My Poetry

Moon

2012-01-21T11:25:00.000-07:00

Like a sickle of ice
glowing in the night sky

it just
pierces the black canvas
draped across my body,
my life.

Full moons are adored,
written about,
sung to,
sighed to,
and asked questions to.

I prefer the lasting
crescent
to the bloated moon
sleeked with gluttonous grease.

Life

2012-01-19T14:04:00.002-07:00

Alas, life has once again blockaded my writing. I have been writing down snip-its of good lines I am reading, but nothing substantial. I am sure that once things slow down, I will be able to write more. Will life ever slow down? Natalie Goldberg would most definitely say NO! I need to block out a section of my life dedicated for writing. The only problem is that I have run out of sections. I have a section for work, family time, graduate school, eating meals, washing dishes, and sleeping. Oh, I almost forgot driving to and from work!

Well, in a few seconds, I will resume my job of shaping the minds of today's youth.

Last Night

2011-09-13T08:21:00.002-06:00

I awoke last night
from a dream
I can't remember.
My body shook
with fear
as I sat up
in bed.
The room, a black fuzz,
with blurry eyes
blinking the time,
seemed to swallow me whole.

I could hear nothing;
see nothing;
feel nothing;
taste nothing;
say nothing.

It took a full
5 minutes
to realize
that I was still
asleep,
waking up.

Under the Shadows of the Wood

2011-09-13T08:18:00.000-06:00

Severed branch
reaching up from the grass
waving to me
beckoning me to follow.

Whattya think, Hamlet?
Do I go?

The Music Above

2011-09-04T21:51:00.002-06:00

The music playing above me: a white, satin bra.
I am utterly obsessed with fondling the notes.
It tickles my earlobes as I cock my head back in laughter.

I can taste its sweet skin in the back of my throat.

Laughter echoes within my head.

I am reminded of the long, wooden pier,

jetting off into the horizon,

burned onto my retinas.

The ocean, and its misty music, clouds my nostrils with its stench,

making it difficult to breathe.

I can see clearly the muddy notes

floating in the space above me.
Stevie Wonder stares at me;

speaking his Harlem truth.
I am blind, as I always have been.
Staring at the seashells washed up on shore, I think back:
My memory is a schmuck who won't shut up!

That is why I continue listening.
I'm fixin' to leave, but
the talented musician of ecstasy continues to seduce me,
until I faint from too much sleep.
I melted into this seat, and stuck to its soft leather.
Adrian had the power to listen to my words, but

failed

him.

I will stop listening soon, and go

home to the emptiness,
drinking dry water until I am thirsty.
I will eat when I am full, and starve my empty stomach.
Ich habe eine grosse Hunger fuer Musik.
This soft chair tells me that the song is over for today,
but tomorrow

echoes

mind.

Life Could be a Dream

2011-09-03T12:43:00.002-06:00

Life could be a dream.
Blackness surrounds us.

Thoughts of a dry brain
in a dry season*,
crumbling while
I drown out my thoughts,
bathed in
Starlight,
my new Muse.

Is it worth it anymore?

* T.S. Eliot

My Last Will and Testament

2011-08-29T20:12:00.001-06:00

To Macbeth:

I leave my paranoia;
always tugging
at the hem of my slacks,
as I brush past
the puddling rain.

To Juliet:

I leave my romance,
my passion,
my name;
May you always
speak aloud
among the stars
and remember
how to love.

To Yeats:

I leave my manhood,
(my russet brow);
the shaved stuffings
creating my
pride,
insecurities,
hopes,
fears,
masculine gait,
and all other things
that dance upon the level shore
underneath all the
disheveled
wandering stars.

To Mr. Holmes:

You shall receive...
(well, if you are reading this,
then you have already deduced
your inheritance).

To Dr. Watson:

I leave my desire
to capture greatness
with pen and paper
and an eye
toward truth.

To Superman:

I leave justice,
my strength,
heroism,
and a need
to do what is right.

To Mr. Collins:

I leave
my poetry
(you will know what to do).

To Mr. Hughes:

I leave the moon,
jazz beats,
hot, Harlem nights,
but most importantly,
my dreams.

To Mr. Whitman:

I leave,
myself,
body electric,
soul sewn into
rich earth;
scent of lilac,
hope for the future,
a belief in myself.

To Hamlet:

I leave my loneliness,
the indecision,
which plagued me
in life;
my cowardice,
my conscience.
I am off to the undiscovered country.

To My Beloved Children
(To be equally divided):

I leave it all:
Shakespeare,
Yeats,
Sherlock and Watson,
poetry,
leaves of grass,
Juliet and passionate love,
Langston Hughes,
Billy Collins,
and
Superman.

Listen to music;
dance,
be romantic,
brave,
unyielding in your beliefs.

Listen to your mother;
be kind,
funny,
and wiling to cry.

Take it all

and be you;

be wonderful;

just be.

To My Loving Wife:

What can I give?

There is one thing

left to give;

that, which you do not want:

change.

Remember me
young,
happy,
breathless,
utterly preposterous
and in love.

Sometimes it will feel like
you need to be two,
Don't--they already have me
inside.

A Call to Everyone

2011-08-27T21:34:00.001-06:00

When I first started this blog in 2005, my intention was to "publish" all of my poetry; I wanted a more formal place for all of those words I had written on napkins, journal margins, backs of menus, etc... More importantly, though, I wanted feedback.

As the comments came, I began to realize that my poems were not finished (I never, actually, thought of them as finished). My posts were constantly being read and re-worked and reworded and rewritten. It humbled me. It made me a better writer. It made me a better reader. I wanted to share my feedback for other writers/bloggers.

The plateau came about a year later. I had run out of poems, and people had run out of comments. I tried posting various things, but no one really noticed. So, I stopped posting.

I never stopped writing, though.

Now, five years later, I'm blogging again, looking for those same connections to other writers. Except this time, I no longer want to use my blog as just a publishing tool. I want reflective, metacognitive writing... not just my own, but others' thoughts as well. I want people to offer analysis that will articulate a deeper understanding or relationship to my writing. I want people to synthesize and help create nothing but great writing.

So, I'm sending out a call to everyone. Whether you follow this blog or not, start writing. Start commenting. Start analyzing. Start reflecting. Just start.

Let's surround ourselves with writers and writing. Let's write!

