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

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

Without Borders: A Poem

For Humanity.

Without Borders

You may call me a dreamer,
So be it.
I dream of a world
Full of unarmed truth,
Where hatred is unheard of,
A myth.
Where love runs wild,
Without condition or contract.
I dream of a world
Where hands are for holding,
Not handcuffs,
Where words are for singing,
Not screaming
And slurring.
I dream of a world
So abundant and shining,
Built high by neighbors,
By strangers who just met on a park bench,
But who are already in love.
A world without anger,
Where murder is just a muddled sound
With no meaning,
A world without borders,
Without orders, lawless,
Save the one true law:
Love your neighbor as yourself.
I dream of a world
Where someone, anyone,
Can walk their own street without fear,
Without thinking,
Without worry that they might be hurt.
A world where church bells ring out each day,
Full of hope, not of sorrow,
Ring loud and ring true,
A celebration.
A world where the only death
Is the cork in a bottle full of life,
Brimful of color and peace, fierce and fearless love.
You may call me a dreamer.
So be it.
I only dream of love.

©The Wild Poesy, 2012-2015. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited.

Without Borders: A Poem

Milky Way: A Poem

Milky Way

You call your flaws
Faults so many they
Lie uncounted,
And in your ribs they ricochet
Back and forth
And up again.
Your very chest is a tremor,
A wide-awake galaxy
Unfolded beneath
Translucent skin.
Comets built of fears
Dart between your lungs
And fill you with trembles,
Belabored breathing.
Inklings of doubt crawl up your throat
And rest on the back of your tongue,
Devouring every word
You quietly speak.
Your milky blinded eyes,
Once bright in light,
Sun and sky,
Blink underneath your dark-drawn eyebrows.
And your hands reach out,
Clawing and sightless,
Fingertips discovering
Space and space and space,
And your myriad so-called mistakes tumble
From your asteroidal lips
And fill the air
With sound and stars.
All drink in the wonder of your ways.

©The Wild Poesy, 2012-2015. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited.

Milky Way: A Poem

Artistic Attempts: A Poem

Artistic Attempts

(I once heard a man
Call a painting “trash.”
“That’s not art,” he said.
It hurt me deeply,
Even though the painting did not belong to me
Or anyone I knew.)

Art is more than a painting
Or a sculpture.
Art is the cool touch of paint on your fingers
And the feeling of the brush in your hand.

Art is feeling.

Art is a bouquet of flowers,
Wilting and falling apart
But that won’t be thrown away for another week because you want to remember who gave them to you
And the feeling you felt when they did.

Art is a campfire crackling,
Smoldering in the embers,
And when you turn your face away and look up,
Art is the cold rush of wind brushing your blushing cheeks.

Art is, indeed, the painting of a picture,
And also the singing of a song
And the writing of words in the middle of the night with messy handwriting on a piece of scrap paper.
But art is more.

Art is the first warm day in Spring,
And the first crisp Autumn afternoon,
And the Firsts and the Lasts of everything,
And all the Befores and the Afters.
Art is memory, and the reverse is also true.

Art is nostalgia, childhoods of the hottest summers
And the longest days
And the coldest watermelons
And the bluest swimming pool.

Art is climbing to the top of a tree
And seeing the world,
And getting stuck in the tree so your mother has to climb up and fetch you down,
And the moment your feet are firmly on the ground,
Up you clamber again,
So your mother has to come after you once more.

Art is every mother.
Mothers have art etched in their every vein,
There nestled by the pain when they watch their last child move away.
Art is their memory,
When they first cradled a tiny person against their already-aching chest.

Art is the fathers
Who wish they could be home more,
Who wish they could go to soccer games
And first-grade plays,
Or just tuck in the blankets and check the closet a seventh time
For the monsters.
(Fathers fight monsters.)

Art is leaving your umbrella propped against a fence
To shelter the skin-and-bones cat from the winter drizzle,
The cat that only wants to sleep for awhile
Before another person sinks a shoe between its ribs.

Art is the boy who asks the girl
If she’s okay,
Even when he knows she isn’t,
Because he can clearly see the bruises under her eyes
And the slowly-forming scars on the wrist under her sweater-sleeve.

Art is that time between awake and asleep,
When you feel all the weight of the world
Slip off of your shoulders
As your head sinks into the pillow.

Art is life,
And the reverse is also true.

©The Wild Poesy, 2012-2015. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited.

