As Icicles Melt in Spring - a poem

i am skating on ice, blades of my shoes are scratching

indentured into surface coat as spring rears its ugly head

in about a couple more months, we pray. i twirl as indecisive

as i am choosing which dinner places to choose, falling flat

on my bottom, and observing cold laughter from almost

professionals. at peak of this season strands of pollen fall

curiously through air, hidden in snowfall, vanished in piles

of white-yellow much that accumulates on hilltops, melted

and dispersed as sunlight takes a beam to tops. till eventually

i swim on lake, once frozen, scratched, beholden to figure

eights, and painted with faces of barely there know-how,

consumed in a belly of bickering divinities, over my soul.

pool of water is frozen, is open to falling through, in space

walks where legs kick out a forcing of buoyancy that cascades

water to and fro beneath chill of first spring air, but not yet there,

still two months out, for weather is drunk on directions of rotation,

axis determines heat lamp equivalents, and battered planet steams

under what man-made catastrophe has been cursed upon sacred land.

once again, frost returns, ice reconfigures, hardens, and traps me torso

above, and legs below, ultimately chopped in half. mad scientist flair

ups of weather conditions, because people not understanding temperature

increases are cause for weather shifting, and collective tunnel vision

creates no one way of knowing how story is going to be redirected

into any sort of directors cut. Colliding into this mission that god gave

at start of chapters of genesis, that mankind be caretakers of earth,

name animals, and do what they must. at end, this is not why my legs

turn to ice and shatter, is my own folly for not keeping eye on weather

patterns, as they transformed, and transmitted mixed signals to one

another to pay attention to the trends. As forecast was cast upon screens

everywhere, I did not recognize my own zip code, and proceeded to have

my fun skating upon a death trap, a roofed lake, bordered by ice atop

and slowly melting just to gobble me up, and that is how earth repays

us for neglecting our duty to preserve her, and do as lord commanded,

for we should have done as lord commanded and cared for her worth.

High Road Low Art - a poem

Superhero stories are in abundance now, 

been in abundance for some time, for those in the know

but can't really pinpoint what all the fuss is about

for so-and-so's who seem to be in the know.

Don't get it, why silly entertainments are given

such low credence, and people bite their thumbs

as though Shakespeare were last word on art

or DaVinci, or so on.

But if it stopped there, if art wasn't meant to expand

or welcome in a huddled mass, what point would it have

to just exist for the nose stuck up in the air and effect

people who didn't dream just the way that the average one

feels.

Superheroes speak volumes in simplest terms to heroism,

and daring-do, and all that other silly nonsense,

ultra violence to be sure, but simple stories, simply told

so that kids, and adults alike might enjoy a moment

to laugh and shut down and escape.

Don't get why this isn't acceptable, and why we can't love

nonsense, and the "art" too. For there is validity in making

things that speak so much, for so many ,and don't lock out

a populace who isn't in the know. Why can't I write

next hottest book, that sells millions, and gives majority 

of people an escape to taken.

Surely, this is fair, that comic books, and motion pictures

can be suitable for the poorest of citizens, and not just the elite

for it is still art. For is it not harder to write for acceptance

of the many, than for just those that stick up noses to take

in the wafting cynicism.

Superheroes enjoy both, create all, and don't belittle someone

for enjoying what they can enjoy of art, in its varied shapes

and its varied sizes.

Belated Valentine Declaration - a poem

Can't say that I truly knew what love could feel like until I fell in love with you.

I'm not diminishing love I might have felt for others, that romantic Valentine heart shaped cut-out of love, that makes you erupt in butterflies in tummy places,

No, I won't say I was never in love before. For we can love wrong people, for us, 

and admit that that was all there was to it, wrong sorts of love for us, them of the past,

ones who we mismanaged, or one we mis-wanted to be right for the heart,

But, we are not beholden to stay with thoughts of romance with past selves that we grew up out of, because it is always a case of growing up, and learning and bettering.

Still,

Can't say that I truly knew what love could feel like until I fell in love with you.