A Poem for my Son

2011-08-26T09:38:00.002-06:00

I now know why
I spent evening
after evening
reading "Where the Sidewalk Ends"
to my wife's swollen belly;
each night
for nine months,
I traveled to the place where the sidewalk ends.

The soft, white grass
flickering and shining in the crimson son.
The peppermint wind blowing in my face
reminds me of
my father and
Double-mint gum.

I spent those nights,
before there was no sleep,
memorizing this place, this time,
captured by Shel,
so that now,
fifteen months later,
before bed,
I can continue reading
from memory;
after my son has pulled the book
from my hands and
proudly,
triumphantly,
declared, "Ahh done!"

Afterwards,
I can still take him down
those dark, winding streets,
past the asphalt flowers,
hand in hand,
walking with a walk that is measured and slow.
I can lead my son
to the place
where those chalk-white arrows go.
I can lead my son
to the place
he already knows.

Similes

2011-08-25T10:29:00.004-06:00

I'm teaching my students
similes.
They seem to enjoy them,
like a new fruit
that takes a minute before
they realize
it's sweet.

The lesson as stuck
inside me,
and will not leave,
like an unwanted houseguest
2 days past due.

I can't stop thinking in similes!

The road before me
stretches like pulled taffy,
sprinkled with white stretch-marks.

The sofa is soft,
as a good melon
(I know that one is overused!)

I fear tomorrow's lesson:

onomatopoeia!

The Idea is Gone

2011-08-24T14:48:00.000-06:00

Of course!

The idea is gone;
slipped from my memory
like a sliver of moonlight
sneaking between the shades
casting an ominous glow
on the bedspread.

If only I had a pen,
pencil, crayon, marker,
stone tools and a rock!
ANYTHING! to capture
a possible poem.

Perhaps it will come back
to visit me
in the night, and
see me sleeping soundly,
deeply
with the yellow sliver
across my face.

He will smile as he stands in the doorway,
then turn from me,
to visit someone
else.

Lady Death

2011-08-23T16:22:00.000-06:00

Why is Death
always portrayed
as a man:
cloaked in dark, heavy fabric,
probably with a hood,
or
wearing a long, black coat,
streaked with rain,
stepping out of a cab
on a dark city night
as if punctual for an appointment?

I see Death
as a beautiful
siren;
long, blonde hair,
(kissed with sunlight)
rosy cheeks,
full, red lips
slightly parted
as if tasting a slice
of ripe cantaloupe.

She sits in a cafe,
perhaps in Italy,
but more possibly in
Seattle or Maine,
waiting for a lover,

sipping a latte.

3-2-1 Sentences

2011-08-21T21:39:00.001-06:00

Here is an exercise I have done with my students to enhance their sentence fluency. We all know how dull it is to read sentences that are the same length and/or begin with the same thing: And then... or I went...

They are called 3-2-1 sentences. The idea: Start with a long sentence and work your way down to a short sentence--even a one-word sentence; and try to accomplish it in just three sentences. I have also heard them called reverse raincoat sentences because you can go 1-2-3 with the same basic idea.

Here are a few of my own attempts:

I walked down the long hallway looking for the right door leading me out to my freedom. I tried one door, then another. Locked.

Boys. There are so many boys in my class. Sometimes it's hard to imagine quieting down a room full of rambunctious boys.

The man mysteriously emerged from the dark shadows repeated between the yellowish ponds of light formed by sporadic street lamps. Slowly, he looked around for his rendezvous. Late.

I think this exercise has potential for poetry, as well. You can take these sentences and focus on line breaks as the poem moves. For example, take my last example:

The man
mysteriously emerged
from the dark shadows--
repeated between yellowish ponds
of light
formed by sporadic street lamps.

Slowly,
he looked around
for his
rendezvous.

Late.

Just a thought...

Writing Down the Fly

2011-08-21T15:43:00.001-06:00

I have locked myself in my office with a vicious fly. I'm not one to sit idly by and let this buzzing annoyance flit about the room distracting me into craziness. So, I have decided to take a more active approach. Fly, you will become my muse.... and then, I will hunt you down and kill you!

Locked together
once more,
I wait for you to slow
and land
and wait for your
sweet death.

The silence
of your landing,
a reprieve from confusion,
only mocks me more.

No sound,
no idea where you are,
but in this room.

Only
one
will
leave

alive.

When it is over,
I feel your static
body,
quivering a bit
in the tissue.
On last buzz
before I crunch
your body between
thumb and forefinger.

Good-bye!
You fought well.

Hey, I'm not claiming to be Poe, or Dickinson, or Yeats, but I write what is around me.... even if it is crappy writing, at least I am writing again. Right?

Life is Good

2011-08-19T13:02:00.000-06:00

I met a man today who related a story of how he lost is pinky finger. He prefaced the story with, "this is my daily reminder that life is good." I hope I can paraphrase correctly.

I was rock climbing with my then 8-year-old daughter. We were hiking a bit and had stopped to rest at on overlook. It was gorgeous. My daughter need to go to the bathroom, so I had her walk behind some rocks to squat. Unfortunately, being 8 years old, she was getting pee all over herself. I surveyed the surroundings and suggested, "why don't you just hold on to this rock and sit backward."

She obeyed and started to urinate again. Suddenly, the rock began to slide forward. I grabbed the boulder and tried lifting it, but it came crashing down on top of my daughter's head. I thought I had killed her. She was bleeding and screaming. With whatever strength I had left, I lifted the boulder just enough to get her free. Unfortunately, my pinky finger was crushed under the weight of the boulder.

My daughter walked away with only a few scrapes and bruises. My finger, crushed, required multiple surgeries, but after the fifth one, I opted to have doctors amputate it. The finger just wasn't working properly.

So, I now have a daily reminder that life is good!

I'm sure the shock on my face from his story was clear. He had obviously accepted his reminder about how precious life is. I was left thinking, why do we even need these types of reminders? Can't we just have a little scare to shake us back into not taking things for granted.

I guess some people just have to lose a finger so that others (like me) can hear the tale and be thankful that I have a healthy household with 100 attached, functional digits.

Music

2011-08-18T15:40:00.001-06:00

There have been a lot of things I forgot in my five-year absence from the blogosphere. As I return to sending out my writing into this void, things are slowly coming back to me.

I had forgotten the power of music.

Last night, I went to a concert: Parachute opening for Goo Goo Dolls. It was an amazing show, full of good sets of great music. However, the thing I enjoyed the most was watching (and feeling) how, as each song reverberated through the audience, people from all walks of life transformed.

