being the middle child

one million poems, number two

you know what I mean, being the middle child, even if you were an only child, you know what middle means.

half so much of everything is still, everything.   what?   no matter what.

       don’t wait for an echo.   everything ain’t coming back.

no matter how many times paired, half remains everything.
if it isn’t, then it was never everything to start with.   this is recursive
truth.   the truth inside truth.   what’s so – is a less intimidating way to
say the same thing.
so in all the universe, this morning was the morning I got what love really means.   how it lands, how it looks.

when I give myself to love – that means I get everything – happiness, sorrow, desire, fear – everything.   it does not mean only happy times.   it means all times, all feelings, all thoughts.   we become transparent.

       is this how it feels to be a window?

       pardon my generous paraphrase.     (thanks Ren)

resistance is a kind of love; it is.   acceptance is also a kind of love.
we struggle, flailing, bouncing between the two.   then a moment comes,
we see we are the middle.

we are the river.   like water,

we are where the light flows.   we all, all of us, we are light.

how’s that for gospel?
what’s this all mean?   I’m not sure, but I’m sure it must mean
something, sometime, somehow.
maybe the smallest particle that makes existence exist is intention.

       what do we intend?    one million and two, counting.

I refuse

one million poems, number one

       Earl blowing bubbles with Harry

introduction says.   something to say before I say what I mean.
it goes like this.

one million poems.   I like this because I know, I know right now, no doubts,
I will not cross that line.   there is a certain peace in knowing that.   a comfort of sorts.   wrote a group of poems previously, thirty of them.   for a while felt unsure if I’d finish, before, you know what.   but I did.   so now what?
       make a poem for me.     he said, she said.

you could break my heart with your poem, but I refuse

I understand, I do, but I refuse

no doubt about confusion, harm and pain, I know

but I refuse, because we are bigger than life is, really we are

even when it eats us alive.   I refuse to be smaller
than my thoughts.
maybe there’ll be pictures.   maybe not.   you know me.
so yea, pictures it is.
maybe we’ll talk about a mother.
the father who left.   the mother, she stayed.   the boy,
he fell into a crack.   no, he was the crack.

but then god said, please, stop doing that.   so,
he did.

healing always happens from the side before the cut.

imagine it’s day two

wouldn’t that be nice.   we made it, made it this far.
together, ain’t no time like tomorrow is.

imagine a slow piano riff.   go ahead.   we can do this.

might even be a million and one.   for all we know.

       do you recognize the smile?     I do.

asymmetrical.   ain’t that sweet.   just like the universe.

home.   it’s not where we’re going.   it’s where we’re coming from.

       do you feel the difference.   that certain pulse, resonate.
that Buddha head beneath the lamp.  the singing bowl from an ocean town.   a small purple glass dog with a metal collar my mother liked.
a ceramic leafed Christian cross, because it reminds me of you.
       you know.   I swear you do.

yea, maybe jazz was right after all.   look.   Sun’s coming up.

       I confess, she’s singing.
It’s not the pale moon that excites me…   it’s just the nearness of you.
I don’t know where this is going next.   I don’t.   but it’s gotta

begin somewhere.   this is that it.

we begin.

living inside a word

       an epic poem in few words

       contraindicated some poets say
not what a word means, but who means it.

made friends with a few brick walls learning that.

who loves me?   raise your hands.

OK.   no hands.   let me explain.

there is a bowl.   two hands cupped.   see.

they nourish me when they can.   when they’re full.

but the thing about nourishment, obvious isn’t it,

what nourishes is something anything outside myself.

If Wishes Were Horses, she said it first.   me next.

used to be, I was a grump about being likable.

collective likable.   you know, like I write from heart,

maybe I work for hours, finding rightmost words for you.

then not even the word, but an empty box, liked?
you understand – don’t mean much to me.

blah blah blah.   me speaking historically.

then this writer rider I deeply admired, she’d like me.

it was not the same.   one finger touch, can move a world.

the right finger.   who it’s connected to.

now that’s also what I mean.   me.   sincere.   meaning

I’ve been here.   with you.