Never realized that each new understanding we developed for each other would make your beauty grow, exponentially, as though it were instant, as though I blinked, and your eyes were blossoming more strikingly of green-blue hues,

Maybe it was the Georgia sunshine, when we spent time on a field watching sporting event that your sibling participated in, and maybe it was seeing you in your, "natural habitat" around your familial units.

But, I am amazed at capacities of human heart to deep dive directly into deepest reaches of love, how scuba gear is not required to float, swim and seek the bottom,

That is the thing though,

That makes this love so different, is that it truly feels bottomless. For who else shows grace to me when I screw up, and who allows me to show that I care to grow

and change, and improve, and understand,

And I too, returning this too you, and I look over at you. And you're so beautiful, but of course they will say, of course you think she's beautiful, but thing is, her features have remained same-same.

It is I who have changed with each passing month so that eyes seem livened, cheeks seem smoother, smile broader, and laugh contagious.

Can't say that I truly knew what love could feel like until I fell in love with you.

What gets me,

What slays me,

What drives me into most romantic enthralls,

is our communication, our sharing of emotions, reciprocated feelings, on levels that touch floor to ceiling, speaking our personal truths and hurts, and never casting judgement,

and wanting only one thing,

understanding that we just want to be loved, and taken care of.

But,

shared dreams of tomorrow, press on through the door,

sharing every weekend, almost, four months on,

working hard to be the people we want to be for ourselves, and taking care to include each other,

and loving each other for who we are, and not making outlandish demands,

just to be loved.

There is safety and security here, a willingness to accept that each of us can be wrong, no fear of voicing concerns, no worries of retribution, no over bearing weights piled upon of shoulders, just a couple people admitting that they deserve this kind of love,

and no, I've never had that love before.

Meeting a Love of my Love - a poem

Mighty Madeline Monroe is such a artsy sort, danced silly
in a show her and her friend Madison put on, a ballerina like duet
filled with regular jello-filled arms and legs, that tossed and turned
in mimicking fashions at what older sisters had done. In almost
synchronized steps, and passing out tickets that misspelled words
that urged us all, child and adult alike to come to the show,
this dance of steps performed by 6-year-old.

Flash forward to a day later on a February morning
in Georgia and she was sleeping quietly on a bed, and tuned
into monitors that checked heart beat, and hands that sent
prayers and blessings through her toes to the top her head. When
told by familiar voice to squeeze hand if she was scared
as they placed stickers on her chilly tummy, she squeezed hand
of familiar, and of nurse all the same.

I read her a story I wrote for her that day before, before
she danced with her friend those almost-synchronized moves
and it was a story about a baby panda bear, her favorite animal,
and one she had requested to be the lead of her story. I was nervous
to deliver it, for a child audience has ears keen for criticism,
but she sat through it all and had no critique to give. I read my story
from the glowing screen of my laptop computer, and used
all the inflections, and nuance children's ears wanted to hear,
and I hope it was good enough for her.

Flash forward to plane ride, and landing, and hearing word
of what transpired while we were in the sky, and I held it together
at hospital because so many others who were closer to her,
to Mighty Madeline Monroe, were needing one another, I was passing
through, but my stomach sank from news from online media land,
and my eyes swelled up like balloons, and I cried, of course I did,
for children have always held special places in my heart,
and this was my loves loves, that she bragged about, and delighted
in me meeting.

The first day in Georgia I met Mighty Madeline in a Wal-Mart superstore,
as she darted to and fro through aisles of toys, staking claim to one toy
or another, and then her beautiful cousin, taking care to watch her,
allowed the little darling to hand her a toy, and then forget about it moments later,
and this was normalcy, it seemed. Spent an hour or so in that store,
and we collapsed in some lawn chairs, and 6-year-old said, "What's your favorite
color?" And I said, maroon, because this was true, and she responded with hers,
"Teal," she proclaimed.

And right now, I think teal is my favorite color too.