There were fat people, skinny people, teenage girls, pre-teen girls, parents, old-timers, kids, adults, groupies, obsessed Goo Goo Doll fans, and people new to Parachute. All came together last night to listen to some music. It may sound strange, but I was surprised at how much fun people had.... even the ones who didn't seem to "dig" the music initially. It only took a few songs before EVERYONE was having a good time.

The sad part.... the really difficult part, was watching the lights come back on and people exiting the space to re-enter reality. It was almost instantaneous; people went from smiles to a determined visage attempting to navigate the arena and parking lot. Why were people so eager to return to the outside world? Didn't they want to hold on to those earlier feelings brought on my listening to music.

The transformation back to "normal" was sad to watch. Girls who were bubbly and excited were now serious and indifferent to what lay outside the arena. Guys who jammin' to the concert were now just stoic and ready to leave.... perhaps ready to go to bed and possibly even work the next day.

On the ride home, our own change was more gradual. We reminisced a bit, as if the concert were such a long time ago. However, by the time we entered the highway, it was quiet and decompressing.

So, how can we hold onto that feeling? How can you re-enter the world still with a piece of concert fun? Is listening to the radio enough? I don't think so. Maybe I need to go to another concert to figure it out.

Eight Ways of Looking at a Tennis Ball

2011-08-17T10:52:00.001-06:00

(inspired by Wallace Stevens' "Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Blackbird")
Florescent,

Fuzzy,

Lime,

sits quietly

A moss-covered

stone

sits quietly

The grooves of

the globe

swirl around

quietly.

Our Earth

sits in the dish

of space

surrounded by shadows

quietly.

It screams

in pain,

round, hurtful

explosion

A round tear,

spilling onto

the table

balanced and poised.

A giant marble

in excited

stillness

trembling

slightly

Motion stopped

in green

light.

Just One More Chapter...

2011-08-16T09:35:00.001-06:00

"Just one more chapter,' she thought.

Alice knew that there was only one more chapter, but she just couldn't seem to keep her eyes open. Now, as she lay in bed, trying to finish the book, she thought back to earlier that day.

Alice usually walked home from school the same way every day. Today, however, something unseen seemed to pull her down Tenth Street. Sure, it was a longer route, but something was appealing about cutting through the city, and using this alley.

As she walked further, the sun seemed to slowly dim. At the time, she didn't think much of it, but looking back, she knew the light was disappearing.... being replaced by something unnatural.

She came to the bookstore. The large oak doors were carved with characters from Alice in Wonderland. The whole store was out of place, stuck between two empty parking garages. Alice didn't think twice as she entered. The tinkling of the bell echoed off the damp, concrete walls announcing her arrival.

Alice looked around slowly trying to take it all in. That's when she saw Mr. Linden.

Mr. Linden was an old man. He was an old man. He hunched a bit and ached as he walked. Despite his withered body, his eyes were still sharp and twinkled when he cracked a smile.

"Welcome to my little store. Can I help you find anything in particular?" rasped Mr. Linden.

Alice could smell his musty breath and see that he was missing three teeth.

"No, thank you," replied Alice. "I'm just looking."

"Well, look at this!"

Mr. Linden pulled out a hard, leather-bound book. It was much larger than the other books in the store. As Alice looked at its cover, she heard Mr. Linden explain.

"No one has ever finished this book. I guess it is just too intense for some people. You, my lady, look different. Perhaps you might like to take a peek!"

Alice began to open the book when Mr. Linden snatched it away.

"Better not! I changed my mind. I don't think this book's for your. Why don't you look at those magazines over there in the corner."

Mr. Linden pointed his shaky finger toward the magazine stand. Alice turned to look and them looked back at Mr. Linden's counter. He was gone. The book remained.

Alice knew she shouldn't have taken it, but she had to.

Now, lying in bed, she recalled Mr. Linden's words, "No one has ever finished this book."

"Just one more chapter," she thought.
__________________________________________________

This was a writing exercise I modeled for the class. I have the class choose a picture from The Mysteries of Harris Burdick.

It is a great set of photos with a caption. The kids' writing is always impressive.

A Writing Exercise--The Mini-Memoir

2011-08-15T06:44:00.000-06:00

I knew I could trust him. His grizzled, graying beard, corduroy pants, and woolen vest, all spoke of a trustworthy mentor. As I stood there, that cold November morning, I knew that whatever I said would be understood and taken in the strictest of confidence. He walked up to me, his hands in his pockets, shuffling his feet across the wet grass. A waft of air came up from behind him sending a smell of coffee and Old Spice my way. When he got to where I was standing, he leaned against the hood of my car and asked, "So, what's up?"

I hesitated, but then felt the warmth of his brown blazer brush up against my arm. The jolt of his familiar presence erased any fear I had.

I spoke.

The words came smooth and uninterrupted. I could see that he was listening, really listening. His brown eyes fixed on me. He didn't stare, but took in my whole presence. Occasionally, he would not or smile when I made a joke, but the whole time, he listened.

When he finally spoke, his warm voice melted across my face.

____________________________________________________________

This was a writing exercise I did with my students. They had to choose a poster in my room, specifically a character from the poster, and write a descriptive mini-memoir. We all had to then guess which poster/character they chose. Can you guess mine?

And So It Begins...

2011-08-13T16:30:00.001-06:00

"If you want to be a writer, write."--Neil Gaiman

Well, I tried that and found that I ran out of stuff to write about. I think Neil also said something to the effect of: if you don't have anything to write about, go live your life---get a job or something.

It has been five years since my last posted poem. For any of you out there who actually followed my writing, you were probably not surprised that the poems stopped coming. I pretty much wrote about my childhood, first love, sex, the death of my mother, and my family (not necessarily in that order). I reached a point when I felt that I was writing the same poem, same line, over and over again. So, I stopped.

I didn't stop writing, just stopped writing poetry. I still continued to write next to and in front of my students every day: memoirs, editorials, short stories, expository pieces, etc...

So, here I am---five years later---ready to begin again. I've turned thirty, had three kids, and moved to suburbia. Now is as good of a time as ever to begin again.

And so it begins...

Word Cloud

2011-08-13T10:39:00.003-06:00

I know it has been quite a while since I last posted any poetry.