Artistic Attempts: A Poem

Romantic Hopelessness


The stars are drifting now like doves,
Floating ’round the moon above.
Down below, a lone knight sits,
His muscles twitch in little fits.
Crystal armor sits at the ready,
As does his steed, swift and steady.
He’s waiting, watching silently,
Waiting for transparency.
He needs to know what next to do,
For every promise he carries through.
Silver threads shoot from the moon,
Explaining in code that he must
Find a fair maid and gain her trust
By being brave, courageous, just.
He dons his armor, mounts his steed,
And sets out so steadfastly
To find a maiden, complete his quest,
And only then may he rest.
As he rides, he does remember
A maiden beautiful, fair, and tender.
He remembers from his past
His love for her that ever would last,
And so he must find this girl
Who singly comprised his world.
No one else did he need,
And so onward he drove his steadfast steed.
Swiftly to the land he rode
Where nothing now would ever grow.
One single, solitary crow
Greeted the knight as he did find
The wasteland of some twisted mind.
Burning lakes and bare grey trees
Set a trembling to his knees.
His mighty steed then faltered slightly,
As would any horse do rightly.
Gathering courage, the knight continued on,
Only to find the village gone,
Except for the houses ruined,
Full of mud and mire and sewage.
Walking through the bare ghost town,
The knight then happened to look down,
And there, lying on the ground:
A small blue scrap from some girl’s gown.
Up ahead lie another,
A trail was made, blessedly clever
Was the girl who was seemingly captured.
The knight, he ran, so enraptured
By this discovery.
He soon came upon a stand of trees,
A dark and desperate den for thieves,
And within, there was a band
Of murderous outlaws, knives in hand.
Sure enough, the girl was there,
With bright blue eyes and long dark hair,
Tied to a tree,
Guarded by three
Whose menacing eyes
Glinted dangerously
As they beheld the crystal knight,
Whose armor glinted in bright moonlight
As he rushed forward in a rage,
Dashing madly into the glade.
Swinging sword. Battle cry.
Bones were crushed and blood did fly.
Soon every evil man was dead,
Each lying with a severed head.
Stepping over to the girl,
The knight sliced the ropes that bound.
Grateful to be finally found,
The girl gasped in great surprise
When she looked into his eyes.
“My knight, ’tis you! You’ve come for me!” she cried.
A smile the knight didn’t try to hide.
“Aye, milady, ’tis I who comes,
Alas, with neither fife nor drum.
I followed the trail of your dress,
Forgive me for the bloody mess,”
The knight replied.
“I felt someone my trail would guide,
Though I hardly dared to dream
My bonny knight would come for me.”
The girl was then swept up by
Her bonny knight with shining eyes.
He’d completed the tests,
And so also his quest,
And carried his maiden won
Upon his steed into the dawn.

Untitled No. 21

Every earthly realm has ended,
Broken promises left untended,
All along he had pretended,
And broke her heart to leave unmended.
Her life was left gaping wide,
No happiness resides inside.
Her days are spent breathing sighs,
And writing twisted lullabies.
Little babies cherished
Every day do perish.
Once-innocent rejected souls
Are buried deep in dirt-filled holes.
She’d met him many months ago,
She’d trusted him with all she owned.
But his intentions were less than low.
He used her, left her, let her go.
She buried her trust in a dirty grave,
And with it, her childish innocence.
Her heart to find, her soul to save,
She guards the grave with diligence.
A wanderer comes to the grove,
Wherein is her tiny home.
The sorry figure beneath the tree
Looked up into the eyes of he.
In the deep orbs of flashing green
She felt as if they’d known each other,
They knew all that they each had seen,
As if they’d been together forever.
With her hands, she dug the dirt,
And soon withdrew a box of blue.
“It isn’t much, and not of much worth,
But I feel as I should give it to you.”
The man, not much more than a boy,
Looked at the girl forlorn.
Inside the box was no mere toy,
But soul, and dreams, and trust, all torn.
“These gifts are far too great for me,
Yet I cannot see them broken.”
He sewed the pieces all smooth and sweet,
As soon as he had spoken.
A measure of trust, a handful of dreams,
A single soul, he’d all the means.
He could accept the simple emblems,
And take her home to wed,
Or he could drop them in the leaf-loam,
Rendering her dead.
The girl watched, trembling,
Her fears shone in her face.
The wandered kissed the tiny tokens,
Gathering her in an embrace.
“You don’t deserve such broken things,
Such pain, or such deep sorrow.
You make my very heart-strings sing,
Now let the dawn bring forth tomorrow.”
She smiled at his whispered words,
And sunk into his arms so safe.
He held her close, so closely,
And saw the smile on her face.

