I want to touch what aches in us, the light we guard to stay alive. My dear, come quick. I hear a knock; I’m afraid. Is it you? I dare to open and let hope come through.
I have lived as free as a fragrance on the wind, as shackled to the earth as the vine that produced it. May I confess in a poem what is forbidden us in prose?
The last thing he saw was the joy in her eyes. Back home the flowers have wilted and the balloon, twisting slowly in the now-stale air, sinks lower and lower to the ground.
I so want to be optimistic and airy, to write of our generous spirit, to wax poetic about moon landings and beach landings, entrepreneurship, sliced bread, the assembly line, the World Wide Web. It feels un-American
I hire the police that protect my home from the hordes that would tax me: I need nothing from the State, and so give nothing to the State.
Peel back my eyes and touch the still-healing wound oozing cerebral fluid from the Big Bang. It’s in this blind space of raw pain I often dwell.
“How does one with no boots pull himself up by his bootstraps?” “Why teach someone to fish then deny them access to the lake?”
I just read that the virus is mutating, anti-vaxxers are joining other unsavory elements to protest public health measures, the president doesn’t see the need for mass testing but is now getting tested daily...
I want to rest on the shore until the urchins break skin and the salt seeps in.
I notice my parents’ aging as I do my own: Not at all, then in a photo, all at once.
There are epochal battles blazing around the world, Blinding to those who look, shrapnel of noon-day sun In the concerned citizen’s eye.
I’ve been hearing Save the Rainforest since I was small enough to sleep in the safety of my parent’s bed or snuggled with stuffed animals— pandas, giraffes, monkeys, frogs;
