Trying to make sense
Of a life in upheaval
Is like trying to
Hear a conversation between ants
You can see them, sure
See that they’re conversating
Their little antennae move
And they hustle forward with purpose
But what they said?
It’s non-sensical.
Problems are like this too
They appear, but don’t make sense
And decisions must be rushed toward
with all the purpose
of an ant on a mission
but none of the understanding.
It’s never enough
You can work – or stay at home
You can have game nights
And family dinner
You can take an interest
Or give them some space
But no matter what
To a teenager…
It’s never enough
Sitting on my shelf
Is an eclectic collection
Of various mugs
Chipped, bruised, and faded
Or beautiful and pristine
Squat and short, tall and lean
Representing a moment
A collection of past lives.
Past jobs, past people
Past holidays and vacations
The cups tell a story
In sips.
How do I begin?
You had to grow up too soon.
You were the strong one
The oldest kiddo
With the most responsibility
As you celebrate this day
I think that the hardest times
Are finally behind
As a kid I thought
That when I was an adult
I’d stop making mistakes
Somehow, I’d know all
How to act in situations
How to think, and speak
Without sounding foolish
I’m forty now and it seems
That mistakes keep coming
Like old friends
Who want you to help them move
Because you have a truck.
Mild, summer evenings
Bring bubbles of joy and chaos
That float like pink clouds
Across dying grass
In a rush we talk over
One another
Not because we’re not listening
But because we’re trying
To steal extra minutes
From a waning day
Who’s jewel bright light filters through fluttering green leaves
“Hurry,” it whispers. “The day will soon sleep.”
So we spill our stories
Incomplete as the broken light
Their shards reflecting our smiles.
Sometimes I feel like
I’m a placeholder for others
Because of me
Their world stays in tact.
They’re allowed to grow, and be
While I remain fixed.
Always straggling behind
In the shadow of their success.
Art is political
You can’t convince me differently
Because at heart, art
Is an argument
Artists want you to feel or
Think or see one way
The picture is cropped
Colors are chosen carefully
Scenes are deleted
Yet, we are silent
When it comes to disaster
Art doesn’t pay well
And we’re scared to speak
When we should be scared
To stay silent.
You’ve heard of broken
That ugly word describing pain
“A broken woman”
As though she’s shattered
Laying in pieces on the ground
Unmoving. Static.
That’s not what it is
Grief, pain; they’re ever changing
Frenetic, dizzying
No. We’re not broken
Or shattered, or static
We’re simply unmoored
A boat without a dock
A leap without a landing
But not aimless. No.
We know the destination.
We just haven’t spotted it yet.
A gentle rhythm
Inhale, exhale, and repeat
Stave off all that’s bad
It’s so hard to start
But the pounding of my feet
And the sweat dripping
Keeps me sane
Hipstory 