Maybe this word cloud of all of the poems on this blog will inspire some more writing.

decision

2006-09-06T21:26:00.000-06:00

The boiling water,
fresh from the whistle,
splashes onto
the black, glass
stove-top,
and I wonder
if I need to slow down,
possibly read a book,
or just stare
into the cool evening
waiting for dusk
to whisper into my ear.

lost ideas

2006-08-30T07:55:00.000-06:00

I’ve had
more attempts of
poems
than poems.

I have sat,
pen in hand;
(actually,
open laptop,
white screen,
blinking cursor,
fingertips pressed lightly
on the keys,
almost feeling each letter)
to be more accurate.)

I almost hate
when an idea hits me,
square on the back
of my head,
like a hot slap,
after a sarcastic remark
to my father.
If I do not have
pen and paper,
computer and outlet,
the idea is lost.

So, I run
frantically
looking for
napkins,
tablecloths,
scraps of paper,
a pencil, pen, marker.
I would use a knife
and write in my own
blood,
if the idea was
that good.

Most of the time,
I wait,
looking over my shoulder,
for a periodic
slap,
that is a poem.

dance is grandeur

2006-07-21T17:34:00.000-06:00

Where the nocturnal
man goes
in
and
out
of his
endless, moon-drenched beach;
where violet-blue hues
crease the majestic sky,
this is where I
stand
and
believe that
dance is grandeur.

poetry pains

2006-07-05T15:00:00.000-06:00

Yesterday,
we pierced those laughs
with warm throbs of worry
looking for something,
anything
to say.

Your poetry growls:
a wild belly hungry for words,
yet when the window opens,
they float out
to the night sky
in translucent smoke.

delicious was the language

2006-07-05T14:41:00.000-06:00

Delicious
was the language
floating above
the cafe
amidst sights and sounds and smells.

Silences were unwanted
here
as the
words kissed my face,
my mouth,
my tongue.

It is beautiful.

2006-06-06T21:04:00.000-06:00

Inspired by ee cummings

I will carry you with me
as I move through life.
Whatever is done by me,
is your doing.
You have inspired me,
believed in me,
helped me
grow
in this profession:
my life.
I will carry you with me,
and I thank you.

startled

2006-05-31T21:58:00.000-06:00

A leftover camera
spooks the dead silhouette.

Slowly, I turn away,
ignoring the moment,
and follow the brightness
out of the room.

A panicked murmur
echos behind me.

September

2006-05-15T19:25:00.000-06:00

I was born
to be a teacher;
literally,
born in September,
my Autumn birth
(signifying to some---
beginning of cold
death
winter)
is my familiar
to learning:
fresh students
minds
pencils, paper, notebooks,
classroom.
September has always
cradled me:
even-tempered in spirit,
fair in tone
and complexion.

reading under water

2006-05-07T20:44:00.000-06:00

My students must think
I'm reading such a sad poem;
As my eyes cloud,
the words blur,
and a warm drop
slides down
the side of my nose
collecting at my
nostril,
one last time,
before I wipe it away.

The truth is,
this is the very reason,
why I didn't
read
in school.
My body would relax
so much,
I could feel myself
enter the text.
The words blur,
and I would put down the book,
confusing it all for
boredom.

Fifteen years later,
I sit with my fourth-graders
reading together,
and it happens again.
I know this time,
whether prose or poetry,
satire or cynicism,
reading
controls my body,
keeps me afloat.

Gives me the calm
of sitting at the bottom
of a swimming pool,
letting one, two, three. . .
four, five, six. . .
seven, eight, nine
bubbles rise to the surface
as I sink slowly.
It is quiet
at the bottom,
and somehow,
safe.

lunar phases

2006-02-22T21:31:00.000-07:00

It looked like Mars
as I began by drive home
this evening:
orange and violent,
gawking at me
with blood and petulance.

It changed as I
neared home:
full and ripe,
it smelled of harvest
and work that lies ahead.

As dark approached,
it changed still:
warming to a soft,
100-watt glow.
I looked up to locate some stars,
but its light washed the sky
clean.

Cold drew closer,
as the night crawled inside me.
This is no werewolf moon;
no curs,
no mongrels
will howl tonight.
It is bright and friendly,
lighting Zoe's chocolate fur,
as she smells the air
under a star-speckled sky.

in her face

2006-02-10T11:54:00.000-07:00

The echoing kiss,
The lover's restless summer,
The awakened song,
The night-bird's hour,
are all whispered
in her
face.

in the darkness

2006-02-04T18:28:00.000-07:00

Yesterday, I wished
through my subconscious
finding a dream
forgotten,
destined
in the darkness.

therapy

2006-01-16T14:44:00.000-07:00

After a few years,
everything becomes
routine:
we enter the
marine-green room,
and take our self-assigned seats
on the well-worn,
soft, beige sofa.
I usually adjust the
beige pillows
because I like hiding
behind something
(in case things get too intense).

We each hold our cups of tea;
mine, traditional green or some sort of red;
her, peppermint, always peppermint.
We each hold our warm cups,
face forward,
and begin.

There is usually
a fair amount of "catching-up"
depending on how much time has passed.
For some reason,
we, unknowingly,
avoid
discussing "us."

We never come
with a plan in mind.
The only time we had
a plan
was the first time:
the reason why we began.
We never come
with a plan, yet
we never want
to begin, and
once we do
finally start,
we always find
something
to talk about.

Once we start
talking,
we don't stop;
we delve deeper and deeper
into the uncomfortable:
anger,
sadness,
confusion,
helplessness.

We sit,
facing forward,
facing these
uncomforts,
allowing them
to be present,
cognizant, and
slowly,
very slowly
begin shifting them into the realm of
"normal."
We hold onto these emotions,
push them through
our bodies,
and let them out,
to sit with us in the
marine-green room.

Our goal?
We have small goals,
"homework assignments"
designed to help us practice.
At times, our
BIG goal
becomes unclear, but
we still know it
exists.

People often ask,
Why do you go to therapy?
I tell them
every person
should be in therapy.
You don't need to be
broken.
It's like going to the
mind mechanic
for a routine oil change.
You go (every 3,000 miles)
to keep healthy and
running smoothly.
It always amazes me
how we can drive
3,000 miles
or more
in a week
or two.

a question on men

2006-01-10T20:39:00.001-07:00

Yesterday, a woman
asked me a question
on men.
When that porcelain voice
seeped into me,
I became a prisoner.

Yes, I said.
What? she asked.
No.
Are you listening to me?

I love you, I said
as she walked away.

