These poems are a journey That began in the light of hope and love Then slowly meandered through increasing darkness They dare to expose the skeletons and demons Barely hidden behind my front door for too long The narration begins in the middle After darkness had well fallen And documents my struggle to breathe My desperate journey to find myself again
And for those who live with horrors who wear human faces If I found my way free I know you can too Let these poems serve as proof That though it is not easy Freedom can be won You can take your life back Write the story exactly as YOU wish it to be
Sometimes the dragon burns down the world As long as you’re standing No matter how wounded You can slay that dragon You ARE the hero of your story YOU get to say when the story is over YOU get to decide how the new book starts YOU get to do whatever the hell YOU want Take my story and forge it into your sword of courage SLAY
The wanderer in me craves to shoot our arrow at the stars and let them drag us away from the responsibilities and hardships of our mundane life toward the horizon of dreams and the freedom of possibilities
I fucking hate homework And projects And assemblies And parent-teacher conferences It’s a gauntlet of pushing and pulling Begging and beguiling Praying and pleading I have to pretend I know what I’m doing Convince teachers I’m a capable parent When I feel like the absolute worst I’ve used all the gas in my emotional tank Before my children walk back in the door “What’s for dinner, Mom?” “I ripped my pants, Mom.” “I have a field trip, Mom.” “I have a project due on Monday, Mom.” There are more moments than I am proud of Where I mourn my party of one days Then one of my sons says “I love you, Mama.” Points to my chest and asks “Are you ok in there, Mama?” Takes my phone and tucks me in and says “You’re sick, Mama. You need to rest.” I start feeling like less of a fuck up Like I might be getting something right Like we all might just be alright
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
Spring has arrived Birds sing sweetly In quickening branches bursting with blooms My winter soul peers out of bleary eyes Before I pull the covers over my head
Words Wishes and Wisdom 