"grandmothers"

me: grandmothers are the best of us

friend: I hate missing her
friend: but I love loving her

me: we are better having been loved by them 

- my friend and I

sometime in November 2020

who said cheaters never win

cheaters never win
but what does that matter if winning 
isn't the point of the game?

(there is no tally at the end)

cheaters never win
unless winning means hurting the most people

unless winning means causing the most damage

before you're playing an entirely new game

(they've toppled empires this way)

cheaters never win
but they can still reap the rewards
and for some, that is more than enough

you can't beat cheaters by playing by the rules

but if you become like them, what have you won?

cheaters never win

but everyone else can still lose

Icarus was a star that almost touched another star

flying too close to the sun

he was a dreamer, as am I

he dreamt too loudly, shown too bright

but he lived

he had a dream and molded wax until

it came true

before he died, he lived

as he dreamed, so do I

destined to be Icarus

perhaps I am destined to be Icarus
perhaps I am destined to crash and burn
but, oh, what a gift his
last moments in the sky
must have been

I don't mean to sound cliché

we get (too) close
knots of attachment
tighten (like a noose)
expectations (and big questions)
pile up (fragile like Icarus)

we pull away 

and end up flat on our asses

"in every book"

In every book I pick up,
I'm reading
"let us not conclude"

- my grandmother

10/22/2020

happy halloween

it's dreadful, really

to learn that the real monsters

were inside us all along

all that ever comes to mind

Note: This is the 250th poem I have published.

I have four little cousins, small children with

big questions, they've asked me

"why are people always so mean?" 

and all that ever comes to mind

are things I don't want them to know

I want to tell them to stay like they are

just that like, don't get older, 

keep asking questions and never give up

at 8, they have yet to

watch a political debate or

read about people arguing 

over their right to live free

in a nation that champions freedom

they haven't

gotten sick of screaming

into the thankless void of emptiness at 

the end of each and every day

I want to tell them that it gets better

that the world is less scary from up here

but 10 years ahead of them and I still don't know 

the right answer or the right prayer

meanness becomes cruelty

there are never any guarantees

anyone can cut the rope

and let loose the guillotine

I want to tell them to have hope

that life is more good than bad

I want them to believe that

cheaters never win and winners never cheat

that superheroes look just like you and me

but who am I to lie to them?

it's not their fault that when they ask me

"why are people always so mean?"

all that ever comes to mind 

are things I don't want them to know

we are pirates

thick as thieves

we are pirates 

sailing the seven seas

searching far and wide for 

new dreams

Heartstrings

because our heartstrings have been tied together 

since the first time we wore friendship bracelets

until our wishes came true,

since you sat next to me

and I sat next to you

soon we were reading books as thick as the lake

we skated on every Saturday

if our whole lives were filmed

those are the hours I'd ask to replay

because our heartstrings have been tied together 

since the Christmas you discovered boys

and I still saw things that made too much noise,

since that day we went flying like two rolled dice

remember that? we "both" slipped on the ice

my house was next to yours

and your house was next to mine

we'd sing our lungs out, you and I,

it was our own battle cry

because our heartstrings have been tied together

since our monsters had no faces

before we met the girls with two,

since monsters lived underneath our beds

and couldn't climb inside our heads

we may bend

but we never break

we may stretch

but we always snap back into place

because our heartstrings have been tied together

since our first real fight, the one I still think about sometimes,

since we both made a wish, that chilly September,

to be in each other's hearts forever

she’s so pretty / it hurts

(she’s so pretty / it hurts)

she has a string between her lips
a hook in my heart
she tugs and it's the kind of pain that hurts so good

I wouldn’t mind if she pushed the hook in deeper
I wouldn’t mind if she stepped in closer
I don't mind that she holds my heart in her hands

(because she’s so pretty / it hurts)

I try to count the brush strokes I'd need

to paint the magic she leaves behind every careful, carefree step

to paint the wisdom in her words

to paint the unspeakable things her smile has endured

I’d paint a mural on the side of my house

and above the lips that leave magic on mine

I’d paint that

"she’s so pretty / it hurts"

when we say Black Lives Matter

when we say Black Lives Matter

we are saying three words

that carry the weight of hundreds of years 

of pain and oppression

of strength and perseverance

between them

when we say Black Lives Matter

we are recognizing a dark history

too often covered up

and forcing it into the light

a history we can choose to stop repeating

but only if we fight for a better future

when we say Black Lives Matter

we are saying that black people

deserve respect, safety, and love

that they are needed, beautiful, and valued

that they are worth protecting

and admitting that we haven't always protected them

"Red"

Red is a powerful color.
I like wearing it,
especially on Monday.

- my grandmother

9/20/2020

upgrade, mirror, revelation

One reason I wanted a nicer wheelchair,
one of many, the smallest reason really,

is that in a basic chair with my leg up, 

it looks temporary

and that leads to misunderstandings.

"Poor thing, you broke your leg."

