The heart is a muscle,
and the nerves are electric.
Through this ongoing bustle,
the world skews geometric,
Continue reading “The Heart is a Muscle”The Heart is a Muscle
and the nerves are electric
Tag: rhyme
Citrus
on growth and beauty
A tree starts young as just a seed
to grows its roots and trunk, it needs
water, air, and light from Sol,
so with a wish, I dig a hole,
and place the seed down deep inside,
cover with dirt and hopes, then I
walk away. The seed stays in the ground.
In days or weeks, it is bound
to poke its green head from the earth
soon to fill mankind with mirth
for all who gather surely know
the tree will grow and grow and grow
and one day offer fruit to eat.
They’ll taste the citrus, tart and sweet.
But interest lost–it takes too long
to germinate, grow big and strong
enough for branches to hold the fruit
the impatient one had once pursued.
Still slowly, carefully, it grows tall.
It’s remembered to have started small,
but now I barely can believe
the growth it made since I did leave
it all alone there in the soil.
The tree itself did yearn and toil
knowing that one day it could be
a beautiful flowering, fruiting tree.
So there it stands when I come back
with growing branches, hues brown and black
when it is darkened by the rain,
the wet that helped it to remain
Strong and healthy while I was gone
through all those dusks and all those dawns.
It’s not quite ready to flower yet,
But one day soon, I can bet
’cause the world has thus far taken care
of the seed I’d planted there.
So I’ll trust nature to run its course–
that beautiful self-sufficient force.
This tree right here to me has shown
that noticed or not we all have grown
and more than that, we’ll one day see
ourselves with branches flowering.
Though trees and man will surely die,
the citrus will bloom, and (maybe, just maybe) so will I.
Photo by Kindel Media from Pexels
The Shoe Stealer
Who loses a single shoe, and where?
A shoe is gone, one of a pair
that once both belonged to me.
Who loses a single shoe, and where?
I look and look, but do not see.
It’s missing maybe for forever;
must have walked off by itself.
See, shoes these days are very clever,
won’t stay in place upon a shelf.
Oh never mind, I just found it,
it’s been here underneath this chair.
Ignore the part the dog clearly bit.
I wonder who could have put it there.
Photo by Skylar Kang from Pexels
I Think I Might Want More
Way back then, I asked you to stay.
Just know that I am sorry, okay.
I think that perhaps I want more.
It was just days ago I asked you to stay.
Way back then, I desired that most.
The rain didn’t lightly sprinkle; it poured.
And I realized umbrellas just aren’t enough
as the winds all around me snarled and roared.
I wanted a shelter, I wanted a host.
Sticks and Stones
May break my bones
Every Poet Writes About Skies of Marmalade
On beauty and banality
Every poet seems to write on skies of marmalade,
about waters of azure and the texture of suede,
but I so rarely see these things in my day-to-day.
—
My life consists of grit and grime
of cheap laminate floors and of vinyl countertops.
Of cracked laptop screens
And weather-worn shoes—
An aesthetic with lightbulbs burnt out
and muddy puddles and unfolded laundry,
pots of dirt that once held plants,
cacti that just refuse to die,
windowless rooms,
bruises on skin that has not been licked by the sun in far too long.
There’s paint stains on the dining room table.
There’s patina on the silverware.
There’s faulty memories and mismatched meter and tongues that confuse themselves
and meanings that should never be spoken aloud.
Wounded egos.
Filth.
Muck.
Phlegm.
Imperfect families.
Half smiles.
Accidental laughter at problematic jokes.
Heads brimming full
of ideas that will never come to fruition,
poetic lines completely unnecessary to the meaning,
and chipped teeth repaired temporarily decades ago.
—
But there’s a beauty in banality, a hope in the mundane,
an elegance in all the things that we hold in disdain,
so excuse me if I speak of the ugly in a gilded frame.
Photo by Abdullah Ghatasheh from Pexels
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The Yellow Brick Ave 