The night the water came

was like any other--

warm, stale, dark.

A dangerous night swim;

an unexpected consequence.

The waves rose like ashes

from a roaring fire--

flames far from here.

Mere seconds passed

until my sense were left

in shambles on the beach--

eyes wet, feeling nothing.

Only tasting the salt;

my lips parting,

attempting to breathe; 

to live.

Ocean rushed in,

filling from the inside--

a drowning, a past, a present.

Daylight broke the horizon

before another gasp.

I put my matches down

and spit water on the dying flames--

a parting gift.

"Until Tomorrow."

I was a dying flame

Lost upon the sandy short

The night the water came.

It rose with distinct blame,

Knowing that in this war

I was a dying flame.

Waves spit violently with aim

To the bulls eye at my core

The night the water came.

Darkness called my name

Where there was silence before—

I was a dying flame

I hung my head in shame,

But it wanted something more

The night the water came.

Alas the wave too strong to tame,

Their beauty I’d no longer adore—

I was a dying flame

The night the water came.

#1. Faut Souffrir Pour Etre Belle

She was born into the world
in a pink blanket
with a pink hat to cover
her smooth scalp.
She learned to walk
in ballet slippers,
they took her to her
easy bake oven and
her baby dolls
(also dressed in pink).

At thirteen she had
her first kiss
in a pink dress.
He sneared at
her muscular legs
(respectable in the
dancing world);
ballet was boring.
Her flat chest
annoyed him,
her fair skin was
not tan enough,
her stomach not
small enough.
After four months
he broke her heart
in a blue polo.

The next morning she woke,
covered her perfect skin in foundation,
placed tissues on her chest,
and covered her legs with jeans.
Her slippers found a place on a high shelf
as a horn honked in the background.
She hurried past the kitchen--
out the face the world

in a navy tee shirt.

#2. Little Heroes

The sun breaks through his irises;
a boy of only thirteen years.
An empty bucket sits by the door
beckoning to be filled;
he stretches and reaches for it,
making the two mile trip to water.

It is nearly noon when he returns,
three younger children linger
anxiously in the doorway, thirsty.
The oldest eight years,
the youngest not yet four--
He must provide for all.

Water is divided for drinking and cooking;
he travels to the fields to collect herbs--
their dinner, their one meal.
As the sun sets they lay upon
a small pile of clothing,
praying to survive another night--
for mosquitoes to keep their malaria.

And in a world where they are orphaned,
they are not alone in their fight.

#3. Odo Nnyew Fie Kwan Frame

Three years.

On a silver bird he flew away,
far from his home; from us.
His individuality disguised,
blended in a sea of green.
No longer a face.

Eleven months.

A love for the job;
what does that mean?
Did I have to love it, too?
Do you still love it?
Where are you?
We can't see your brown eyes,
your cherry lips;
only the green.

Thirty days.

So long has passed,
it is time.
The same silver bird
will fly him home to us.
We will not see his brown eyes,
his cherry lips.
The green is gone now;
replaced by tear blue.
He is lost now;
yet his identity regained.
We must live
on memories of you.

#4. The Caffiloup

There once was a Caffiloup
with stripes a lot,
A pink furry hat
was what he bought.
He wore it to the movies,
he wore it to the gym,
he wore it to the playground--
they all laughed at him.
But the Caffiloup stood tall,
for little did he care--
people are not made
by the clothes they wear.
He strutted with pride
everywhere he went,
for the pink furry hat
for him, only, was meant.

Three years went by,
not a day without the hat,
for his head, you see,
was awfully flat.
So the Caffiloup made
a promise in that way,
that on his head
that hat would stay.

#5. The End Has Only Begun

I tear the pages from the back,
they scatter on the ground like
shardes of broken glass
from the picture frame--
our wedding photo scarred.
I used to know the ending
to our fairytale fable;
two story house, two car garage,
2.5 children and a golden retriever--
a white picket fence would
line our fortress.

But a blue suv took it all away.

She came into our lives
like a blonde out of hell.
A business partner--
business needs more definition.
She took you away from me
to foreign lands devoid of love--
you always came back,
keeping my heart beating.

"SUV runs red light, one dies."

#6. To the Seesaw Goes the Dream

A piece of wood teetered on a mid rock,
a blue dressed little girl providing the totter.
Blonde curls bounced with the flow
of the ocean breeze from the coast.
Her small lips parted and released
a heavenly giggle into the air.

Tulips danced in the garden,
a light buzz heard in the sky.
A small insect flew from flower
to beautiful flower and back.
The bee lifted and floated
across the sky to a doorway,
landing on the arm of an
older, blonde woman.

