on contentment

i've begun to understand
language just isn't enough.

"beauty" falls short
"clouds" are more than that
and trees and green and sky
you still don't know what i'm seeing
and even if you did
you wouldn't know what i felt.

i'm happy to think
i was created to feel this
for the place i am in

on light

i've attempted
on many occasions
to explain
this feeling.

i think i'll try again.

there's a smile, and then there's
a burst of radiance
exploding from my belly button
up to my throat
and out through my parted lips
and teeth and toungue and all

i finally feel alive again
like a bud rapidly opening
in a fastforward nature film
and the clouds are racing toward
the sunset and then there's night
and day
and happy

exclamation point joy!

class twenty-three

Peach


stringy innards
torn from its body to become
an organ, once pumping life,
now whose purpose is only
my enjoyment
skin taught on the outside,
but push it and you feel a deeper
vulnerability

bite

pulp arching into royal hues
fuzzy skin crunches
juice like blood
staining the inner core
spilling over my sharpened teeth
down my stickied chin
helpless, ruined,

consumed

class twenty-two

Soccer


Sky is cool in evening dusk as
darkness settles like a mist, I’m
watching from my bookstore perch while
man and boy are lost in sport

Toes are gently flung to tap the
Edge of sphere that whirls around just
Like the earth in ever-twirl,
‘Round the sun that gives it spin

Spinning, too, are man and boy, they’re
Curving as their smiles do, the
Man is always knowing next the
Places ball will find itself

Boy is not as competent, as
Ball takes flight away from him, but
Still, it seems that all he knows does
Trap itself inside the sphere with
Secrets of the man’s delight

class twenty-one

Sight, space


Inside your eyes, I see myself
and all that I’m surrounded by
does show itself there in the globe.
My nose is centered at the pupil,
larger than I’d like to think,
and all the rest of me is there,
too, held inside your lens of sight
that has been skewed since you were small,
ensuring that your glasses sleep
forever on that winsome nose
of yours. And yet, in spite of your
flawed sight, your eyes see more than I
have shown another. Yes, it seems
that all of what we are is shown
inside your eyes: the way you softly
hold my gaze because the thing
you feel is more than fast and violent
passion; my tiny bits of self
I see in you; and all the times
I’ve had to learn that loving you
requires me to look at things
beyond myself.

class twenty

Rainy


You woke up and the sky was gray,
–As gray as dingy cotton sheets–
And all the sadness that you felt
projected itself in the sky.

And as you walked out to your car,
the mist began to organize,
collected itself into heaps
of wetness there upon your head,
began to sink into your throat
and condensate within your eyes.

As tears that fell onto your hands
dripped like the rain upon the car,
you felt as dreary as the world.

From there on out, the drive was nice
because it seemed to sympathize
with all the pain and hurt you felt.

You went to classes–such a bore!–
Instead of learning all you could,
you dwelt upon your misfortune
and thought of all the things you know
about the world’s horrific state.

Brooding in your misery,
you walked out to your car again;
this time the skies were clear and blue,
“The nicest day we’ve had all year!”

And suddenly the day was worse
because the world had woken up,
decided to forget its pain
and left you here without a friend.

class nineteen

Parkway


Walk like kings in wings of night
Climb through grass and stone until
the world lies underneath us now
Starshine bursts on faces white
See you as I did at first

Shiver cold, exhale of me
See it, feel it next to you
First tear falls, I rip apart
Comfort me in silent care
Breaking through our walls of lies
Pain and love in every word
until I feel I know you as
I longed to know you long ago

Earth that spins and pushes out
all things that remain within
And yet it seems that we are each
pushed into the other one
Falling toward the middle core
Flailing, yet there’s trust inside
that when my gaze does meet your own
I’ll find the ground that waits for me

Streak of light through spotted sky
reminds me of our dying love
I left behind the thought of you
and still could not let go of hope
that one more star would find us here
rebirthed and burning as the sun

And all the earth and stars beyond
will bow before the regal two
As we reclaim what never left:
galaxies that kissed our hands
and all the life outside of us

Moments past will slip away
and all that came on this fair night
will soon be but a memory
Knowing that we’ll soon depart
I spin to dance and closed-eyed sing
remember all in snapshot mind
Our last goodbye or first embrace
Hold you just because I can

Riding home, watching the road
and I knew that it was over

class eighteen

Neo-Hippies


Driving home, you put the Dead
on, relishing their simple greatness.
I’m passively gazing out my window
at weary fields and clumsy cows
that pastured places just like these
some thirty years before us. Looking
out at them, I almost see
us back in 1965–
and wonder if anything
has really changed from then to now.

Retrieving lighter and blown glass bowl,
you pinch your plant apart and pack
the weed with awkward fingers, carefully
light it, sliding low into
your seat, evading window’s gaping
view. You inhale slowly, and
the scent of marijuana and
the slightest tinge of body odor
flood my nose and I can’t help
but think your dreaded hair is so
appropriate; your tie-dyed shirt
is just a plea to have been born
in other times. You start to giggle;
my mind wanders. Would you still
have been this way if you were there
just as it was–without the glory,
fashion, image, everything
that makes it cool–Would you still

have fought against the war, or gone
to football games instead, always
thinking of the boy your mom
brought you up to be? Would you
still have taken pride in passing
up the meat she may have served,
or would your fifties upbringing
have made you long for breakfast bacon,
lunchtime deli, dinner steaks?

