You are blinded by
what you choose not to see
so blinded by it
that you will never be free
I see it inside you
waiting for its chance
to break through the
monotony of your forced dance
But you refuse to
pull back the black curtain
and shed light on
what I know is quite certain.
Let’s not argue,
but agree to disagree
because your roller coaster
is too many hills high for me.
while we can’t take back our youth
we can relive it in our children’s eyes
that is why
as much as i hate spending my Sunday
afternoon shivering in an indoor pool
while it is windy and fifty outside,
i must take joy in the excited
thrills of three girls
who play games,
splash each other and me,
and never wipe the smiles
away from their cheeks,
telling me time and time again
how much they love me
for bringing them here.
for less than you paid for the
plastic tarp that covers the addition
you’re attaching to your
6,000-square-foot, $10 million home,
we enjoyed the same priceless views
a sky as blue as God’s eyes
with puffy white clouds dancing
in front of distant snowcapped peaks,
the green hills and weeping willows
decorating the winding, perfectly flat path,
the ponds with cattails, the canal,
the endless crabapples dressed in
pink and white flowers for spring,
the sprouting green bushes,
your gorgeously manicured yards,
green grasses galore,
green buds of leaves popping
out on trees as tall as back east.
your green may have seven figures,
but mine has ten million shades,
strength in my calves,
a content-with-books-to-read-in-the-trailer
oldest daughter,
and priceless views
that I didn’t pay a penny for.
a pile of bricks behind my back
held with twine that tears into my palms
(blood spilling as it rips the skin,
blood pouring onto them)
i can’t release it
every now and then a brick
will fall from the pile,
forcing me to stop my forward motion,
bend over, bring it back
i can’t release it
a pile of bricks behind my back
held with twine that tears into my muscles
(ripping them apart at the seams,
ripping me apart at the seams)
i can’t release it
every now and then a brick
will fall from the pile,
forcing me to stop, to mortar it
to the wall i try to repair
i can’t rebuild it
a pile of bricks behind my back
held with twine as thin as a line of fire
(burning me up with every step,
burning them up with every step)
i will release it
we are not the enemy
despite your entitled beliefs
and no matter how many times
you twist this knife in our backs
who will be here tomorrow
when yours are gone?
we will
we are not the enemy
despite your entitled beliefs
and no matter how many times
you draw your dagger-ish words
to dig into the work we do for them
(for you), who will be here tomorrow
when you are gone?
we will
We are not the enemy
despite your entitled beliefs
and no matter how many times
you pull the mask of ignorance
over your (their) eyes,
who will be here tomorrow
to pull it off, to shed the light,
when you (they) are gone?
We will!
You and I, we have our course and miles set:
a journey plotted amidst winds and trail closures,
a day after torrential rains and their
resulting torrential (all over the path) floods
yet no journey is complete without a moment
of hesitation, of paths lost, of alternate routes
we travel the way I remember (years ago,
a different bike carried me to work this way)
but the path is twisted, filled with tree roots
and curves that you’ve told me you dislike.
at our usual high-speed pace (we made a pact
to beat our record), the sidewalk jumps up and grabs
us. like disconsolate lovers, we tumble to the ground,
rolling over each other’s metal, skin, plastic, blood.
i lie for perhaps five minutes, adjusting my headphones
so not to miss my story, thinking perhaps my leg is broken
there could be phone calls to make and i’ll need a new
helmet, but when i stand, i grin at my bruised-up,
perfectly movable leg, and gasp at you tangled beside
me, my partner in this determined destiny we’ve set.
when i lift you and turn the wheel, you too have suffered
scrapes in our lovers’ quarrel. i adjust your chain, wiping
my greasy fingers on our towel, swipe the broken pieces of
the cateye to the ground, and we are off once again.
“that was only mile three,” I whisper, and your unscathed
silver frame, your perfectly intact black tires, lead me
into the wind, the pain of our bruises washed away with
spring’s air, water from the overflowing creek, and love.
this could be a rainbow
if we ever saw the sun
bright colors all in a row
trying to protect everyone
this could be a rainbow
but we’ll just let it rain
and now here comes the snow!
is it winter all over again?
this could be a rainbow
and we’re laughing like it is
we’re crazy, yes we know
just for a small taste of showbiz
this could be a rainbow
if we measured it by smiles
but we’ll just let it flow
as we walk along our aisles
today we’ve made a rainbow
that shines beneath the clouds
umbrellas and tarps bestow
colorful hope amidst the crowds.
i don’t want to be this parent
but sometimes the anger boils up
and overflows, spewing ash
that blocks my love for you
it’s still there (the love), hot
magma in the depths of my
hollowed out mountain, but
it’s a slow and heavy river.
you are asleep by the time
the ash settles, gray streaks
of its tiny particles on your cheeks,
and i will not wake you.
the clouds are slow and heavy at dawn,
mimicking my magma as you wake
and i take you into the hollow,
wrapping you in the warmth of my love.
you are not what i thought
and it’s tearing me up
though for once i won’t
say a word about it
but i am disappointed
having to come home this way
trying to shed the mood
that infiltrates my daughter
her exhausted screams
echo through the house
so that i cannot hear
the others’ gurgling happiness
in my soul i reach for her
but my hands, my arms are here
because i’m burned right now
and she’ll sizzle at my touch.
it’s not you, but my blindness,
my greener pastures journey
that has led me right back to
where i never wanted to be again.
as if she knows this, she calls out
in panting gasps, searching for
an answer, a reason, that neither
of us will ever be able to find.
what we had when everyone else
told us we were too young to marry
was nothing more than a small carry-on:
four spinning wheels for
simple maneuvering in and out of doors,
a handle that slid up and down with the
smooth ease of young love,
straps for easy carrying on the back
(thickly padded, covered in felt)
nothing like the heavy sets of mismatched
baggage, beaten from too many travels,
wheelless and torn, strapless and with
handles that break out blisters on palms,
identifiable only by their massive weight,
their inability to fit easily into anyone’s trunk,
that everyone else, now older,
carries with them into relationships.
what we had when everyone else
told us we were too young to marry
was nothing more than a small carry-on:
inside it we rolled up our
running socks, fuzzy pajamas,
pants for every season, swimsuits and gloves,
and packed ourselves a trip that would
far surpass the one that the people
around us told us not to take.
