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