Coming back, I see that you’re
still grinning. Maybe we’re all trying
to escape this place, and maybe
you’d be just as counter-culture
then as now or eighty years
before. I think it doesn’t matter
where we are–or when–but that
we’re here, and trying. At least there’s that.

class seventeen

Ode


Striking in obvious beauty,
your face is a
closed bud in spring,
hiding the complexity of all
that remains tucked beneath
its silky shroud: flawless,
it hides what you
never show to others.

And yet I envy more
than just your petalled skin:
the adventures that you bloom,
your hollered embrace
of life and those that surround you,
–even that: your devoted following–
all grow as green and violet vines
within my envious heart.

You’re the first crocus of spring,
the daffodil among weeds
and I can’t help but want to pluck you
from among the rest of them,
to savor you as my own.

It seems that all the
things you long to hold onto–
meetings, tests, names–are lost
within bouquets of
thoughts and dreams,

but you always seem
to remember your need for
life to blossom into life
at every fertile moment.

class sixteen

Bookstore


Sitting in a window sill, I’m
nudged between the shelves and sky as
all my senses come to life in
quiet calm of afternoon. To
the left are lives of trees that
once stood whole as city-scapes, but

now are pressed into the mold of
lumbered floor and wood-grained ceiling.
The shelves have used tree souls as
well, and every page of all the
books can tell the tale of forest
greens and oceaned sky. And if they

were to glance outside, they’d see it
as they may have once: the yawning
blue as deep as infant’s eyes that
have not yet turned into brown. And
would these souls of dying trees have
known their brothers still outside? And

do they know now those who once did
stand beside them in the wood? It
seems that windows always know the
world that they have once been in and
now must stand and guard the way to;
this one, too, is much the same and

seems to grasp the outside world as
framed forever as a painting
of a scene in constant motion. The
paint now rots as bark on trees that
fell in epic downward crash, the
glass that once knew sand and storms has

now become a smudged and faded
portal to transport the wanting
into places never seen, as
now it takes me toward the realm of
quiet wood and shattered waves that
break upon my wandering thoughts.

on poetry

i've never been lost in the ocean
but i think i know what it must feel like

i'm looking for some kind of footing
but it slips off me
i'm looking for some way to define myself
i'm looking for the words to understand
how to fucking say what i want to say

dammit!

i've become your bucket
to fill with the sand of your needs
i've become the passionless voice of
opposition, until it gets too close to home
and then i'm no voice at all

i hate these silly poems
i hate my constant thoughts
but i'm too passive to feel anything

i meant to
i meant to feel something
it just wasn't there
it isn't

on justice

i used to write you poems
i hoped you understood them

you've erased me
and i can't say i blame you
did you take your trip back through it all?
or did you wake up and forget?

just a girl
i'm just a girl
now

i still haven't shed
a single tear
for your memory

they were happy times
we were happy

i hope you don't find this
it wouldn't seem fair

on movement

it is march and
the trees are blooming and
the sun is shining and
i think i feel ok here

it seems that i am
stuck between the
two places that i long to be
and people that i long to be
with. i think that i can
no longer define myself
through my relationships
i think that i do know myself
better than i give myself
credit for

my parents sometimes
try to explain the world
in terms of jesus christ
i think that i see it all
much differently

everything is
moving forward

on strings

it was
the most beautiful night

the sky was
blue like where the ocean
starts getting cold
the stars peeking through
their veils of cloud
illuminating the tears
that couldn't fall
from his eyes

it was too much

i stood some feet away
as he retched
his loneliness
magnified by the sound
of splattering

i couldn't even
say i was sorry
i didn't want him to think
i felt regret

two lives
twist themselves together
every fight and recovery
another knot to try and pry apart
when the strings finally untangle

was it all
leading up to this?

class fifteen

Adam


Could I hope to understand you?
Could I hope to ever point to
what it is that sets your step, and
brings about your smile? Or could I
think of you without your face or
form and then still know this you? Are

you your face? Without your coursely
bearded, boyish mask, the scar that
tears your forehead, sad eyes that still
seem to smile, your build that others
have compared to a Greek god–then
would you still be you? I think you

would be. And I’m pleased that you are
more than stunning ruggedness. In
blond-curled youth, did you still have this
full-blown confidence, this solid
stepping hold upon yourself–as
if the eyes of all were chained to

every part of you at once? Your
actions seem deliberated,
as if you’re picking flowers of your
movements, casting off the weeds and
thorns, rejoicing then in final
posy of yourself. I’ve long

admired you–once, from scared, shy distance–
hoping I would break down what stood
locked between us with this coy,
supposed charm–and then from new and
comfortable strangerhood. I
see you now as friend that has the

daunting gift of pulling my face
into unassuming smile when
days are at their darkest depth–each
time your nonchalance is more than
satisfying. I’ve been waiting
for your re-affirming gaze, and

when it’s granted, like the dog that
waits for you outside of school, my
tail is wildly wagging and
it takes all that I have to stop
myself from leaping
uncontrollably with joy.

