
and be the focus, the base,
of life...
yet those mountain springs can turn into raging rapids
and sweep away all in their path
in floods that drown relationships,
people, feelings, sensibility.

The truth can be hard to find.
In a desert the secrets of feeling
lie hidden beneath piles of continually shifting
death-dry sands.
The desert can still provide life
and not all is lost
when truth is hidden.
But the real bloom comes after the sudden rain
when even the cacti spring
into real life,
not the guarded existence they knew before.

Truth is not easy.
Sometimes it is hard as hail,
or suppressing, in whiteout blizzards.
Truth is not kind.
It has no emotion,
it is what it is,
a force
that can guide, change,
reveal or cover,
sustain or drown.

Truth does not care.
But the need for it
is undeniable.

March #11

Portrait, of a girl
paint the colors in
there's no black and white
only shades of gray

portrait, of a girl
who feels only sadness
and love
muddy mixes of hues

portrait, of a girl
who's alone and lonely

portrait, of a girl
who can't help what she feels

portrait, of a girl
who suspects she's being used
by a boy
who she never thought
could hurt her.

portrait, of a girl
an imperfect image
barely representing
what she's going through.

March #10

I don't understand
how
you can sleep
in my bed
next to me
every night


and then tell me
we're not in a relationship
and
you
can't say you're in love with me.
even though you feel it.




and i don't understand
how you can just lie there
and hurt me
and ignore me
and do these things
lead me on
let me love you

i don't understand
and it's getting harder and harder
to trust what you say

but because i love you
i want to .
do you hear me?
i love you.
and i can say it.

March #9

L ook
O ver here.
V enture something, or
E verything. Just for me.

March #8

I can't help hating things
because she liked them.

I can't help talking to her
because she's a sweet poison.

I can't help wanting to absolutely murder her
because she liked you.

I can't help spending time with her
because she's around, I'm around, we're all around.

But I can help in ways.
I refuse
to open the bitch box.

I will not rant
about how she done me wrong.

I will recover
and I will smile,

and that will be punishment enough for her.

I am woman enough to know
how to inflict pain while seeming oblivious.

I may like her,
but she will be my victim.

March #7

Rain

It washes us clean
and removes
those specks of dirt that insist on
clinging
to the hard cold surface of the world.

The heavens open up
and tears storm down upon us all
flooding areas already touched
by previous outbursts.
We are poured upon.

This miracle of nature
this explosion of emotion
releases something in all of us
some emotion, some feeling,
some memory.

Do you remember all those times
in the rain?

March #6

F irst
E motions
A rise from
R uins of previous loves.

I nstead of mourning
S he will find herself musing

T hen
H ope will burn brightly
E ven though she thinks her heart will break.

H e has to make up his mind
E ven if he decides she's not right
A nd she will live with this somehow
R egretfully
T oo full of love still.

O f course she has no other option
F ate has the final say. She

L oves
O nly the
V ital
E _ _ _.

March #5

It is a good day,
a sunny day,
a flowery day.
Warm enough,
not too hot,
but with a breeze
to cut the comfort.

A day to do nothing,
a day to be comfortable
while doing nothing.
A day where perhaps people
can begin anew.

March #4

They talk online,
a boy and a girl,
and she talks to him about her brother.
He says,
"Don't you think he's a little old
to be running away from home?"
And she tells him,
"I think he's a little too old for a lot
of the things that he does."

The sad thing is,
she's not his older sister.
She's younger,
by two years,
but sounds
like some old, hurt person
who's been tossed until made cynical
in the waves of the world.

The world is a lonely place,
it's true,
but she shouldn't have to feel this way.
Her brother might be lost,
but he knows how to live.
She has closed off life
for wisdom and solitude,
so that she won't be hurt.

She's too young
for a lot of the things she does,
and that's more the pity than him.

March #3

She is torn
confused
unsure
unable to make a choice that doesn't even exist.
She worries about a future
that she cannot have any hope for
and frets
about questions
that she will never be asked and can never answer.
She lives in a tiny world
surrounded by clouds,
and dreams,
and fantasies,
and though she tries to tell herself that they are lies,
her emotions refuse belief until he makes her cry.

March #2

There are flowers
and pennies
and mugs and food
on her humble desk
along with tangled knitting
piles of books
scattered papers
accoutrement.
Nothing of permanence or of note
unremarkable
yet in each is hidden love and meaning.
the flowers from her parents,
a mental get-well card.
the pennies not only saved and earned,
but sometimes
a sign from some higher power
that she is not alone.
The mugs and food are of course
nourishment but once again a gift
from those who love her and wish her well.
Then, the knitting
and books
and papers
well
that's for learning,
in ways obvious
and in ways of patience.

March #1

I was walking back from class
and you were hurrying towards it
when we spied each other,
imperfect strangers,
and for some reason you crossed the road.
I wasn't sure if it was you at first. But then
we gave each other copies of the same sidelong glance
the one which reveals best the whites of our eyes
and I thought it was you
even though you'd done something strange with your hair.
And then once we were a few yards past
I looked back to see you looking back.
It's funny how things can end.
Now we don't say hello
and I think I may be as hard to recognize
as you are.
Did you ever think it would be this way?

Mini-Story

She's just a girl, walking back home, but as she walks she is plagued by how she watched him beckon to that other girl like a lover, to come in, and simultaneously shut her out. She tries to be angry, and can be, a little. They did leave her alone, after all, to walk back in the dark and in the cold. So she spits at the side of the road and tells the night,

“At least he's taking the right fuckin' steps, at least he's making me mad at him so this will be over sooner.” But then her voice softens, not to the point of tears, but definitely past the border of sadness, and she is quiet, and almost whispers -

“At least he was nice to me, in the car,” she talks to herself, keeping it a secret from that watchful night. And, “At least he seemed to care.”

She walks home in the darkness and the cold under the solemn sky, wrapped in her own thoughts. Under those merciless stars she is alone.