In my head I turn the binding lock.
The tower of homework hides the ever-ticking clock.
Hold my hand, warm my cold lonely heart
Or just give me hope to keep me trying, no more tears.
Stare into the mirror,
drown in the deepness of your eyes-
Who trapped this consciousness
in a world of form- or am I trapped at all?
sign my name
Wind has it's birds
that soar through the air
Water has it's fishes
who swim in the sea
Earth has it's worms
that play in the dirt
dances through flame and
flickers through smoke?
Who dives in the light and
cowers in campfire shadows?
And what are their names, these
fierce fire dancers?
On a cold winter night I ask.
the sleepers to be woken
the dreams to be broken
dawn is coming
and the world will start anew.
A little kitten,
Born, I imagine, in some forgotten alley.
Cared gently for by the loving SPCA
and then by my excited and ready-to-love best friend.
Prancing, flitting through life
like the shadows she loved to pounce on.
I would cradle her, wanting to snuggle that sweet soft, silky black satin fur.
And she would playfully scratch at my arms.
I was a little afraid of her because of this,
but I respected her cuteness.
And I planned to watch her grow to a strong black cat.
And then I got a call.
It said “blocked”, but I knew it was from
my best friend.
I could hear her sobs.
She said she wanted to tell me something.
I guessed it was her fish. She said the other day they had Ick.
But I always tell her that the #1 rule of fish is: they die.
So why was she crying?
I kind of wondered if she'd be mad if I didn't cry.
I could hardly cry over fish I'd only seen once.
And then she said “Stella.”
Oh no! I thought. That cute black kitten I helped her choose?
“She got run over by a car.”
I leaned against the counter, my chin in my palms.
“And she died. We buried her with her favorite toys”
My eyes started to water. She stopped to sob.
I didn't know what to say or
I just felt so bad for my poor best friend.
That word, died.
All it says is
She was here
and now she's gone.
I love it when people
smile a true smile.
and no snarl.
that they are GREAT.
And it makes me smile.
White with red line
down the sheet.
Blank but for
in formation across the paper.
stepping on frozen ground
popping, snapping, swooshing
I used to know what it tasted like.
So full of possibilities
this sheet is.
A dark drawing?
A pretty poem?
An oval origami orca?
It will save the world.
But it's already
and it's work is done.
(inspired by William Carlos Williams)
By Thea Clarkberg
So much depends
a green blade
pearled with wet
smooshed by cool wet
When I trip
you help me up
When I spill
a napkin is offered
When I cry
you pat my back
and ask if I'm okay.
When someone is mean
when they say you are the worst; “you have no friends”
You tell me you are my friend.
You say I'm the best.
But I just smile and know:
That can't be!
Because you are!
I pull my hands slowly through the water,
And watch the bubbles flee to the top,
Silver like stars in the night sky.
I swim through the silent water,
And bubbles tickle my face.
I swat at the bubbles and I feel like a baby, a kitten.
I press my feet on the bottom of the pool
And I shoot to the surface for a breath of air.
Chlorine smelling air fills my lungs
And loud shouts of joy fill my ears.
I blow out all my air and pick up my feet
And I sink below the surface once again.
I turn and look at the action around me.
Legs kick and step, moving in graceful synchronicity.
Someone cannon balls in beside me
And white, silver bubbles explode and frizz to the top.
I float to the surface and my friends and I laugh together,
Blue water quivering around us,
Travel through memories, travel through time.
Rough and hard
Soft and safe
Through the prairie,
Around a palace.
Up into space and
Into the wild
You can go anywhere
All by a book
A soft cool wind
Brings a calm voice
That lays me down to sleep for dreams.
In castles made of gold
In the castle’s bed of roses
That never wilt
And always wave
There’s a little hut
Neat and clean
In the waving rose’s hut,
There is a box,
That NOBODY owns. Not the castle, nor the roses.
In the box there is a gem with all the
But no one can touch it.
Rowing on the lake at night
We leave the light and warmth of the fire
To row on the lake tonight.
A bat flutters high
Then seeps back into the darkening night
I hear an owl somewhere,
I hear the oars pushing the water,
Crickets sing as a background band,
And I hear the glassy water talking to the night.