I don’t do moods

I want soup.   maybe crackers too.

or maybe I don’t.   these are the decisions

I face, alone is not an answer

even when I lie to myself

a pleasant diversion.   see?   another lie.

but no, really, I’d like some soup

crackers too.   and a spoon.
what isn’t soup, you can keep.

I had soup.

now I’m going to sleep.

so there.

are stars doing it right?

first off, yes, I think so.   I do.   is that an act of faith?

when you’re as small as me, maybe faith is prudent.

and someday sometime one star will say – enough.

and that will be that.
am I an octopus?   or even just like an octopus.

imagine.   would that be so bad?   maybe, beautiful.

maybe we are.

maybe we are, beautiful.
still looking for the best words to say to you.

you let me know when I get it right.
yes, I know it’s the same.   but that’s what it wanted to do.   don’t blame me.

being there


        maybe it’s not so much of a poem
        but it’s the truth

there comes a time
that’s what they say
you will only recognize

when you are being there

it looks the same, it does

as all the other times

whether you were there

or not there, except

this time it is, the same but different
and the only thing you can do is
being there
for my mother, for me, for my friends who’ve been there too

and maybe I have eight arms, but no, I’m not gonna explain.

memories, an audio recording

do you feel?

believe what you see.

an empty path.   no one there.

it winds down.   away.   out of sight.

I watch for hours.

I never stop.

you’ll need a coat.

no, not that color.   more blue.

it’s all echoes.   isn’t it?

I didn’t think it would be like this.

it isn’t.

can we have a dog?

I like going for walks when no one sees.

yet here you are.   seeing me.

there are no echoes here.

why do you keep saying that?

we fear everything we don’t understand.

everything we recognize, we love.

she took my hand.

everything changed.

what do you mean by that?

she didn’t say.

we had a child.

I know.   we called it Dare.

humans always speak in riddles.

not riddles.   threads.


everything I know about vanilla

one.    it isn’t chocolate.

two.    vanilla, not bad ice cream if covered in warm chocolate syrup.

three.    vanilla ice cream is better than strawberry ice cream.   don’t get me wrong, I love strawberries when they are fruit, like intended by god herself.
once as a child a neighbors child friend father gave us strawberry ice cream cones.   I was beyond kinda shy, couldn’t say I was repulsed, but neither was I gonna put that onto my tongue.   only child summer solution, patience, wait for the sun to melt it away.   that – is how I like vanilla flavor ice cream.

four.    vanilla extract in a little brown bottle, I remember that now.   not a baker but I liked the smell, maybe put it on some fabric, carried it around with me for a while.   vanilla smells like promise.

that’s it.
prompt via:   Malenna Karas, Spinning Visions a wonderful young writer writing wonderful words.   smart heart, some would say, meaning me.
     go, read.

original prompt idea by Natalie Goldberg.

was it a mistake, I’m wondering

was it a mistake that we learned to speak?

I know, I know, look at all the loving things we can express

but some others too, not so kindly meant.   both, you know.

I observe the critters, a living sea through which we stride,

see how they approach, how they greet with nuzzle and paw.

this is not a solution offered.   it is an observation.

one I might prefer from the inside, looking out.

maybe I’ll just curl up in your lap.

make a loud noise like this

do you hear the plates move?

no, not the ones where you put your food,

the earthen plates underneath your feet.

do you hear the magma cracking rock

moving toward the beach.   here and

there, it wants to take a peek at you.

do you hear the waves when they speak.

they don’t always.   are you there when

they do, despite the ruckus storm.

do you hear the Sun when it shines,

it does you know.   fire makes noise.

do you hear the rain when it rushes

past, teasing your feet to go its way.

do you hear the hillside scrub painting

the air.   do you put it in a jar, then

bring it home with you.   do you?

open the lid.   let it loose.