Red ribbon, red ribbon

Pull me apart

like a ribbon 

with frayed ends,

unravel me

all the way to the top,

leave me tangled and messy;

just do it with a smile

and blurry eyes,

like you always do.

Take me far away

just to bring me back 

empty handed.

It's easier when our cheeks are red 

from reeking of alcohol,

not shame. 

I won't convince you otherwise.

This is for the boys

(who answer my questions,

even the ones that begin and end in 'why?')

Although there should be,

there is no calendar date

set aside for the men in my life.

The longest day of the year

wouldn’t have enough hours in the day

to celebrate what they can (and cannot) do.

No one thought to book off

all the days they fixed the

“un-repairable” and irreplaceable,

that which I have broken, or even

that which they broke.

And the banks forgot to close

when they sing happy birthday

(to me, or my mom)

or when they bought the matching cake.

There is no medal

for seeing me cry, doing my dishes,

letting me sleep and waking me up.

No one got paid overtime 

walking me home or changing the light bulbs.

There is no calendar out there

that staggers names across dates 

and bullet points their achievements

(it would be far too lengthy).

Even so,

There are no words in print

that could celebrate them the way I do.

This is for the boys who 

can reach the top shelf.

This is for the boys 

who’ve helped me do my homework,

who carve the meat,

climb the ladders, 

turn the screws,

paint the walls,

cook 

and clean,

sing and dance,

use power tools 

rip things down 

and build them back up again.

They chase, lose and find the dogs, 

set things on fire

and still find the time to be golden.

Hype

When the rational 

became rationed 

and fodder is now filler. 

The worlds all hyped up 

on something that calms you down. 

Did you ever think 

I meant to be that way?

Who, what, where, when and how?

How do you steal back the sun

from greedy cloud grasps

or bottle a rainbow

for show?

and what button do you press

to record the tune in your head?

Upstream

We

will paddle on.

and we,

will carry on forward

with 

or against the tide.

and

when we feel

as if all is lost

we will make something

from nothing but ourselves.

P is for POETRY

I have dedicated my body to words

starting with my fingers;

my fingernails and finger bones,

even my finger prints.

After that my wrists

and their tendons, my forearms

and elbows all swore oath.

My shoulders and my neck,

my head, my heart, and even my brain

have all chipped in,

some way or another

and in the same fashion

written all across the body’s care manual,

nothing works together

if something is out of place.

The season of giving (and taking)

It is unbearably undark

in a sky filled with bright clouds

who fake an early dawn

while the moon is still a reflecting god

sitting high in the sky.

What should be black or blue

is just a palette of sickly hues,

bone gray and ashy yellow

radiating,

across silhouetted expanses

where stars once sat.

The season of giving

and taking

has a way of tricking time

day and night,

trying to make the hours forget the sunlight.

Weather now,

is stagnant

and unstoppable,

digging its heels in protest

at the changes of leaves and wind

blowing and billowing,

bringing everything to its knees.

10/1/2011

Sleep isn't for the night

I lay awake at night

at all hours rehearsing 

words over and over

until they beat a rhythm 

in my head, staying there,

marching to their own tune,

a series of letters

confessions

always speaking the words

I won’t physically say

until one day

they beat too long,

too hard

and I wrote them down

fingers never as quick as my head,

getting ahead of itself.

My words are on paper

so finally they have stopped 

their relentless weaving.

Now when I lay me down to sleep

I hear silence instead of a broken manifesto

regurgitating endlessly

until the words were smooth,

until they came rushing,

flooding in

wave after wave

until they were done 

and dried themselves up.

A house is like a home

Our bodies are houses… homes,

not just encapsulating shells.

Eyes are the top-room shutters,

keeping out, letting in the light for the man inside,

while our hearts are foyer doors, 

hidden just past the exterior,

guarding a core.

This is a place of many footprints,

but few have the key to the lock.

Our hands, our kitchens, living rooms, 

buzzing with hivelike activity, 

the thing-in-front-of-your-nose,

center stage without all the spotlight.

The foot, however,

is most like a bedroom--

obvious, a little mysterious

an effective means of escape

keeping you grounded,

taking you away.