A Stream of Being Loved - a rambling poem

have you ever heard the words spoken in such a perfectly pristine way
that cause a sun to resonate within your stomach cavity and explode
confetti like joyfulness all over your insides and then it took to emanating
on out of your fingertips, and toe-tips, and you tapped and rat-a-tat-tatted
the beat that drummed about serpentine around your lungs and you had to sing
it aloud for masses to hear it for they needed to know that this incident
was marvelously molding its way into your skeleton and making you invincible
to naysayers, and ne'er do wells who contemplated striking down your pose
but you realize that now you're beautiful and doing well, and you can leap
frog over the curses they spew like drunkards who had one to many at bars
and just because you're feeling so up you might walk them back stumbling
to a taxi cab bar and as it speeds off you are more elated because you know
the stranger is safe even if they stared daggers at you as they disappeared
around the block, but now your mind is back to words spoken so true and direct
and with a hint of fiddle-dee-doo and you know that run on sentences are not typically
smiled upon but then maybe they know the feelings to and what they do
and how mania can run it all together, and altogether they might smile too,
be inspired to explode with confetti as you had, and decide that swimming in stars
is possible if you just plug your nose and dive in headfirst, because that's what you've
been doing and for the first time in your life, you don't feel your drowning
and its not just because of the words you've said and that they have returned
to you but because you can see yourself starry eyed as they do and you notice
your worth more than the gutter you were laying down in and because beauty
saw beauty in you you feel fine with justifying skip-stepping down sidewalks
on rainy days, and laying and sun bathing in the rain, and not noticing constantly
the wretchedness of mankind, but you don't forget its there, because you and her
are talking about it on daily advisement, and after newsfeeds and broadcast
have passed, this itty bitty haven in the chaos is warming, and there's no where
to freeze because you each carry suns, yes, you each carry suns shining
forth from within you, and you never will care how crazy that sounds.

A(n) (Eventual) Farewell to Michigan - a poem

I never thought I'd leave my mitten
so mighty and cold and warm in the summer
and vary nearly died a few times,
in car wrecks on Dangl roads, and old
US-131. Thought I might have left
the mitten that way, but not by plane,
and not for love.

Rather thought it quite
nice to say, but that's not the story
I'm telling today. As years added on
and found myself lost to the passages
of romance, and misguided eyes, i see
that this romance with the mitten and I
was doomed to die.

Michigan was my
childhood sweetheart, my adolescent
rebellion. Michigan was my heartache,
and my drunk times, and my karaoke blues,
Michigan was my elementary school,
was where I built snow boulders with older
brother, and got shot in the eye by my cousin
with a bb gun, had never seen Christmas Story
so I couldn't heed the warning. This state
of ours, and my state of affairs, and the cracked
head on side of pool, and getting whacked
with a boot, and having nightmares
of my baby brothers passing in the night.

Michigan is where my little sister survived
an attack by raccoon, and I tried to depart
wisdom to my little brother too. This
mitten of ours, that we hold up our palm
to show directions was where I took
my Australian Shepard to the beach,
and worked at an Arby's for seven odd years.
Yes this state is precious to me, and her dunes
run wild and rigid, eroding beach houses,
as water levels go on rising. It's the place I broke
hearts, and acted a fool, where I hid away inside,
when other kids wanted me to play. It is home
to my pop, my soda pop for my non-Michigan friends,
and while I'm not leaving her just yet,
i will depart her soon, but I never thought there would
be a reason to.

Forgive me Michigan, my home in heart,
but I have to be with this woman, for she now has,
my heart.

Individuality: The Coloring Book - a poem

Kids color outside lines of coloring book of popular characters. Could be
superheroes, could be cartoon heroes, could be historical heroes. Kids color
outside lines of coloring book. Adult reprimands, say keep inside lines,
later say, think outside box. All life demonstrated to staying strict inside
confines of acceptable behavior. Be who you are, but only if be acceptable
to them. Mixed messages. Popular mechanics deems it fit to keep it all coordinated
to ensure message is properly received. This makes sense. Individuality
is not popular mechanics. Popular culture is creative avenue for making
sense, in fun, heartfelt, painful ways, without inflicting trauma, physical
retribution. Let creativity flourish. Compounded by rules it faults under
weight of a thousand expectations. One or two is fine. Attribute success
in ways they want. Be it monetary or personal fulfillment. Do not expect
expectations to be universal. For what we deem fit here, in Western thinking
is not same for other thinking. Even north to south. House to house. Street
crossing, or border crossing, or thought crossing. Do not hammer home
what is not stringent and necessarily a you have to.

