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Archive for July, 2015

Sun Break

Cluster of gray cloud breaking
its promise of rain.

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Questioning

Who am I
that I should have
any pride
beyond what’s healthy?

Who am I
that I should boast
of what I’ve done
when it’s minuscule?

Who am I
that I should stand
and criticize
the hearts of others?

Who am I
Who am I
Who am I
that I should question
You?

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Summer Love

Words full of new love,
their affectionate mark
upon the earth’s finish,
names etched into bark.

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Sciolist

This routine mug of coffee,
steaming as I write
cold, archaic words across
pages with no light.

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“I encourage everyone to cherish every moment with no worry about the past or anxiety about the future. Because the next moment is never promised. Never leave anything unsaid. I have learned to see the blessings in every moment and through every struggle, no matter how tough it might be. Nothing holds me back from living my life and chasing my dreams. I always finish what I start and see it through to the end. Never give up on your dreams. Find something to fight for; I fight for others.”
–Lauren Hill

Cherish every moment,
with no worry about the past
or anxiety about the future,
because another breath
cannot be guaranteed.
Never leave words unspoken.

Recognize each blessing,
whether out in the open
or hidden behind difficulty.
Let nothing hold you back
from experiencing life,
from trailing your aspirations.

Finish what you start,
seeing goals through to the end.
Never give up on your dreams.
Find a cause and fight for it.
Fight for others.
Fight with every breath you’re given.

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The fish, attracted to the worm,
doesn’t think about the possibility of
a hook waiting behind its flesh,
only the expectation of a meal.

Hunger can drive anything
to forget about deeper consideration.
Once hunger exists it causes
itself to be known, pushing

everything else that might come to
mind inside a dark pool, temporarily
drowning rational thought until
its needs are met, or worse, deserted.

The question here is who the fish
is. The identity of the worm and the
hook hardly seem to matter, at
least as far as hunger is concerned.

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Rotted

The knife across a blade of grass.
You told me what you knew to be true,
said meaning would come after the birth, told me
not to worry about which tree to pick
fruit from. It all rots eventually anyway.

Whether it’s a stain across the page or
a trail of bread crumbs into the
woods, the meaning, you reiterated, will
come much later, as a faceless horse
careening toward the firefly’s midnight blaze.

The knife across a second blade of grass.
No, a worm. Awake at this godless
hour, hoping to avoid the insatiable mouths
of birds. Trading one enemy for another.
You are the bird and the grass.

What’s the purpose of placing windows
outdoors, if not introspection? The horse
now has a face, has always had one,
in fact. It was just too beautiful for
perishable eyes. Far too hideous.

A knife across the second blade of grass,
damp with dew and soaked with violet
blood. In the distance, hooves cracking
the bones of a bird unknown. The
firefly’s light exchanged for morning.

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Basking

This is hardly the first time
I’ve mentioned her eyes,
but they’re worth every poem
their brilliance supplies.

There aren’t enough words
in existence to capture
the way those blues glow,
complimenting her stature.

The sun and moon both
don’t put forth as much light.
How favored are those
who do bask in her sight.

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46

A drop in the bucket,
yet a drop all the same.
Maybe that small drop
will start a pouring rain.

Many still confined.
Many innocents are chained.
Hopefully with time
our prison hearts will change.

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Spin Cycle

The clean laundry, piled
in the plastic turquoise basket,
washed of all memory
once again, each article straining
to recall its name.

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