Walking Wooded Byways

Walking wooded byways,
Hidden from the highways.
The girl, she talked her own way,
For she was all alone anyway.
Speaking to herself about
Trying to learn not to doubt,
Or her very soul could melt
And catch on fire and then go out.
Giving her wayward soul a talk,
She hardly noticed how sad her walk
Was becoming.
Wayward soul
And wayward eyes.
Wayward curls,
A wayward mind.
Mischievous smiles shone through dreary dim,
Denying both her happiness and sin.
Her morbid past forgotten,
She whispers as she’s walking,
Her clever features mocking
The one she knows is stalking,
Plodding along behind.
Persistent always this man was,
And she knew this fact because
She’s known him all her life
And with him she was in love.
Her dilemma here was simple:
Their ranks of life askew.
He was far above her class,
How well this fact she knew.
Her steps have quickened,
The fog has thickened.
Still he follows,
Building her sorrows.
Her downcast visage
Reflects her mission:
Escape her past.
Be free at last.
Live life unmasked.
She’d forget quickly,
Keep walking briskly,
She must escape.
In all her wayward years
She’d never known her fears
As much as now.
“Please, my love, stop!
Turn around and look at me!”
His words struck daggers through her heart,
Each syllable was like a dart,
Tearing through and ripping at her soul.
“Please, please, come back to me!”
He called in such a woeful state,
That herself she now did hate
For bringing him, her love, so much pain.
Continuing on with greater speed,
Her dirty feet,
Her barefoot steed
Trembled slightly with the need
Of a rest.
“‘Tis only jest,”
She thought aloud.
In front of him there was a cloud,
He couldn’t want her,
A lowly pauper.
It wasn’t proper,
Nor could it be true.
He had all riches,
She had but stitches.
Every time he called, her flinches
Wracked her body, paused her step.
Running quickly, now she wept.
She heard his footfalls now approaching.
Quickly, swiftly, now encroaching
All her fear, all her pain.
What, with her, could he gain?
He caught her arm and stopped her there,
Capturing her with his stare.
Her wayward soul
And wayward eyes,
Her wayward curls
And wayward mind
All seemed to him most beautiful and perfect.
“My dearest, please,
Don’t run from me,”
He whispered in a pleading sort of way.
“Why should you want me?
I’m less than nothing,”
She quietly replied.
Her eyes downcast,
Her heart outcast.
He could hardly stand to see her cut and bleeding hands,
Torn from tripping in her haste to get away.
“You surely aren’t nothing.
You always were something.
Don’t you see?
You’re everything to me.”
At his words she turned away,
Her white countenance turned to grey.
“Forget me,” she said.
“Go and find and take the hand
Of some princess in the land.
She’d like you, surely,
Maybe even love.”
“Princesses are high and mighty,
Stupid, selfish, vain, and flighty.
I could never wed one rightly,
Even in my troubled mind.
It’s you I love,
I always have.
Since we played as children,
I always have forbidden
The thought of choosing anyone but you.
Marry me, and be my pride,
My beautiful and perfect bride.”
She couldn’t erase him,
And so she faced him,
Tears tracking through the grime
Upon her face.
Seeing him, her soul did melt,
And catch on fire.
She waited an instant, only to find
That the fire burned bright, strong, real.
Deeper love she could not feel.
“I ran away because of you.
I’ve loved you, but you never knew.
Society’s the only thing to blame.
They’d put you out, and cast you down,”
She said, in spite of her soul’s flame.
“Send Society to heck.
I will never answer to their beck
And call,”
He said, and gently, with his fingers,
Wiped away the dirt that lingered
On her cheeks.
“With Society now gone,
Between us now their is but one
Thing standing.
You have not answered yet, my dear.
Please say yes, and be my wife,
Make me the most blessed man alive.”
Whispering silently to her soul,
She found her answer, her fears were old
And dead, forgotten.
Now nothing was left stopping
Her from love.
“Yes,” she said,
Lifting her head.
“Your wife I’ll be,
And you shall see
How much I’ve loved you all these years,
And forever I’ll forget my fears.”
And so he kissed her softly, gently,
So tenderly and gentlemanly.
Then took her hand and turned around,
And led her home o’er stony ground,
They quietly talked their own way,
As close together now they stayed,
Upon the wooded byway,
Hidden from the highway.

A Conversation That Took Place During The Great Depression

-“However will we pay the rent?
For it surely won’t pay itself.”
-“We’ll save our pennies in a jar
That we keep on the kitchen shelf.”
-“What will we eat? What will we wear?
What about food and clothes?”
-“We can always make do or do without,
But we have friends, and can’t do without those.”
-“The animals must be tended,
The garden needs to grow,
I’ve too many things that need mended,
And where’d all our savings go?”
-“I’ll look after the creatures,
God will grow your plants.
Forget all the mending and money,
But for now, let me have this dance.”
-“Why have you asked someone like me,
When I should have been looked over?”
-“Because you’re the best, you’ll always be,
And you’re worth me dyin’ over.”
-“But, dear, the disappointed are now depressed,
The country’s sure in a bind.”
-“Forget the depressions and countries in binds,
For now, won’t you just be mine?”
-“You’re a funny, odd sort of guy,
Different than all the rest.
But nevertheless, I love you
Far more than I’m depressed.”

©The Wild Poesy, 2012-2015. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited.

Romantic Hopelessness