Nature's Navy

I am torn and tired,
a leaf-boat stuck gliding down the creek
with twigs as my passengers.
The water is clear and trickling,
the rocks are flat and heavy,
           and I am green-
           full of stress and wanting more than anything to stop,
           to turn around,
but the current is softly pushing me and
Me being just a leaf,
its steady trickle is enough to tip me.
But I don't want to drop the poor twigs
they can't float on their own.
Or can they?
Maybe I can't stay upright
without their weight.
Maybe water would feel good
pushing me under.
It may be nice to capsize.
At least it would feel new.
but I'm scared to sink,
I'm scared to drop my passengers-
and I can't even steer.

(written Dec. 5, 2009)

IRR

IRR

A man sits on a bench
quiet and somber,
in a horde of hugs and withheld tears
he is wrinkled
and alone.

Women adjust their faces,
pulling up their frowns
like blouse sleeves
readying for holding in fears,
and raising

babies against shoulders
as awkward footed tots
look broken eyed
and lost
while Daddies get their goodbye kisses.

The soldiers mill.

Battles Rage.

and for the first time since boots

and flags fell

on angry sand

I cry.

For those already carrying bills we, the indebted, 

can not

and will not pay,

who wish to rip velcro names off worn uniforms
heavy helmets off shaved heads
our tanks off deserts,

I cry
for those who are too loyal
too courageous
for their own preservation,

            And for us.

and I send out a message: 

                                          This war is terror

                                             on beliefs,

                                                 citizens,

                                                    Love,

With hope it won't take losing

my lover,

and your young men

in arms,

to realize This.

*Original draft written Dec. 2, 2009. This draft was combined from two other drafts just tonight. This poem has been one of the hardest to get exactly how I want it, and although controversial, it is also a favorite of mine. Please help me workshop this piece*

Vibrant

I am vibrant today,

wilted and fading fast—

in pieces,

jaunting,

Blue around the edges

still Red at my core,

the two

probing

then warring,

blasting

into melting

with each other,

but I am brightly falling,

I am failing

and filling with

salty washes

of the creeping,

smoking

changes—

transformation,

metamorphosis.

All those pretty words

that aren’t so

elegant

in practice.

that is what I am—

drowning in the mixture.

(written Nov. 14, 2009)

*I wrote this in a workshop at the Writing Eastern Kentucky Conference with one of my professors, Mr. Eklund. He had us look at paintings and write what they made us feel or the story we felt they were telling. This was written from an abstract painting that I wish I could find to post with it.*

Reincarnation

what is your maker?

the egg that hatched your nature

or the lives that influence your lessons,

from past plagues, murders, and

maybe affairs—

did you come from

states miles away

or some country centuries past

            have parts of us met,

            you as my teacher

            or me as your mother, enemy, or—

did all of you start

in that womb

with the portions of the two,

at the same time my two favorite lovers

started me

so that we, strangers, could grow separately into

what we have become

and are waiting to be,

for ourselves,

and possibly each other.

(original draft written Dec. 2,  2009

this revised draft from Feb. 24,  2010)

Care

Sit in my hand, and
I promise I won't
make you wind around
my finger,


You can just sit.
Your head resting against my
sapphire ring,
and I will hold you.


You can fall asleep if you want,
or stand and balance
if you feel brave,
just trust that you can do whatever you feel
and I won't let you fall.


(written Dec. 2, 2009)

This circle outlined in unmatching and broken stones,
filled in with grass
and rusty chains, rubber, rings, and a steep metal decline.
This hill
backed by branches
and comforted with bulbs of heavier greens.
That wooden crumbling,
peeling and beautiful,
the landmark of innocence
and playing pretend-
Of a hand's skills and father's hugs
Lost
in one day.
This patch of ever expanding bamboo shoots.
This mattress of dirt and fern.
This spattering of planted scarlet memories.
A keeper of childhood.
the Only place that makes my chest echo with the sound 
of a past now unattainable,
of Home.


(written November 14, 2009)