The leaves change here Oranges and reds popping out Amongst stubborn green The wind shifts Autumn comes to call The world leans in here Demands life to slow down The quiet season is coming The world makes ready its winter bed Telling you to pull out your blankets Candles and hearthfires Demanding preparations for long nights Wood smoke and hot chocolates And much needed rest
Potato diversity in Huancayo central Market. Photo: Michael Major for Crop Trust
Earthly treasures buried deep Mined from the richest dirt Jewels of every shape and color Amethyst Russet Red Gold Yellow Orange Faceted with eyes Roasted Steamed Boiled Fried Crown jewels of my plate
For days I've been thinking about your birthday About how I've not been able to be available for all of your calls lately How I was going to send you a present Or FaceTime you and hope you'd be able to pick up the call I was trying to figure out how to annoy you on your birthday Since I couldn't blow up your phone with 49 gifs I was still thinking these thoughts when your mom called When I saw the black screen with the white letters that read "Mrs. Young"
It was a type of deja vu Like that call two autumns ago The one out of the blue that informed me You had a catastrophic stroke A bitter and belated present for your 47th birthday I answered this call, like the last, to your mom's calm and sweet voice The one with business in its foundation Like before, she lead with pleasantries as she likes to do And I braced Then came what I dreaded "I have news. I have sad news." And the world stopped turning for those seconds "My son is gone." My friend was gone YOU were gone Just... No longer here
You slipped your tether and escaped this life For as much as I wanted you to be free To not be in a body that had betrayed you To not be struggling with everyday living I believed in you I believed you would fight your way to better I held no illusions that you would be fully restored But you would find a new normal and thrive And we'd laugh at stupid things Debate Star Trek canon And talk about how you would move here or there How you would be an engineer, mathematician, animator We would talk about esoteric ideas We would reminisce on the potential of our childhoods And the disappointments of our adulthoods And how the next chapters would be what we wanted them to be
We were suppose to cheer each other on You were supposed to see your namesake grow into a man with his brothers You were supposed to celebrate with me when I finalized my divorce You were supposed to come visit my new home You were supposed to be here Forgive me that I do not find any solace in knowing you will still do those things That you will laugh with me and stand by me I know I should be grateful for the extra time of the last 2 years For the broken reconnection we were able to have But it wasn't nearly enough And now I don't know what to do Or how to feel And all I can do is write this stupid poem Because I cannot hear your excited giggle anymore Because I cannot tell you happy birthday
We met during what was arguably the greatest year in music: 1984 I feel like the radio has gone terribly silent 41 years later But you have the last laugh That ridiculous song from a mid-90s summer won't get out of my head Ron C's Dookie Booty That absolutely terrible song you blasted in your way-too-hot Jetta As we rode down El Camino Real on the way to Lee's Comics You bought the core book for Vampire the Masquerade that day We laughed at how your parents would likely hate that book And we laughed every time you'd replay that dumb ass song
This poem is as chaotic and messy as my heart I am grateful for your release and I am mad as hell I understand nothing in this wrongness of your death That word feels like sandpaper on my soul in reference to you I love you I'm sorry that I couldn't love you they way you so badly wanted You better say hello but remember I don't do ghosts or disembodied voices I instead do dreams and symbols and knowings
I wanted to write odes to my friends while they were still here I write this ode for you because I just don't know what else to do Because feelings are too big And words are too insignificant But they are all I have None of this feels fair All I know is the world is so still without you Without the sound of your voice answering my "Happy Birthday"
In the days of old Storytellers traveled far and wide Plying their trade at hearth and square Sharing tales true and mythical Of heroes and villains Triumph and tragedy Honing the sharpness of their wordplay Weaving captivating tales for coin Where are the bards of today Spinning tales for the eager
I host a phantasmagoria of storytellers Tucked neatly into my pocket Poised to share hours of narration For an audience of one A tap a screen whisks me away Into a plethora of elaborate worlds Thousands of hours of storycraft Read by hosts of skilled modern bards Memoirs and poetry Worlds fictional and factual Could the traveling rhapsodist In their pre-modern world Dare dream of such wonders As the miraculous audiobook
I want to splash the darkening sky with rivers of fire Purples and reds and luminous oranges of sunset And the waters will abstract my painting in its dark mirror surface Making an abstract of my realism A dream of my reality
Roses and rust and rivulets of blood Rubies and robins and radiant flame Victory red lipstick of defiance Red flesh of cool plums in summer Winking red of garnet facets in grandmothers' rings Washington Reds hanging from autumn apple trees Red hand prints representing the missing and murdered Blinking red lights lining dark empty streets Red dresses whipping and swirling to tango on stages Crisp red uniforms of Beefeaters on guard Red sports cars cruising the streets of LA Cardinal red of Stanford Sports Crimson Red and Columbia Blue of my high school Cherry red inside a pie Glossy candy apple red Ripe red strawberries perfuming summer picnics Enflamed red of flushed cheeks Sacred menses red Red haze of rage blurring vision Bruised red of kissed lips Fruit punch red staining faces Watermelon red dripping from hands Red wine glowing in glasses Berries bright red in winter snow
Isn't it funny how carpenter bees think themselves no less dainty than honey bees? They faithfully believe the flower will support them even when the stem bends toward the ground. They aren't exactly wrong.
The digital divide is a divisive devil Erecting electronic edifices Severing sacred spaces Intended for intimate inhabitation Subjugating and suffocating Candid considerate connections Exsanguinating emotional efforts Ridiculously replacing rapport With mindless meaningless memes and Endless eager empty emojis Segregated strangers staring submissively Into inexorable insipidness instead of Havens of humble human hearts
Words Wishes and Wisdom 