Yesterday, a woman
asked me a question
on men.
I think I answered
correctly.

a taste of lonliness

2006-01-10T20:39:00.000-07:00

I remember
that voice.
I miss
how we
would smile
mornings
after sex.
Yesterday,
I sat at our window,
wet with rain and fog and winter,
and tasted salt
on my cheek.

The summer's green hand

2006-01-06T16:58:00.000-07:00

The summer's green hand
did open me to
the many cloudless
pleasures.
She touches me,
warmth on my shoulder,
leading me,
as a child,
through her trees
quietly and patiently.
I want to touch feel one,
but there is no time;
I may only look.
I see blue, yellow, and brown
colors.

they were young to the world

2006-01-02T15:49:00.000-07:00

They were young
to the world.
Only she would compose
her vivid dreams.
Soon, he was like
her silhouette:
black,
suffering,
surreal.
They were young
to the world,
but old to each other.

the somnambulists

2005-12-30T08:02:00.000-07:00

The somnambulists
walk slowly,
precisely,
through the stucco promenade
made from figures
in their
minds.
Each brick,
is a fantasy
linking dreams
and gravity
like the soft, pink
umbilical cord.

Their processions,
in the darkest
space
of their minds,
will surely end
with coming of
each day.

September afternoon

2005-12-27T12:39:00.000-07:00

I remembered that
September afternoon;
(already faraway)
how her eyes,
with strong velvet,
found desire
in the dusty photograph.

Hercules at night

2005-12-22T13:48:00.000-07:00

Hercules weaves
the mountainside
like a fallen oak.
The moon seems distant,
surrounded by frozen stars,
as he drinks
the night.

The budding Persephone

2005-12-22T13:42:00.000-07:00

The budding Persephone
drinks wine
surrounded by cypresses.
The crescent shadows
flowering from her
soft, olive hair,
cling at the earth.

I like the quiet

2005-11-12T09:31:00.000-07:00

I like the quiet.
Watching the mute
grass
blow in the silent
breeze;
Seeing the soft, pink
lights
reflect off the stone wall;
Relaxing my body,
letting my day
go,
I like the quiet.

a scene

2005-10-24T22:09:00.000-06:00

The ideal of beauty is simplicity and tranquility.--Goethe

Black
as a nightly shadow
in the middle of a
bright day,
the feline figure
sits
perched
on the uneven,
stone path.
Surrounded
by flowers
of all colors and
shapes,
she
(no doubt feminine)
stares into the
end.
A tree,
darkened trunk,
shadowed
by leaves aplenty,
stares back,
waiting,
waiting.

small verses

2005-10-03T21:30:00.000-06:00

small verses

fill bits of emptiness.

furious petals

become natural drops

This will
emulate my stillness.

young

2005-09-22T11:42:00.000-06:00

They were young
to the world.
Only she would compose
her vivid dreams.
Soon, he was like
her silhouette:
black,
suffering,
surreal.

2005-09-17T21:35:00.000-06:00

Who questions
the blue, night voice,
brilliant
in my sky?
Listen, perhaps you
think I bring
secret poetry,
but I blush
and walk away.

2005-09-17T19:37:00.000-06:00

when peaches
are ripe
and white
and full of light,
that is the moon
we are underneath
tonight.

moon

2005-09-17T19:30:00.000-06:00

TALL,
proud moon:
rising about three inches
(from my perspective of
the ground).
Now I know
what Langston Hughes
saw that night in Harlem,
as he sat
listening to the world screaming.
This isn't a sliver of goodness,
but a giant,
ripe peach
floating in the night sky.

motivation

2005-09-10T23:07:00.000-06:00

On every wall,
in every bathroom,
in every school,
there hangs numerous
inspirational,
reflective,
soothing,
pictures, quotes, poems.
I believe that their purpose
is to
inspire,
cause introspective thought, and
calm
teachers everywhere.
Instead,
they numb those
who are looking for escape,
and tease those
who need to escape.

Far away landscapes,
deep forests,
colorful sunsets,
only create a longing
desire
to leave your present life
in order to discover
other beauties.

Look within.

2005-09-07T18:02:00.000-06:00

believe what one chooses:

you're ne'er too rich
in devotion,
amor,
soft breath,
desire,
and perhaps,

emotion.

2005-09-02T16:03:00.000-06:00

you understand
a woman
when the question is:

how?

translucent

2005-09-01T20:05:00.000-06:00

You were translucent,
yet once the
magic embraced
my universe,
this smoke
here
lingered.

You must listen,
perhaps
for an eternity.

2005-09-01T19:29:00.000-06:00

And some accrue
lonely shadows
to make beauty
seem now.

But I pass through,
and I know
I can
belong.

patience

2005-08-24T19:38:00.000-06:00

You'll strike beyond

anything

as long as
the planets
get crossed
in time.

laughter

2005-08-21T17:32:00.000-06:00

My laugh always
surprises me:

Its rise in pitch,
slowly, but not
steady,
until it hits a
confused apex.

Its full voice,
which seems
funnier than
necessary.

I can hear it above
the coffee drinkers,
cigarette smokers,
flirtatious students.

I continue to
listen;
continue to
hear;
this,
my friend.

2005-08-21T17:29:00.000-06:00

The hypnotic birds
are nearly in flight.

While they wait,
the windy night
rolls
quietly into
oblivion.

solemn aspirations

2005-08-10T15:45:00.000-06:00

solemn aspirations
dwell: statues
in thought.
The light is found
preserved
from centuries of

hate

patiently seeking
the meaning.

2005-08-07T20:37:00.000-06:00

Moving cordially,
free of smoke,
I laugh of
what life is,
as I move across
the room.

To fainting thought,
I understand.

2005-08-04T17:47:00.000-06:00

I have my dreams,
my heart,
the sunshine,
my life,
this dance,
and you.

beautiful

2005-08-04T11:54:00.000-06:00

Sitting at the table,
surrounded by morning,
the OJ is
delicious.

2005-08-03T20:29:00.000-06:00

Beyond the cloud,
patiently tingling,
silky stars look
for each other

perspective

2005-07-31T08:35:00.000-06:00

You always have had
better perspective than me.
To be able
to take a step back,
maybe two,
maybe three,
and see ourselves
sitting on the couch
in our assumed
positions,
and know
we will be OK.

Perhaps my past,
growing up in a
melodramatic household,
where everything was
"NOW!" and "HERE!"
and every actions,
mistake, or movement
was the end of the
world.

