Peacock




Pretty bird

Lure me with your iridescence!

Renewing  

Again and again with each fan of the tail, 

So like the phoenix, you, 

Immortal like the energy in us all. 

Adorn me with your feather

So my sorcery be protected,

And I can chant incantations of love enchanting all the other pretty birds to fly high to different dimensions 

Through elevations 

With the lift from the wing and dance 

Cracking crisp through the stillness 

Until we float!

Meet me there pretty bird,

And fan me when my light dwindles

So to ignite the cinders 

And let it burst and flame the colors of your essence. 

I Am Poetry



I am poetry

I want poetry to exist like I want flowers to be. 

I love poetry,

I love when it’s in my head, on paper, in front of me, through me, with me. , in me. 

I don’t care if I don’t make a penny, or no one reads it, or even if the whole world reads it,

If it’s got, un-got, made sense of, interpreted, ignored, loved and cherished, or burnt to cinders. 

I love it when it’s recited, internalized, put to melody or some ill beat. 

I am poetry and just need to keep producing otherwise I will seize to be. 

So whether it’s genius, trite or crap, I will keep flowing until my thumbs go numb and my tongue goes dry and my wrist are arthritic and eyes go blind, 

Because it makes me vibrate

Like a song 

And I want to share and spread it so I can fly! 

Figs



When figs are in season,

It always remind me of time. 

“It’s already that time of year,

I get to indulge in such deliciousness”

Only sweet a few months a year and then I get a little sad for just a sliver of a moment before settling down to the normalcy of figless months.

It is only when figs come back do I remember that I must be older because I’ve already moved through a year and I recall so many moments munching on a bowl full of half cut figs,

Or snacking down a ziplock bag full of dehydrated figs that remind me of pockets of warm jam in my mouth, 

Or homemade jam that pops when I chew my sandwiches because of the seeds. 

How many seasons passed already, and why does the time between get shorter and shorter?

But today I scrolled across a picture of a beautiful pink centered  plate of figs that felt sinful at how sensual the nostalgia feels, 

And I wonder how many fig seasons have passed?

Because for the first time I’m yearning for them, 

Even though I feel that it means another season passing where my youth is just a little further from my grasp,

Though that will not keep me from smiling when I take my first bite into a ripe sweet fig. 

A Poet Party 

Imagine being invited to a poets party. 

A room juxtaposed with the extremes. 

Extroverts who claim to be introverts talking to the true introverts who stop listening once they realize it’s really about them and not “me” 

Introverts, who might have a chance to be extroverts, except their politeness stops them from interrupting the so called introvert who might just be nervous because silence is lonelier than weather. 

One slandering her dad speaking to another uplifting his mom,

A room full of loners,

Narcissists,

Dreamers,

Weirdos,

And the hip cool who learned how to cypher truth with alliteration and imagery enough to call it fact out of subjectivity. 

Relativity,

With brevity. 

Because in one day I read that no one can make a living out of poetry,

Yet someone’s making a couple hundred an hour,

And so many do it,

Yet no one can just do it,

While feeling full

Without going insane. 

So we should imagine what could happen if we find ourselves in a room full of poets, 

Young, old, male, shemale, female

Stale, pale, whale-like with -iteness, elevated, tortured, wired, fired….

(Keep imagining)



Still

Still

The greatest challenge is not in the movement,

Not in the reaching, 

Not in the doing,

Not in the sweating 

Not even the crying and the struggling. 

But it’s in the stillness,

And in the simple,

When the mind idles and eventually comes face to face with the self. 

And the distraction dissolves into true presence. 



Lineage

20150306-121025.jpg

I am strong, yet I bend for you,
I am focused, yet I will wait for you,
I am determined, yet I make sacrifices for you,
My heart unbreakable, yet I will cry with you,
My will immoveable, yet I grow soft for you,
I am feminine, fierce, and protective,
Yet supple, tender, and sensitive.
My strength is of the lineage of women,
Who have cried from pain, hurt, betrayal, and love,
Yet still continue to work tired hands and give the rest of their strength while standing prim, tall, beautiful.
I am my mother, my grandmother,
And my magic is from the lineage of Love.

Bow Down Tradition

20150305-110040.jpg
When I was little, I grew up with Only my brother, mom, and dad.
We didn’t celebrate much,
But I remember feeling free
Running around outside topless,
Not realizing how foreign I looked.
Then on a lunar new year, family knocked on our doorsteps.
“Let us bow to the ancestors,
Let us bow to the elders,
Let us bow to our parents,
And to me, to these strangers.”
My little brother would, and they paid him in large bills if 20 and 100.
I cried and refused no matter how much money I saw waved in front of my face.
I was not accustomed to tradition, and customs, and rituals.
It was strange and my ego must have been too scared and too weak.
Many lunar New Years passed and not a single bow from me
my ego became accustomed to refusing and it grew proud.
This same pride kept me silent in church for years because I didn’t want to share prayers,
This same pride kept me silent of pain and suffering for years because I didn’t want to share shame.
Yet ironically, the pain led me to a place where I found myself bowing daily, ritually to the sun, the moon, the earth, and all the higher beings.
The bowing humbled and strengthened my ego,
shed the pride so that each time I find myself bowing,
I think of my grandma, who also loved to run outside topless,
My parents whose wisdom became clear to me,
My ancestors that made me who I am today.
And I stopped feeling foreign.