No. I obliterated my leg three years ago.

There's a difference.

This isn't temporary.

In front of me: a full-length mirror.

My elbows on the armrests.

I look at myself and thought

"I am a kid in 

a (real) wheelchair

and will be, off and on,

for the rest of my life."

And that's all it took,

an upgrade and a big mirror for

a revelation.

About time, I suppose.

Caught By Time

Paused.

sea glass in the sun

a place

a breath

out of time

feel the roar

the rhythm

hear the voices of 

souls lost to the ocean

so long ago it has become

their home

sink your toes into the sand

dig your fingers in

brace yourself

the cold will hit

and it will shock your

system to its core

it will run fingers

you can't catch

along your skin

to say hello

the only way it can

water

liquid ice

caught by time

for a moment

Paused.

Photo source uncertain due to the abundance of reposts. I believe it was originally uploaded by @pennyyfanee on Tumblr years ago. I found it reposted to Instagram with comments on @bosoftumblr.

"I have all these things"

I have all these things
sitting there
waiting to be read.

- my grandmother

8/27/2020

Quakers find peace and power in silence

Quakers find peace and power in silence

do not mistake this silence for 

complacency over the broken status quo and state of affairs

we will march beside you

and hold our signs high

we may be pacifists

(but fighting can look like many different things)

Quakers find peace and power in silence

we feel Light in that silence

Light we know is inside each every beautiful soul on Earth

Light we are always open to share

i only think of you at 2am

which might not be what you want to hear

how to capture the beauty of a flower

collage created by me
painting by Odilon Redon taken from a Sotheby's magazine

snap a picture, make sure the colors are bright

a sketch of any medium will do, be sure to show how the petals do curve so gently

write a song, a melancholy melody of how you know spring will be gone too soon

cut a thousand flowers out of magazines and see what you get

sing it to the sky, rain or shine with flowers braided in your hair

write a poem, no not even an epic would be enough

press delicate petals between pages of old books you never read,

alas how they will tear as they dry and crumble in your hands

how to capture the beauty of a flower

the last stanza of 2019

the story begins with the
last lines of a poem
a cheerful set of words
I wrote to wrap up
2019 with a pretty bow

we're just along for the ride
driven by the beat of time
and in 2020?
you're gonna see me dancing

I wrote this, so sure that light was coming
before I knew I would need another surgery
before science once again
became a debate on the world stage
before the world fell apart

in the fear-
hidden in hordes of toilet paper
and scraps of cloth sewn together on dusty machines,
left untouched for years until we needed a way to help
the smallest hand, the lightest remark

to honor those taking their
last breaths on shared ventilators
and the ones who are missing sleep to stop this-
hiding in plain sight
are pieces of our humanity
we cannot afford to lose sight of

There was one thing
I guessed correctly, though not a prediction at all;
life is out of our control
we can enjoy happiness as it comes
we can try to help others find it
and we can recognize our sadness
but at the end of the day,
at the end of the year,
life
and death
are out of hands

and maybe that is the only way
we can be free enough to dance

*  *  *  *
Submitted to Ledbury Poetry Festival's collection of "Lockdown Poems."

notice

notice every muscle in your body all at once
empty your mind, make it a
crucible that melts the pain into
something you can spit out,
react only to the gravity pulling at your feet
destination irrelevant
purpose in each stride
size up the world and
n o t i c e

Hell doesn't exist

I don't believe in Hell.
Is that crazy?
Is it crazy to believe my kind God believes in
forgiveness and not violent revenge?

I don't think there's a point system in life
(no final tally at the end)
I don't think the meaning of life is to have
more points in the good column than the bad
(to avoid Hell)

Some people have trouble wrapping their heads around
the radical notion.
"If Hell doesn't exist
how do I justify my hate?" they asked,
"I've told countless strangers they are
going to burn in Hell for eternity for being
gay,
divorced,
or not a part of my religion...
without Hell, how do I justify-
how do I know I am better than them?"

No one has all the answers.
Maybe there's a Heaven,
maybe there's not.

What I know is
I don't believe in Hell.
Is that crazy?
Is it crazy to believe my kind God believes in
forgiveness and not violent revenge?
I see nothing holy in darkness, only in Light.

art is

built with anything but walls
protective while
daring you to do what
scares you most

the excitement
can feel like fire
and like being
dunked in the Arctic Ocean
all at once

it is freedom
and pain
and healing
and neverending

the meaning of life

time and time again, we
destroy what little beauty
we create

why build things
only to send them
crashing back down?
we know the pattern
and yet

we keep building
we keep creating
as new songs pour from our throats
as flowers grow tall in paintings that have every color but blue
hope blooms within our hearts
reminding us why

why we build things
even when we know they will
eventually come crashing back down

Settle in.

only when the whispers stop
only when the trees grow still
only when the silence settles in

can you feel it

tune into the space around you
like it's a station on
a sensitive radio

take a deep breath
and only inhale
Light

What if I could

What if I could write a poem
about the sun/ that would make you feel its warmth on your face
about her/ she’d feel like an old friend
about that day/ you would know how hard my heart pounded

What if I could write a poem

that left footprints in the sand/ followed by the curious

that clung to your arms

that never let you go

What if I could write a poem

that would leave you awake at 2AM/ eyes wide open/ searching for answers

that would make you call me/ demanding the answers you couldn't find in the glow in the dark stars on your ceiling/ (it's so nice to hear your voice)

that would make you wish you could forget my words/ so you can read them for the first time, once more

What if I could write a poem

like that?