Perhaps your childhood,
growing up in a
ironical family
with a cynical twist,
where you,
born second, but
raised the first,
learned to appreciate
the bumps,
and lived to see
another day.

You always have had
better perspective.
Will you teach me?

chocolate

2005-07-28T07:42:00.000-06:00

If every companion
comforted like
chocolate,
I think my favorite
friendship
would be
dark.

2005-07-28T07:41:00.000-06:00

I beseech you,
give this lover
no discontent.
My love,
torment me not,
but herein
sanctify
this poor peasant.

grapefruit

2005-07-28T07:40:00.000-06:00

The downtown woman
inspects
delicious grapefruit
and asks,
Are you
ample enough?

2005-07-27T14:19:00.000-06:00

The moon,
like the sun
and planets,
seem awake.

2005-07-27T14:02:00.000-06:00

Tonight,
heaven is beyond
personal hopes.
We look,
patiently,
for the Northern moon,
seeing time
go out
like desire.

stereotypes

2005-07-26T09:47:00.000-06:00

Americans hate Negros.

Americans do not care for their parents.

Americans have no savings; they spend everything they earn.

Americans are violent.

Americans think they are the best country in the world.

Americans have "sex scandals."

Americans are more open; not modest.

All Americans are beautiful.

Americans are independent and/or selfish.

Americans always think they are correct (i.e.: see #5).

Americans all believe in God and Jesus.

All Americans own guns (i.e.: see #4).

Americans are fat.

Americans don't hide any problems from others.

Americans don't follow/have traditions.

Americans have freedom.

Americans are always humorous, never serious.

Americans are wasteful.

Chinese people always study.

China is a poor, third world country.

Chinese people are dirty.

Chinese people have no manners.

Chinese people are overly-dependent.

Chinese people are too traditional.

Chinese people are not funny.

the words caress

2005-07-25T14:38:00.000-06:00

Tears wiped
cannot be silenced.
A mother's love
is instant and
understanding and
polished.

The words caress.

Thursday afternoon or before a nap

2005-07-21T16:30:00.000-06:00

my mind:
blank
empty

my pen:
dry
brittle

my life:
indifferent
insignificant

my poem:
finished

awaiting war

2005-07-21T07:53:00.000-06:00

His needs;
our end.
Beyond desire,
fire happens.
Wait patiently
and the sun may
interfere.

2005-07-19T12:42:00.000-06:00

She'd found the baby
missed by all.
Her surprise smile,
knowing
my life
would always be
a memory.

the room

2005-07-19T12:31:00.000-06:00

The room is quiet
now.
I can close my eyes
if I want to
disappear.
I am invisible now.
People around me cannot see me.
I am an island
in a sea of solitude.
The silence brushes against my fingertips,
as waves brush against my beach.
I am alone with my thoughts.

We are in a room
talking together.
I am in control now, but
that can change.
If I get too scared,
I open my eyes
to the world
that was always there.

2005-07-18T14:39:00.000-06:00

China
changes
patiently
beyond Heaven.

The Han,
like the sun,
keep hopes
tingling
and awake.

sometimes

2005-07-17T18:48:00.000-06:00

Sometimes a word is spoken.
Sometimes I hug her just right.
Sometimes we exchange a single glance,
and my world has meaning.
She plucks the strings of my heart,
and lets the music escape
my soul.
Sometimes a smile is noticed.
Sometimes it is not.
But,
I am always here,
loving her secretly, and
unconditionally.
Sometimes a word is spoken,
and I say,
I love you my darling.

2005-07-16T10:00:00.000-06:00

Shall I rebuild my dreams?

having gone
to tiny graves,
I see
myself

looking.

2005-07-15T09:35:00.000-06:00

The approaching horizon
adorns the textured beach.

With silky fingers
I stroke the water,
funnelling desire
and the soft,
velvet
sky.

2005-07-15T09:22:00.000-06:00

Life is beginning.
People are pure,
sweating holy water from their pores.
One cell
becomes two,
and soon
warm, crimson blood is flowing.
A heart is beating
its first
pulse today.
Eyes are seeing
a world
without pain,
darkness,
cold.
The tiny fingers of a baby
clamp your thumb
and you cry.
We are all born pure,
void of temptation,
lust,
greed,
hatred.
Today is the first day
when I open my eyes
and make it so.

2005-07-14T10:35:00.000-06:00

On a particular
cloud,
each tingling
desire
floats
to heaven.

You'll interfere!
Touch no other
moon.
Look elsewhere.

Crazy Aunt Liz

2005-07-14T10:10:00.000-06:00

No one
wanted this flower
to grow,
to stretch out
her petals
and bask in the sunlight.

2005-07-13T09:16:00.000-06:00

Reluctantly,
the soundless,
dew-wet
cold
gives
impatient night-stars
such
soft
love.

Theoritical Dream

2005-07-09T19:09:00.000-06:00

it's gonna be
another late night:
sore feet,
sore back.

can't sleep:
a theoretical
$58 in my pocket.
6:28 PM:
no one here;
why am I?

10:55 PM:
five minutes before closing;
no one is leaving.

11:55 PM:
still here,
waiting.

12:58 PM:
can't sleep,
Keane stuck in my brain,
with a theoretical
dream in my pocket.

employment limbo

2005-07-08T07:39:00.000-06:00

alone
between a life
boring and sufficient,
and a life
that seems
almost too good
to be true.

I'm an unemployed
Kindergarten teacher,
is what I tell
anyone who asks.

Stuck between
$7.25 an hour,
$2.13 an hour plus tips,
$10.00 an hour, and
my dreams.

Waiting,
looking
to be in
the right place
any time.

regret

2005-07-04T13:51:00.000-06:00

Looking out,
the pink sky
covers the snow-dusted dirt;
hills scattered, uneven.

I'm different.
A sunrise and sunset have passed,
and all has changed.
I'm no longer the special
oddity
she fell in love with.

The ugly maleness
(that I must take responsibility for)
seeped out for a brief moment
last night,
She no longer sees me
in the same
pink light
I saw these hills
yesterday.

I've ruined that
spark,
connection.
Sickness fills my body
like cold water fills a warm glass.
I'm condensing
in front of her
and she sees it:
ugly and cold.

I cannot change what happened;
only continue
to love her
unconditionally,
naturally,
easily,
(as I did before).

2005-07-02T15:17:00.000-06:00

Dear all,

I cannot believe that it has been five months since I first started this poetry blog! It is amazing how fast time goes, no matter if you are documenting it through poetry or not.

