poem/17

the swerve of her curve
limns a depth of valleys to learn
years of trust to earn
cardiovascular cartographer
you can not
go to school for this

when her kiss makes you miss
the logical steps up the stairs of yr mind
rewind and tumble down
do not attempt to move up and round
there is no attic nor higher ground
only the bliss
in the moment you are found

swirling like clear mountain streams
over rocks of round dreams
worn smooth under sunlight beams
ribbons of diamonds gleam

you can not
go to school for this

when the diamonds catch
the glimmer in your eye
know better than to pry from
that which you espy
sunlight dances on water faster
than the hands abilities to master

says the cardiovascular
cartographer
this land needs explorers
though to have and not hold
yes, even still, i am home

poem/16 not really poem

where in the waldo carmen sandiego world is my toothbrush? where?
how is it now past 2 am already?
why are messages, calls, ribbons of affection perpetually unrequited?
why do i feel compelled to give like i will never scrape a bottom?
why do i not remember ... or ... daily? and their beauty, strength, love and grace upon my life
how can i nourish an attitude of gratitude
how can i explain to the professor that i am not ready nor is the assignment for tomorrow

meditating on the peace i can feel
genuinely inviting it into my life
i'm hungry
i still want to brush my teeth
the sink is a dish
Shu tells me i should learn Chinese
i feel better after cleaning
a cluttered room is a cluttered mind

trying to seek joy in what
who, where, how i have and am
present moment wonderful moment
kneading through the needs
so much to be reading
whatever
this moment is temporary
so is this year
yet still a piece of the puzzle

can this be qualified as poem?
probably not, but it is my excuse to be committed to something
daily
writing
daily
writing and doing it daily
seed planting, branch sprouting
someday it will be spring
and life will ring from open bird beaks
and peaks of hills with flowers

--"not the flowers, please, just shut up"
-"okay, goodnight, i love you."
--"goodnight, i love your crazy ass"

poem/15b

if headaches had tools
like paint brushes
Guernica would be strewn
bittersweetly, after the effect
from the ends of the scrolls of my mind
i have been her kind
to let the delusion unwind
and plant feet on the street
to later visit and eat like sheets of
backlava sweets

dear this one is on me
these old bones sigh
and take a seat on the bench bus stop
meet me or do not entreat me
just greet me with dignity

Guernica was war
i swore to be peaceful
so i
blow bubbles of trouble
ghosts and horses out from these courses
of memory
bittersweet, after the effect
hindsight, clarity in the
street light
return home
eat sweetly and go anyway but meekly
in this life