As ten small voices rang through the home,
the small child vanished from her seat--

a dream left behind.

#7. Willy Wonka Makes the World Fat

Chocolate rivers and lemon daisies,
Pumpkins filled with strawberry jam--
Umpa Lumpas run the world.
Every childs dream is paradise,
where the brick is made of jello
and it rains pixie dust.
"What do you think will come of that?"

Yoda evolved from Umpa Lumpas.

#8. Your Tears Are Like Mine

"She gets it from you."
Stubbornness, she means.

The pebbles in your eyes
glisten in the sunlight--
a gift from the mother.
Cherry lips perse
above your chin--
a gift from the father.
Soft black urchin arms
jump off your head--
a gift from the land.
Your light skin a straight
contrast to mine.

Your cherry red lips
smile to me.
We laugh together,
and just alike.
When you are sad
I am sad.
We share a voice
and a way with words.

Somewhere there is a woman
with those same black hues,
And near a man
with cherry red lips.

I thank them every day
for my beautiful baby girl.

Tonight the lights are dimmed;
The halls fall on deaf ears.
Each doorway an entrance
To the unknown—to the human.
Somewhere a mothers tears
Fall for her child.
Someplace a man speaks
With his last dying breath.
A bed emptied;
A bed filled.
But here there is silence.

Somewhere a child is quietly born,
While a group of nurses
Sift through death certificates
With deafening laughter.

There will be no noise tonight,
Just the sweet nothings of your harmonic breath.

She wore a white dress.

Fair locks flowed

Down her slender back.

Songbirds woke her;

Squirrels tied her bow.

The sun shone just for her.

Then girl met boy.

He wore a leather jacket.

A dark ponytail hung

Below his motorcycle helmet.

She gave him her soul;

He took it and ran.

Today she wears a black dress,

Black heels, black tights.

In silence she clips back

Her short brown strands.

It’s raining;

The Hirsch pulls up.

She climbs in clumsily,

A deep voice speaks:

“Who died?”

Brown eyes stared

At the casket:

“Me.”

He could have at least sent flowers.

I see her face on every child,

On every bus, in every blink.

She’s calling, pleading;

Her silent voice travels on the wind.

It’s the song of a blue jay trapped in a cage,

Misfortuned by circumstance.

We have never met, never exchanged words,

Yet I know she knows me, counting on me;

And to me she belongs.

I know little of her struggles,

Less of her world,

But still it is me she calls to.

My voice does not travel upon the wind,

I can hear her calls, yet I cannot answer.

She wants for help—for me,

I am the bear in the trap,

Misfortuned by circumstance.

Independence was the wish 
Made on a tender turkey bone 
For freedom offered such release 
Away from that suffocating town;
A chance to be on my own 
A chance to live out dreams
A chance to find happiness-- 
Or a chance for complete failure 
It’s been three weeks, 
The solitude is too much. 
Others have made the shift 
Without the smallest whimper; 
Taken off hometown camouflage, 
Put on new-town pride,
Become a part of this world. 
I’m a bruise on pale skin—
Standing amidst the green and white 
Covered in purple from head to toe.  
Maybe expectations were too high,  
It’s time to reconsider. 
Go back to the world where I blend in; 
Back to the town of crazies. 
No, there is no one there. 
They, too, have moved-on. 
Why this world of despair? 
There must be something here. 
Content can’t be far. 
Not as far as it was before. 
So I’ll search once more, 
For the happiness I desire. 
And as the darkness spills over 
I’ll pray for the light. 

She stands in the field,

Her charcoal spheres pointed to the sky.

She stands hoping for just one drop to fall.

The clouds hang above,

like monsters over the dry ground.

They threaten a storm, but she knows better.

The wind is more than blustering,

She loses her balance and stumbles a little.

But the wind has no business with this land.

Lightning bounces through the thick sky,

Flashing down upon her silhouette figure.

It beckons for thunder, but it never comes.

She stands in the field,

Only waiting for a glimmer of hope.

Waiting for a pillar of strength

To hold against the storm.

Light weight so deceiving;
full of black squiggles--
supposedly with meaning.
Sharpe edge cuts the skin;
a small red bubble
like the prick of a pin.
Staring down the suspect
there is no focus
my mind just won't connect.

It's the first day of class,
they say that's a perk.
So how did I end up
with so much damn homework?

You shouldn't have called.
I can make it without you.
I don't need you.
I don't want you.
You're a crutch;
That helpful third wheel.
But I can ride on two;
I need to ride on two.
The egg has been shed.
I've crawled from the sand.
Now the tide is coming in--
Let it take me.
I am selfish.
I need this, for me.
You need to know.

I just wish I could tell you.