Kids color outside lines. A truth beholden, if you look close enough. Not all
children are destined to be artist. Some are messy. Abstraction should be applied.
America seeks individuality, but whats conformation to set guidelines. Want
uniformity. Individual enterprise as long as it fits in expectations of capitalism,
and its twins. Commerce and competition. Pay for coffee beans, avocados toast,
bubble tea. Give into globalization, but put US first. Temperament needs
to be cleared about what kind of business can thrive. Personal business should
be kept private, unless it is personal business of those that are enemies, and those
that are rivals. If personal business is personal to you, you are granted immunity.
Hold standards for that person over there, but not if they match your political
color. Seems its fine to forgive and forget. Doubt motives of those who stand
by their beliefs, but accept words if it fits your political playbill. You paid
for a show, want it to be predictable and how you want it. Individuality is fine.
Kids can color outside lines, for a time, until a certain age, then we tug and we
pull rubber-like arms to and fro, and say think my way, think this way, and say
this is how it is, and this is how it's so. But, we want individuality. It is maddening
and confusion is prevalent in growing minds.

Kids color outside lines, do it, color wherever. But know eventually someone,
someplace, will say no, color how I told you to, with these crayons, this brand,
in a matter that satisfies ME not YOU.

Kids color. Because all you are are small little soldiers for adults, and in some parts
of world, in some parts, this is literally true.

My Grace - a poem about mental health

Mental illness is a whirling cyclone of messes, often wrongly labeled,
and self diagnosed. Often, too often perhaps, often enough that so many,
including myself, have trudged along thinking we were broken, or are broken
depending on what level of the trek you are on. Fitting then, to have revelation,
an epiphany, eventually, to what is bothering you, truly. Truly, a descriptor
of truth, my truth, some others truth, but that you are broken, and you cannot
always control every aspect that you wish you had.

There are methods to fix the bits and pieces, and to oil cogs that turn,
continuously, grinding and causing mayhem afresh in the mind.
The simplest of these methods is admittance,and it works wonders
to be able to say it aloud, to yourself, to admit that something
out of your control has been chipping away at what could be considered normal.
It works in a number of ways. Ways that we don't always grasp at first, addictions,
trauma, they work in ways much similar, where you must admit to your problem,
must accept that I have irrational fears that whisper like shadows in the dark,
but not ominously, just self-defeating, but it cannot all be fixed with a pill,
but for me that helped. Medication, that at first makes the process seem fickle,
but later blooms into clarity, and an understanding that something imbalanced
inside has been righted, and that it wasn't all just a product of my attitude.

The cyclone can be made furious by the wrong people in your life,
the ones who take no responsibility, and choose not to understand that you
have an issue, or do not take actions to settle accusations. It is not an excuse
to behave that way, but it is also unfortunate that some people don't recognize
the weakness infused in the problem, and will hammer away at the chips
on the gears, cracking them further. This is why understanding, and communication
are so important, true and real understanding. Someone to bear witness to struggles,
and see that you are doing your best. Social anxiety, and depression are my illnesses,
but they do not control me. Once upon a time I may have removed myself
to a place of utter self-loathing, believing the matter damaged, and me, broken,
beyond repair broken. Simple truths emerged recently, truths that I knew because I'd
researched enough for myself. A simple truth that I recognize my illness from my true self,
and that I have people, and a person who I can confide in, and who sees me,

and recognizes the residue of my illness. We must be grateful for these people,
for they will put up with the matter, and we should not judge them for feeling hurt
when our problem becomes apparent, and should they run, which they tell you they won't,
we must understand that we must work harder to mend ourselves, and not lay the burden
squarely on their feet. I know me, I know my true self, and i know the issues of irrationality
that can come to square off with me, that is a giant step, to admit that you are broken,
but functional, and to be big enough to go for help, and to be big enough not to excuse
your actions, and to be grateful enough to accept grace. Always be grateful for grace,
and never taken it for granted. I never take my grace for granted.