When I first began this blog project, my goal was to transfer all of my journal poetry from the last few years onto a Internet medium. My most recent post, "On Death", marks the last poem from my personal journal. This is in no ways a sad occasion resulting in no more posts. On the contrary.

I have been suffering from a serious case of writer's block for the past few months. I decided to translate my journal poetry onto this weblog in an attempt to stir up some more poetry. I am a firm believer that poetry (actually, writing in general) is something that exists regardless if we capture it or not, and only betters through practice. I am excited to announce that with the publishing of my last journal poem, I have a renewed sense of everything, which I am desperately trying to write down.

So, look forward to some new poems via stan laurel. I apologize in advance for some of my poems, as they will probably be very "rough." Your feedback and constructive criticism is always welcome and helpful.

Sincerely,

adrian

On Death

2005-06-27T12:48:00.000-06:00

On Death part I

I can remember how when I was young I believed death to be a phenomenon of the body; now I know it to be merely a function of the mind—and that of the minds who suffer the bereavement.

Dr Peabody—As I Lay Dying

eldest son

Son, she’s dying…
mom’s dying.

I knew,
somehow.
The Stillness:
cold, quiet;
There is nothing,
and I felt it.
Moments before,
it was clear.
(The pounding, crashing sound
rips me from it…)
I knew,
somehow.

father

We’re going to beat this thing.
I don’t fail.
I cannot fail.
I’m not going to lose;
I can fix this thing.
You gotta be smarter than the…the…
[name of cancer]

eldest son

Months before
Weeks before
Days before
moments before
I knew.

youngest son

mom’s sick,
in bed
sick
smells funny
(I don’t like her smell)
Does it hurt, mom?
No, sweetie, I’m just tired.
Go to sleep, mom.

eldest son

I fall to the ground,
my legs do not bend.
I crash
my head
slams me down;
I cannot move.
Weeping, weeping, weeping:
no tears will fall.
I can’t talk.
How long?
(The voice, sound
stabs me).
Six months…maybe less.
I’ll drive down.
I’ll see her.
I will stay with her.

On Death part II

It’s because I’m alone. If I could just feel it, it would be different, because I would not be alone.

Dewey Dell—As I Lay Dying

middle son

I hate you!
I fucking HATE you!
How can you do this to me?
You’ve always hated me;
now your dying?
Fuck no!
Hell no!
I don’t need you,
just go,
leave me alone.
Stupid bitch!
Goddamn you!
Goddamn it!
You never loved me,
liked me.
Just leave;
I don’t need you.

father

You don’t know; you fucking doctors
don’t know crap…how to fix this!
We’re going to beat this thing,
Toni.
Don’t leave me
with these kids…
are my life.
This house is yours.
These kids are yours.
[name of cancer]
yours.
Mom’s gonna be just fine.
Don’t worry,
we’re going to beat this thing.
Don’t you damn doctors know
how to beat this thing?!
Worse?

youngest son

mom’s breathing
breathing
the tubes are breathing
looks funny
(mom looks scary)
mom, can I go to play?
Sure you can.

eldest son

How’s she doing?
Ok…not good.
How long?
A month…maybe less.

middle son

I can’t do it
not going
hate hospitals
NO GODDAMN IT!
not going
can’t

father

I can’t do it
anymore.
It’s a poison:
toxic.
I can’t do it
anymore.

eldest son

I got class:
school.
I can drive away,
cross the line
into
no death
no cancer
no.
I got class:
homework
a test
finals
I’ll drive down this weekend.

youngest son

her hands are cold:
white
like bones
mom, cover up with a blanket.
mom is wet,
her forehead is wet.
Here’s a towel, mom.

eldest son

I’m tired,
waiting.
The painful lights
strike me down,
strike down my skin:
numb.
I’m tired,
numb,
waiting.
I’ve got school tomorrow.
This must be hard,
difficult
for Ellen.
I’m sorry, honey.
sorry.
I love you, Mom.
love you.

mother

I’m so ugly
feel sick.
I’m tired
of being
not ready.

Ed, be a good father:
be around.
Stop working so much
and be a father.
I’ll take care of it,
my family is my life.
I’m sorry.

Eddie, you be a good boy
for your father, and
listen to your brothers,
especially Adrian.
Be a good boy
good boy
Son.
I love you:
take care of my son.
I love you,
you’re my number one son.

Be a good son, Tyson,
for your father.
Don’t cause trouble
(always in trouble
trouble-maker
little shit).
Be a good son,
good son
son.
Tyson,
I love you.
I love you, too, Mom.
(I hate you)
I love you, Tyson.

eldest son

The stillness
remains behind
after we have left,
she’s left
us.
There is nothing.
I notice the badly-decorated walls,
ugly,
so ugly.

father

I’m not ready yet, guys.
I can’t do it.
I just feel close to her.
I can’t.
It’s only been a year,
give me more time.
I can’t do it.
I’ll take care of it.

middle son

Dear Mom,

I didn’t want to
hate you.
Didn’t want.
I miss you.
I love you,
always;
no matter
what was said,
you said.
I will love you.
I will miss you.

father

I just don’t feel anything
for women.
nothing.
I’m just so depressed.
depression, depressed, depression.
sadness.
I’m just so down.
I can’t imagine myself
with another woman.

On Death part III

I heard my mother is dead. I wish I had time to let her die. I wish I had time to wish I had. It is because the wild and outraged earth too soon too soon too soon. It’s not that I wouldn’t and will not it’s that it is too soon too soon too soon.

Dewey Dell, As I Lay Dying

middle son

I’m just so depressed.
I’m just so down.
I wanted to be close
to know
you liked me.
I never felt, knew
before.
I know now.
I will love you.
I will miss you.

father

I miss your mother…so much.
depression
I’ll take care of it.

eldest son

I knew,
somehow.
I knew there would be
nothing
within these walls,
this room:
cold, quiet.
I feel it
again…
moments before,
forever after.

synopsis

2005-06-19T08:39:00.000-06:00

I write of wishes on stars,
words floating upwards,
of birds pooping on my head, French sayings, goosebumps and
needs.
I sing of love, smiles, touch, beauty, sunsets and serenity.
I sing of the softness of every summer night,
and the spirit of our love;
of breezes in the afternoon, night breezes,
love, lust, sex and passion.
How the stillness of the night
affects my sleep.

