The intangible weight of life
Is laden with excess woes
But made light of strife
When unburdened from a closet of clothes.
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Tag: Poems
Looking through photos
Brings a honeyed nostalgia
That’s soured with fear
What if I remember
Only the picture? And not
The sweetness of the moment?
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Gentrified Sky
Cotton candy skies
Sweep over hard machinery
Gray to contrast pink
Spun sugar clouds
Sun bleached and fractured with gold
Hang amidst black plumes
Of industrialization
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Clicks of the Desperate
“Doctors” with no oath
Looking to make a profit
Will descend on those
Who want their own choice
Tik toks and others
Will film “do it yourself” clips
And prey off the clicks
Of desperate girls
Boys without knowledge and
Men with few consequences
Will not be party
To the new shadows
Haunting the world of women
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
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Mistakes who move
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.
Hipstory 