I can barely see the shoreline
But the glowing fire stands out.
We head back in.
Stream of life
I float down the
stream of life
bumping into rocks,
I fight to get away.
I land and step into another stream.
The lamp outside
My window tonight
With golden rays of light
Snow and rain
But dims the shining stars.
Long Fellow Bridge
A long ribbon of gray cement stretches ahead,
only little cracks and stains break the dull city dessert.
little birds fly in a group in the sky,
bright sun flashing off their wings.
dark green flaky paint tries,
to cover rusty red-brown metal.
little piles of leafs have formed in the corners.
many have escaped though,
and are dancing in the wind
with red plastic cups.
the gray cement is dull,
but when you look closely
it sparkles like the broken glass at my feet.
the glass reflects a hardy dandelion,
trying to get a couple last breaths before winter.
the reflection quivers as a big train rolls by.
warm sun warms our backs as we walk away.
Light is a thing that will grow inside of us if we let it.
Life is a wonderful thing that ends.
Love is a thing that is mysterious and elusive.
Light is not only a sun, or a lamp, light can also be an adventure at heart. Light can be the feelings you shout at people from inside. Light can be the life in you, the love you feel. Light is wonderfully powerful and good. We must learn that.
Life can be bad, but there is still light. People can be mean, but if you surround them in light, you will not see their darkness. They will only be light. Life is a circular cycle that will continue until it ends. Everything is meant to be. Learn from the bad times. Love the good times. The sun may stop shining, but still there will be light. Light will keep shining. You just need to find it.
Love is a general term. Love can be how you feel when a motherly mentor surrounds you in cozy warmth. Love can be how you feel when your friend cries with you, laughs with you, stays by your side, lives alongside you. Love can be a butterfly stomach and fluttery hands. Love is sometimes hard to find, the eternal need.
Light, life, love mixing to form a swirled mix of shadow, midnight, candlelight, and sun. Mean, hard, easy, good. Cozy, kind, fluttery.
Grandpa wouldn’t want to lay still in a grave.
He would want to fly with the wind and smoke, better than sitting on a plane. He would want to float on gentle waves, closer to the water then ever on a boat.
So that’s where he is now. I watched dad pour Grandpa's gray ashes into the jumping splashes of a waterfall. Glowing green leaves, mother-like, gently caress the playful, childish currents that twirled and skipped as the water, laughing, gurgled down layered crumbly wet shale.
And someday, six years from now, Grandpa’s ashes will slip down the St. Lawrence River, into the Atlantic Ocean, floating, traveling, where he wants to be.
Golden rays of sun
light our world.
We will never
be so strong.
Did the mighty hands that kindled
the everlasting flame also spin the
quiet white threads of moonlight?
Or swell the dandelion with silken seeds?
Or cut each snowflake from icy sheets?
Or perfume the blushing rose?
those hands make me
you are sitting there
wondering whats for dinner,
when is your friend coming over?
when will meeting end?
And sometimes maybe there is a whispering happiness inside,
and you just sit, enjoying that quiet feeling.
And then on silent cue,
There is noise.
Giggling, and little kid fights.
Smiling and shaking hands.
I love the quiet.
And I love the loud.
on the porch
of my small town
And I listen.
for what the small green sidewalk plants
think of the passing bike
What the blue jay thinks
Of the weather.
I strain to hear
just a little tidbit
of a conversation
between the old gray
oak and the
But all I hear besides the cars
and all the small town noises...
I sit in a small clearing in the woods.
I breath in.
I close my eyes
and try to see.
I try to see the tall green trees, the fluttery birds, and the humming bumble bee.
You tell me what I see.
Laughter, bad music, and wild silly dancing
fades into far away dreams as
I zoom quietly over wet streets.
The hissing of water spraying out behind the bike wheels
is the only quiet accompaniment for the night crickets.
Cold numbs my fingers
and I can only think that
it will be over soon and then my hands will be warm... cozy...
but I also try to enjoy the crisp cold that seeps through my thin sweater.
There is a sharp stab of cold pain
as I wrap my fingers around the cool metal brakes and press.
I release and fly faster and faster.
It is so quiet and I feel like
I am the only one here.
The only one...
that ever felt
the last breath of fall
like I do now.