I cry out Rediscovery! from my
surreal dreams, insanity, fear.
Of proposals not yet asked and
mindful colors, words spoken,
smells of childhood, regret, and the rising sun.
I put forth these onto paper.

Of sadness:
mom, death, cancer, disease, hate.
I lay down these tears so that you may comfort me,
Embracing the sun,
I celebrate birthdays, anniversaries,
poems, wants, desires, tingling snowflakes.
I focus on withdrawn questions, quiet,
time, darkness, stars, Dad
and a lackthereof fatherhood.
I travel through deep forests,
winter, Kindergarten, sorrow, depression,
mystery, memories;
my mind meanders through life.

I write of questions, vows, grass, warmth;
I imagine ebony skin, dew and crescent moons.
I sing of jazz, dancin', my itching body.
I remember blackness, tears, Laurel,
vanity, graffiti, flowers.
Of my muse, white skin, soft, delicate hands,
I flame with desire, heartbreak and awkwardness.

Running toward the blackened horizon,
I think of nostalgia, butterflies, music.
I fear explosions, tempests, insomnia, China.
I feel hot, dry winds
appreciating my face.
I laugh of crazy Aunts, human nature.
I regret weeping over ashes.

Of all these things,
I experience in the dimly lit
still of morning.

in a bar (revised)

2005-06-18T10:38:00.000-06:00

I stand
alone
among hundreds of
onlookers not looking
at me.

I drink
to drown the quiet,
but my ears are
numb
and
hot.

I wait
for her
to take my hand
and take me
home.

modern love

2005-06-17T08:52:00.000-06:00

I hate modern love!
how expensive and
showy;
how everything must
sparkle and shine
and be written in the sky.
Love is no longer private,
for it must be shared
to be true.
Written in Hallmark cards
and placed beneath flowers;
sung in rhymed crap
that describe anything,
nothing,
to be true.

My love seems dead
as it lies inside,
too subtle for you.
I write it in poem
(not to be sung)
to document my life
that vanishes
in the sky
amongst the clouds, cards, flowers
without you.

2005-06-16T10:43:00.000-06:00

Stop staring!
What are you looking at?
Am I really so different
from you!

You stare and smile and talk about me.
I can hear you, but
can't understand.
Is that it?
I don't understand!
I don't understand
your country,
your culture,
your language,
your customs.
I just don't understand!

I feel caged,
trapped
in a photograph
to be shown to who?
To you,
I must be dirty,
strange,
ugly,
different.
I am different!

I don't stare at you.
I smile
and say Ni hao!
You just stare
like I'm an animal;
a dirty,
different
animal.

The Hello's

2005-06-15T20:20:00.000-06:00

Hello! Hello!
Please buy my crafts! They are antique!
Real Chinese antiques!
I have no money
and I need you to buy
something,
anything.
Please buy! Please buy!

Hello! Hello!
Please buy my calligraphy!
It's real! It's Chinese!
I have no family!
My child is sick,
he's mentally ill.
I need money!
I'll sell you one, two, three!
Please buy! Please buy!

Hello! Hello!
You stupid foreigner!
You outsider!
This is real Chinese antique!
You have no idea,
do you?
You'd buy anything
if I smile and call out:
Hello! Hello!
Let me rip you off
before you rip me off.

2005-06-14T08:23:00.000-06:00

He is Shanghai,
with the space-like buildings,
the money,
the pace,
the abstract and concrete
streets.

He is business,
with the attitude,
the meetings,
the coldness.

He is everything fast
and
nothing emotional
(I miss my daddy).

in a bar

2005-06-13T12:00:00.000-06:00

I stand
alone
among hundreds of onlookers
not looking
at me.

I drink
to drown the quiet,
but my ears are numb
and hot.

I wait
for her to take my hand,
and take me home

insecurity

2005-06-12T08:45:00.000-06:00

Underneath my defenses,
behind my mask(s),
I sit
cold and hungry.
The warmth of my heart
does not permeate
the depths of
insecurity.

beautiful

2005-06-11T15:00:00.000-06:00

Beneath the stained T-shirt,
filled with holes
and body's odor;
beneath the sunken eyes,
and dirty cheeks,
bits of food clinging to his mouth,
lies a boy
with worn soles,
and sore feet
and dirty hands;
but his brain,
his mind!
is waiting,
absorbing,
wanting to be reached
and taught something new,
something real,
something beautiful.

memories

2005-06-10T13:30:00.000-06:00

I wonder if they remember...
as I zip up, button up coats,
tie shoelaces (double-knotted of course);
as I get on their level
because it is the only way for these small
beings to understand me;
as I distribute hugs evenly
for each student in class;
as I scold, discipline, manage,
but try to remain positive;
as I learn from them
(probably more than I can teach);
as I become their light,
and they become mine...

I wonder if they remember
the first day I arrived...
I wonder if they know
I was frightened,
striving for acceptance.
I wonder if they knew me
that way,
before I became someone to them,
and if they will remember me
in their lives.

headache

2005-06-09T13:58:00.000-06:00

Ten minutes
before my lesson,
my head is pounding its dulled drums,
deafening my ears,
piercing that spot behind my eyeballs.
All I can do to soothe the sound
of my brain beating itself against my skull,
is read some poetry--good poems--
and write my pain
in ink that is running from my pen
too quickly.

to teach

2005-06-07T19:47:00.000-06:00

To teach a calloused child,
one who does not desire learning
or knowledge or anything (it seems),
is like trying to sneak-up
behind a tree
and surprise its branches and leaves.

To teach a child,
any child,
you must sit in
the shade of this tree:
reading and writing,
drawing and coloring,
looking and asking,
until the tree
bends a branch towards you
and lets you climb and
understand and
believe in its leaves.

difficult

2005-06-06T20:13:00.000-06:00

It's difficult to accept sometimes
that someone knows you better
than you know yourself,
trust yourself,
love yourself.

When I awaken,
there is no sound and
no darkness.
It is not early, for there is always someone else
already awake.
There is no darkness,
nor sadness,
for nothing has happened to make it so.
The moon still shines down on me,
but I talk to no one (not even myself).
It is an hour before I finally
speak,
or even utter a cough.
I sit in the quiet solitude
of the morning and
read some poetry.

Stealthily, I enter the lightened bedroom;
she can sense my sadness
without opening an eye.
I can't tell sometimes
if she speaks to me in her sleep,
or if her subconscious detects my pain.
I do not understand
how or what she knows
because I am me,
and it is difficult.