Ankles: A Poem

I had forgotten about the heads

Of the clouds.
— They wear crowns in their unbrushed hair,

Did you know? —
I did not remember.
Though I knew as a child, it seems.

How good it is to see them again.
For I had become far too accustomed

To their murky ankles.

Ankles: A Poem

Mother: A Poem

She is the meaning of strong.

My mold, my maker —

And yet she does not make me her.

Forged of her fire,

I wear her eyes filled with flowers and flame;

I stand on the opposite side of her coin.

We differ, are our own;

See same sights in unlike hues,

Our differing views,

But still — the stuff of our hearts is the same.

Mother: A Poem

Look Up: A Poem

Look Up

Now is the time for symphonies,
For sounds so complete in beauty and light
That tears and prayers can be heard in one note.

Sing until your voice breaks, and keep singing,
Even when it hurts and no one likes your words.

Because you are important, and so am I,
And our voices are like violins,
Like novels, drums, and birds,
Let us fill the air with stereophonic love.

Let us make the world safer than it is now,
And let us do so with peace.

Because we are the makers and the stars are our audience,
Blinking down on us and sending love notes in the night,
And the moon, like a mother,
Sends out light in the dark so we can continue to write,
To paint our dreams on the sidewalks and our sleeves.

Because now is the time for painting.
Use the brightest shades and as many colors as you can create,
Soft and wild brushstrokes, wide sweeps of your hands
Across surfaces that once were blank, were empty.

Paint flowers on your face and smile until the sun comes back.

And look up. Remember that the stars are with us.
Look forward. Even in the night there is the moon.
And start building. Use what you have.
Use love, use peace.

Sketch the future on scrap paper,
Outline the architecture of the next generation
Where there will be no hatred,
No borders,
No ceiling.



©The Wild Poesy, 2012-2016. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited.

Look Up: A Poem

Promise: A Poem

September 10 is World Suicide Prevention Day.
If you are struggling with depression, this is for you.
Be kind to yourself. Talk to someone. Stay alive.
And if you need help right now, text START to 741-741, the Crisis Text Line.


I see you standing there.
You’re by yourself, head bowed
As though the world is tied to your shoulders,
And maybe it is.

You think you’re on your own,
But I promise I’m here.
You are not alone.

You are so close to the cliff’s edge,
And you wonder if anyone would care,
If anyone would even notice?
I promise I would, and my heart would break
Into so many pieces that they could not be counted.

Please take one step back,
And breathe.
Breathe the fresh air into your lungs,
That is the feeling of life.

You are living.

Take another step back,
It’s okay, I promise, can’t you feel your heart beating?
That is life, and so are you.

You are not alone, I’m here,
Take my hand and hold on as tightly as you can,
Don’t worry if you break my fingers, I don’t care.

Just please hold on.

Your bowed shoulders are shaking,
The weight more than you can bear,
So give me half the burden, I don’t mind.

You want to go back to the edge,
But I refuse to let you go.

Please don’t go.

You think that your crying will shake me away,
But it won’t.
You can cry all you want, I don’t mind,
I’ll cry with you.
And you can wipe your eyes on my shirt when you’re done.

You keep looking back over your shoulder,
The edge is still there, it is clawing at you.
I’ll stand between you and the darkness,
I’ll beat it back with a stick, with my bare hands,
I’ll catch you by your ankles if you fall,
And I will pull you back.

You are life.
You are life.
You are life.

I know you are scared, and you want to leave,
But please, please stay.

I know it’s hard, and it hurts,
But please don’t go.
I see you, I am here,
I’ll hold your hand, I promise.

You are not alone.



©The Wild Poesy, 2012-2016. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited.

Promise: A Poem

Corner: A Poem


There are some days
When all I want is a corner,
A place guarded on most sides,
Angular but safe,
A place to stand or crouch,
To be solitary and quiet.

A corner where nothing is crooked,
Where the walls are smooth and cold to the touch,
The floor swept free of cobwebs,
With light from a window, perhaps.

All I want is a small place without anything,
Where I can read books
Or write poems,
And sometimes just cry into my hands
Because I want to.

There are some days
When all I want is a place to be alone
On purpose.



©The Wild Poesy, 2012-2016. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited.

Corner: A Poem

Flowers: A Poem


The days have come,
These harsh hours built upon the strife
That covers the floors, the walls,
Blaring out at us from newspapers
Whose headlines are full of words that children are told not to say.

Hatred is spewing from mouths
Like coughed-up worms,
Demons pouring from throats and hovering in the air
Around our heads and ears,
Not a moment can pass without another vulgarity taking flight.

And the faceless voices scream at us,
At women who walk down the street in high heels,
At men in clean uniforms,
At black-skinned children who will soon be angels.

And these voices cower in their bodies,
Shoving down their own fears,
Their hatred using old faults as a ladder to climb to the lips
And get free.

The days have come
When eyes fall out to be replaced by screens
That flash with flawed images,
The damaged girls are painted over with pretty words
And the boys who dare to cry are shoved under beds,
And they grow up in the abominable world
Believing the deafening noises
That taunt from all sides.

And grief is given more often than flowers.
Have we forgotten the flowers?

And still we wonder why the children don’t play outside –
There are enough monsters in their heads.
The doubts grow daily like weeds,
Seeds sown in schools and through TVs,
You are small, you are weak, you are ugly, you are stupid, you are wrong.

You are nothing.

And in the haze of smoke and lost hope
There are not enough good words to break through,
Not enough voices raised to say sorry.
We are failing more with each day
And the trees are cut down to make newspapers to print hate,
And the flowers are dying.

And my throat is dry from disuse, maybe yours is, too.
But I’ll go out and find fading roses to fill up a glass
And I’ll say sorry, and tell you
That you are big, you are strong, you are radiant, you are brilliant, you are right.

Y o u.  A r e.  E v e r y t h i n g.

The women in high heels, dancing in the street,
The men in their uniforms who smile under their hats,
The children, black and white and all, playing freeze tag,
But none are frozen because they all want to un-freeze.
They are everything.

And you are everything.
You are life and you are loved.

And there are still enough flowers to make crowns.



©The Wild Poesy, 2012-2016. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited.

Flowers: A Poem

Petrichor: A Moment of Thursday

Poetry is music, but the reverse is also true.
Listen to this, and it will make your Thursday better.
I promise.


Your hands hang limp at your sides,
Feeling as empty as can be felt,
Fingers shifting in the air,
Still recalling,
As though dreaming of a tune
Upon stuck piano keys.
No breath of air moves as your hands move,
Not as quiet,
Not with such slow breathless grace,
The subtle sweep and fall they make,
Absent, a waltz in the wind.
But more often now they still,
Halfway through motion.
And your fingernails are ragged and dirty
From anxious teeth
And gripping flowers too tightly,
Too close.
Now as they sway,
Your fingers shake, quivering,
When they reach out,
As though to catch wavering handfuls of fireflies,
But only blank space is there
To clutch at, baffled numbed hands.
And the old flowers you once held,
The crumpled ones on the floor
By your feet,
Still are clustered together by your hold,
Tangled stems crushed into each other,
Clung to, as though for dear life.
The petals move in the air
As faintly as your fingers,
The slightest flutter against floorboards,
Some abstract dance
That no one else can see.


Listen here: Keaton Henson’s “Petrichor”

Petrichor: A Moment of Thursday