The Paint

In honor of Valentine’s Day, here’s a poem I wrote with a broken heart.

you were the paint

in my blue, blue sky

the green of my trees

that green from my eyes

a brush stroke passed

and washed away

the blue, blue blends

and turned into gray

you were the paint

that made my world blend

the mix and the hue

that made my blood red

a dead dry brush

hardened by the paint

put to rest in water

soaked up the cup

you were the paint

yellow and scraped

across intangible lines

drawn around and draped

a drip drop dripped

tears down the canvas face

ruining the rhythm

purposing the pace

building down to nothing

the paint devoured all

and rolled up the color

into fat violet balls

you were the paint

that covered my world in fire

the all consuming orange

that blazed my desire

a dancing flame flickered

caught concocted copse

flirted with flesh

and licked the last drop

 

[Originally written, 2012]

The Splits

I want to write it

I know what wonders it can do

To paint with words

That flow fresh into rainless rifts

Becoming resplendent rivers

Like before…

Before

the splits

the splits

the splits

If I could I would fill them with water

I know what wonders it can do

But erasure is a measure

For not just one but two

Water can only fill the rifts,

Beneath, they will remain

Eroded by worded beauty

Only deepening the pain

What’s left on the surface

Is prettier, it’s true

But what true beauty can be left

When the splits have become you?

 

[Originally written, 2011]

Playground

A poem exploring the genderization of an old man at a playground.

The Old Man sits and

ponders all

The little girls play with

little dolls

 

The boys play of

guns and war

The Old Man watches

chapter and verse

 

“Bang, bang,” a boy falls

to the ground

The girls roll their eyes and

begin playing House

 

The Old Man rises

and purses his lips

Children come running

and cling to his hip

 

[Originally written, 2009]

The Whole Elephant

It gets better…

It’s not necessarily true

It doesn’t always get better

But it’s a lie worth telling

Lies can spark fires

Lighting

the way

Through the tunnel to

the garden of life

I’m sure it wasn’t my own

that guided me there

To the colossal proboscidea

majestic but imperceptible

Longing to get better

waiting to become whole

To know the truth

every good liar knows

Inflorescence

Poem I wrote about trees and gender.

“I am the true vine, and my father is the vinedresser. Every branch in me that does not bear fruit, he takes away; and every branch that bears fruit, he prunes it so that it may bear more fruit.” John 15:1-8

if I die, I wanna be a tree,

we all take the Bible so literally,

seems to me God thinks

we should be trees

so let’s let His? will be

when I die I’ll become one

I’ll stand proud and tall

with roots firm in ground

and branches for all

the perfect fruit that I bear

will be ripe and true

a source for all life

to take and consume

my seeds will fall

there they will spread

to strengthen my roots

and empower my spren

 

Tree of Heaven

 

is what I’ll be called

monoecious

to the bane of you all