Thursday morning

I dropped my contact down the sink this morning
which realization caused me to fume
groggy and bespectacled
down to the breakfast table
where little brother sat absently
eating toast through a chapped-lip smile
gazing from his throne
toward the morning sunlight beaming
through perfectly formed lenses
buried deep in blue-green irises.
A cheerful sight was I, then
that morning at the table
and later when I forsook the world
returning to my room regretful
to start the day over
when unassuming little brother
stopped in to say
"Mom told me to give this to you"
grasping in a small pink paw
a little round clear blue
piece of plastic

All aboard the quatrain

Dearest, do not be offended
by my crooked little rhymes;
hence, my mind has recommended
I jot down the fol'wing lines.

Here, the purpose of my journey
art, and pastime, that is true
but a third I'm quickly learning
to express my thoughts to you.

Sometimes it is trying, dear,
you know by now, to talk to you.
I say what I think and feel here,
when mere idle talk won't do.

I know you don't understand it,
dear, I don't expect you to.
Only know this, that He planned it
all, so I'll always love you.

The seagull's song

This is the breeze,
the one that will always blow this time of morning
as if it were the force to move the waves
like mountains in its path.
It calls to my family and they answer;
come and listen, it says,
hear the sea man's song.
I peer down my beak,
past the salt and sand
the wind has wedged there.

A man sits alone
swaying on the sand
with some great box
eyes closed
as if it were he
who makes the breeze blow.

The sounds that reach me are familiar
besides foreign origin;
with every string to pass his hand,
the rope of gravity release

Suddenly weightless
subject of the sound
several together, then apart
melody is the combination
sand, salt, and sky
thrown together
reaching, contracting
satyrs, nymphs
dance across the waves
alighting once and taking off
never somewhere, always everywhere
vibrations break across the hands of man.
This is the breeze,

the one that will always blow.

Hope

The light spilling over the windowsill
drenches everything in gold
and drowns me.
How many times I've thrown these curtains shut
to shiver in the cold and dark and still
it finds me.
I could transverse the Earth and it would follow.

Your love illuminates me,
it is the spotlight on me,
the attention that I didn't want
or didn't need
is now second-nature to me.
What more could you want
from someone who
could never hope to shine like you?
You are the Sun
and I am only the Moon.

To Forgiveness

Weary travellor come!
Rest your burden here,
let down your weighty pack
within these walls.
Long you have wandered
an exile to this land.
I have heard many a whisper
that somewhere you had lost your way.

But not so, dear friend,
for the sadness in your eyes;
you have so long trekked
not because it was a destination you lacked
but a willing soul to take you in.
With every door locked
and drawbridge drawn against you,
all manner of sordid things clung
to your cloak, making less
an appealing visitor day by day,
so that even the good and kind
must take pause.

But here, one heart is laid open for you.
Its humble walls have seen too much,
too soiled by secrets to turn down
such a welcome face for his dirty cloak.
You must excuse its simplicity;
in design unadorned, nearly rude.
But it is warm and swept often,
and its floor hums a tune that hopes
you will stay for a while.

The shoebox

Snap.
Golden sunlight streams
down upturned faces
arms outstretched
two kids
throw open their hearts
and embrace
the staggering enormity
of one summer day.

Snap.
A crowd seated in the dim
eyes locked on the little
colored tassels bobbing
over seas of black
for the last time before
they take their ascent.

Snap.
A dove as white as snow
flitters through the doors
thrown open wide
bearing fragrant beauty
and two hearts light
with love
eyes and hopes revolve
around her whose rest
as her arm on the raven-
black figure caught
in her gaze.

They smile.

The tardy bell

Here I am, seventeen years
another semester to pour my heart
into these pages,
just one. Just one semester,
just one and a whole new school,
a new city, a new life.

Here I sit, nervous,
but at the same time
there's a little voice inside
my head that says,
no matter what changes,
I'll still be in class,
this time, next year,
closing my eyes to the world,
opening my heart to a notebook.