Rest of Your Life

Summer before Stern:

time with no time
days without dates

one second, hour, week,

tumbles into the next.

July twentieth slides right by

with no notice, exactly 

one month before 

the rest of your life begins. 

You are here in 

the now by the lake

your single concern is

where to curl up

in a book 

in a spot of sun.

The next year:
you stroll and elbow

through Chinatown with you mother 

purchasing parasols for your wedding photos.

She pops in to a posh coffee shop

you dash out to take his last call

before the two of you cannot, will not, talk for a week,

and the next time you meet, 

it'll be the rest of your life.

Another year later:

Still in class, you scrawl

your ten thousandth lined page of notes

when does this end 
life begin?

You decide to be a writer

when you grow up

he says you are a writer, 

you are grown up

the second hand crawls to a stop

the clock in this room never ticks the right tock

no use waiting for the bell to 
tell you when you’re done, 

it’s never done

you’re at Professor’s mercy

class dismissed

another class begins.

Tiny Poems

TWITTER POEMS

~~~

Show, don’t tell

They TELL us.

Concrete Nouns and

Vivid Verbs

They ABSTRACT. 

THIS, They explain

is a Poem

and it must be done

My way.

#highschoolwritingteachers

~~~

Library books smell

like coffee stains,

pulpy, aging paper

and humanity. 

~~~

I don’t dog-ear my books 

– it ruins them. 

I scribble multicolored notes 

along their edges

between their lines 

– it makes them mine. 

~~~

Libraries had

picture books

and me-sized chairs

and my daddy’s full attention.

Libraries have

novels

and solitude

and anonymity. 

~~~

HAIKU 

Droplets disappear

in puddles. But puddles are

nothing without drops.

Counter Me

Does every shape need pointy tips, sharp edges?

Every point a counter,
every rainbow, rain?

Does heat need to burn so bad?

Must every resolution begin with a fight?

Does every hand held,
need a verbal slap in the face?

Every kiss, a sip of poison?

Does sunshine need snow?

Can’t we ever just agree?

Does every iamb need a stress-unstress?

Need passion breed pain?

Do you have to egg me on to pull me up,
to help me grow?

Must ground be broken for a building gained?

Does fall always end in winter?


Why can't we circle round to when
I love you
was the easiest hard thing to say?

Unwriting

I cannot write or see beneath these tears,

there’s always more to say and more to feel

I fear that it will take too many years.

I must press on, although it feels surreal.

Some days the words don't come, unsettle me

or come but brim-filled, sin-filled leaking all

untruth, cannot untangle and set free.

Long verses all begin to sound so small.

Some sidewalks slip, they drip with grey-brown rain

there's too much downpour, even in the sun,

mud seems to cloud the colors, the terrain.

I wonder where it ends, I’ve not begun

to sink my pen in ink, that paints for me

soft illustrated words that sing and flee.

Clementine Time

I can't help myself, 

I think of you whenever

I use my thumb to break 

a clementine's stubborn skin. 

Once my nail passes through the stumbly surface,

it softens, unravels between my fingers,

with some coaching, coaxing, slight encroaching. 

***

When we lounge around

our L-shaped, cherry colored couch

I can't just peel one for myself:

my one becomes two,

I always give the first to you. 

***

Six months in

we spent a weekend by the beach.

You passed me a clementine, 

and handed me those eyes.

My aunt oversaw and looked around

to twenty years of love behind her.

She predicted a demise and she instructed:

“Don't do that! 
You have train him early!”

Train him? Maim him? Shame him?

For love's sake, why not help?

Still, I wonder 

...without my thumb... 

could he survive?

***

Am I my mom? Ten years and three kids later

will I laugh and say "I have four, if you count 

my husband, which you should"?

Looking over my shoulder, will I see

twenty-year-old-me and make her take my blame?

"I never should have peeled that second clementine: 

the fault is mine."

The children. What about the children?

What will you do when little Moishy 

asks you to peel his clementine? 

Will you say "Go ask Mommy" every time?

We won't be my parents. 

I need to know you know

how to do it on your own. 

I'm not your mother, maid or martyr. 

***

I want to gift you, kiss you with this peeled clementine,

but sour-sweet as the juice that dribbles, stains my skin,

when my thumbnail probes too deep,

new ideas swirl and creep:

I'll to do this for you, but what'll you do for me?

***

A joke. This is marriage? 

Disparaging remarks that mar our bond?

D-I-Y and just leave me alone?

I thought we got together to avoid 

the need to face this void all on our own.  

The Truth

It is a truth universally acknowledged that 
that which we call a rose
by any other name would smell as sweet.
[We do] not know. But sense it to be true.
[It is] a lie which makes us realize the truth.

But I've never been able to believe it. 
I don't
 believe a rose would be as nice 
if it was called a thistle or a skunk cabbage.
This be madness, yet
much madness is divinest sense. 

Note: The lines of this poem are taken from other texts. Click the lin to see its source.

Asking For It

Asking For It 

Here is my finger,

you know the middle one.

The nail is 

freshly painted,

a lovely lilac hue.

Just for you.

Here it is, 

at the end of my outstretched arm. 

I present it to you

from across the tree-lined street. 

You asked for it, you

begged for it, I knew

you wanted it.

I wrapped it special,

just for you, 

in that dance my friend made up

for some guy she knew:

Wiggled it

waggled it

waved it around.

Just the way 

I know you like it.

I wasn't sure what to get

for someone like you,

someone I barely knew.

But oh,

you let me know

what I should do: 

"HEY BABY!" you hollered

from the other side of the road. 

Just like that,

I didn't have to guess.

Then, just in case

I couldn't take

the hint: 

You whistled.

Loud, clear,

all I had to hear. 

So here, here’s 

a finger

my finger 

the finger

just the thing for you.