What then?

if I write a poem

if a tree falls in a forest
and no one is around to hear it,
does it make a sound?

if I write a poem
and no one is around to read it,
does it make a sound?

if I write a poem
and it heals a scar on my soul,
if I write a poem
and it gives me peace of mind,
if I write a poem
and then throw it away...

all those poems were still written
even if I was the only one around
just like they would still have been written if a million people heard me

if I write a poem
and no one is around to read it,
does it make a sound?

poems are not trees
they are forests
and the creatures that live there
poems are living, breathing forests
and they all make
a lot of noise

The Sea

As the sea rushes to the shore,

I run-

as if escaping 

fate would be so easy-

it recedes and I crawl back,

awaiting its return

with my hands in the air,
fingers reaching towards the sky.

Rough waves

smooth into a gentle foam,

that tickles my feet and

draws me in

for a shocking embrace

a cold that wakes me up

to see the day more clearly. 

Colors dance in the sky

ones I’ll never match with a brush. 

Birds do their morning rounds,

singing their hellos. 

A crab peeks out of the sand to check

if I am still standing on his front lawn. 

What stories this ancient water holds-

secrets that could wash entire cities off the map;

and hope and peace that could put them back together-

only the lost know. 

As the sea rushes to the shore

I take a step forward and

let it

wash

over

me. 

describe yourself

A non-binary, bilingual, Panamanian-American writer (novels, poetry, blogs) & multimedia artist (painting, collage, sculpture) who chases their interests. Self-taught ASL user, ukulele player, & website builder. Proactive community member & creator of safe spaces.

el comienzo

Fue un día en que
el sol tenia mi atención.

Sente en un sofa,
más especial que nueva,
mosquitos y moscas al lado de mi,
con un cuaderno y lapizes coloradas
en mis manos.
Pero, no quiera dibujar.

Sente en ese sofa
suando, cansado...

Sente en ese sofa ese dia
y oteé a todo el porche.

Quiera hacer algo.

Ese día en Panamá era
como cada otro;
me sentia solita.
Entonces,
decidí que iba ser poeta.
Muy famosa desde el principio, claro.

Para empenzar, escribi
una poema elegante,
pues, elegante para una niña de nueve años.
Escribi que,
que mi tía* tenia que ser una bruja.
Porque no me dejaba hacer nada,
la verdad es,
cuando estaba escribiendo ese poema
hasta ahora y para simpre
lo quiero mucho.

I remember

I hate that I
still think about
those green walls,
their scolding tones,
"Remember where you are."

I sat next to a boy, that first day
it was four to one.
"You can't sit there!"
he said, the man in charge
of protecting me, and then,
"Remember where you are."

The punishment for not sitting still or
moving too much or taking up space
was the revocation of gym privileges,
our only chance to move and take up space.
The youngest of us was a
skinny kid with ADHD and a big smile,
he never stopped moving.
I watched that smile drop as he suffered
his punishment while the rest of us
walked downstairs.
I wanted to help him, but,
"Remember where you are."

We had to listen to two women
from alcoholics anonymous
even though none of us drank.
I couldn't speak up to say that I never would.
They were sure of who we would become.
I couldn’t explain that I’m paving my own destiny,
I've seen where one glass of whiskey can lead
when your mind looks like mine.
I didn't get to decide,
I was never asked what kind of help I needed.
"Remember where you are."

He touched me that first morning.
His cold hands were the first thing I knew. 
Who would believe me?
They kept reminding me that
I was nobody.
I was my diagnosis.
Nothing more.
"Remember where you are."

All
day
long
in hard, plastic seats,
we didn't speak, and were not
allowed to look outside
the window.
"Remember where you are."

Staff would shuffle in and read off
of pieces of paper,
telling us to get better
but never how.
I soon learned
not to ask questions.
"Remember where you are."

I hate that I
still think about
those green walls.

I hate that I
can't make myself forget.

gen·der

/ˈjendər/

noun

1. something decided by an internal compass you'll never be able to describe. to some people, it feels like the most important part of them and to others, just a piece of their identity they lost in the back of their closet as a kid and forgot about.

2. something decided by your parents and society. labeled by either pink or blue and supposedly evident by whether you cry or not.

3. something that does not control anyone nor something that anyone can much control. often differentiated by visual appearance and expression.