class fourteen

Megan

You sit in class, eyes closed, waving slightly
as a weed in a soft breeze. You’re hoping
you’re not falling asleep, but jolt to a
sudden wakefulness and realize that you
had almost stepped off of the ledge that hangs
between consciousness and the tumble toward

dreaming. I know why you feel so tired.
You went on another adventure last
night. Your whimsied, spontaneous drive to
keep exploring the simple fact that you
are free here shows that perhaps you always
have been. Striking in obvious beauty, your face

is a mask hiding the complexity
of your fear of failure: flawless, it hides
what you never show to others. Still, I
envy more than just your petalled skin: the
adventures that you incite (although you
lack follow-through otherwise), your hollered

embrace of life and those that surround you.
Even that–your devoted following–
becomes a point of my passive envy.
I sometimes try to pinpoint what part of
you draws people in as a bonfire on
a cold, moonless night–and I can only

answer, “It’s just her, it’s just that thing she
has that makes them want her,” and I want you,
too, in spite of it. Those doe eyes, caught in
a spacey stare, your voice at once thrilled and
flattened–you are always singing, dancing,
spinning, leaping. Still masking mood, keeping

all of your depth inside until your mouth
starts releasing the flood of all you’d love
to hide, but forget to. It seems that you
forget so many things: meetings, tests, names–
but always seem to remember your need,
your steady burning for a life on fire.

class thirteen

absent

this is what the world would feel like
if you had gone away.

the seats are still filled
cool stone statues
faces eroded from storms
that have passed
through here
before
immobile, surreal,
strangers.

you'd still be the only one
i'd want to know

their faces,
locked in attention
mindless pupils regurgitating
undigested knowledge
spewing from holes without lips
eyes without seeing,
blind.

your eyes would have wandered
searching for all those others don't think
to look for

seeing the world through windows
and placing yourself in realms of rhythm
feeling the pulse of the room, of those next to you
finding a gaze that meets yours and locking eyes
exploring the line where she ends
and you begin again
dancing like a dervish, whirling around the thought
that there is you, and there is more
all while you sit,
motionless

it's inconceivable to them,
their infertile, barren wombs,
lifeless.

you're elsewhere now
i wonder if you think of me

class twelve

sunrise

my infatuated
exuberance has not lessened
since the moment
i first saw you

first love and most admired
seductive as a pin-up poster boy
dangling from my wall
muscles bulging and face clenched

but soft,
i'm caressing your glossy hair
hands dancing over the countours
of your face, counting
eyelashes and freckles
i'll know you then

when i look at you
i feel like water
stretching slowly over a rim, each
molecule holding, each
grip loosening
until the moment
when

snap!

and all is spilling:
perpetual gush

they say that nobody's perfect
but seeing you at dawn is
seeing the world
spinning
in your presence

you're holding planets
in your fingertips
and the morning sings out
in exaltation--
to you,
beloved.

class eleven

sight, space

i see myself when i look into
your eyes
reflecting the glaring world
encapsulated by me in
the tiny globe of your vision

i am often
smiling and yet
distorted: my nose much larger
than i hope it is in the world
outside of you

the lens of your sight
slightly skewed,
glasses since you were a boy
and yet seeing
more than those who have looked
at me before.

those eyes are sometimes
the only thing i can remember
of you, though i see you often
somehow they have become
abstracted from even your face
and hurled into the realm of
essence:
there becomes you, solid
standing in space
vacuumed and hurtling through blackness
meteors of consciousness
asteroids of love
i need to see myself there
reflected in your gaze--
more depth
than surface

only when i see past myself
can i see you,
and the tiny
distortion
starting back

class ten

skirts

i cannot say
what a woman is
but i know that
i am more
than my skirt.

as a child
i danced in a ballet class
my pink tutu bouncing about
stiff lace, strutting like a peacock
seducing his prospective mate
heedless of other, i moved
esteem not a concept yet developed
i simply wanted to dance

moving forward
i found myself apart
from the feminine:
other girls playing dress-up
and me climbing trees
i was more of a monkey
than a girl then
primal in social standings
grunting responses, knuckles grating ground
i'd holler if i found a field absent
skirts were not made for running, climbing
my body is my own and i will
not! be limited

still, this pull of freedom
chained only by my
little tow, the last inch of
imprisonment that ties me
the string of adulthood steadily
growing, each fiber expanding
gaining one more and one more
ribbon wrapping into a crisscross around
my foot and up toward my ankle
every pain necessitated by
the life i have not yet chosen
to leave behind: all melding itself
into the scars of weight and burden

i ran from skirts once
because they felt too open
and still too much of a thought
now, i find in them
the ability to embrace that i have
experienced what it feels to run
and to come back
and to fly
and to land
and to breathe
and to let go
and to stop
and to start again