Books
Books can take you anywhere:
across the golden desert sand,
over the silver waves of the sea,
up into the empty world of space,
under the foamy waterfall.
Books can change your life;
they can make your cat a vicious tiger,
your room a dangerous forest,
your friends secret spies.
Books can change you:
once you’ve lived a thousand other lives,
you are different from before.
Like a butterfly emerging from a cocoon,
the world is new, and so are you.
Yellow cabinets, like sunflowers are planted on top of floral walls,
the sink is clean; the lemon scent still lingering in the corners,
the cooker whistles, and the sound echoes excitedly, bringing smiles to the waiters, making Grandma herself hurry to the stove.
The smell of meat overpowers everything;
as every second passes by,
our mouths salivate childishly.
Awaiting Grandma's voice, soft and sweet, calling us to dinner;
a lovely family reunion.
She mixes the curry, places the rice on the table, sets everything in place; a perfectionist.
Round table, for everyone to join, none to miss.
Laughters and stories pass around like a bowl of nachos and chips.
Clinks and clanks of utensils and glasses,
Grandma's face is lighted up,
with love and happiness.
Dirty dishes, finger licking fingers, stained stove,
but in the end, for Grandma, it was all worth while;
her everyday life story told in short.
Darkness rises slowly around us
Silently, slowly, it creeps across the world
But where there is darkness, there is also light
A light that empowers us to be
The best person that is physically possible for us
If we follow this light
And ignore the darkness
We will continue in the pursuit of happiness
The Timekeeper’s Clock
Tick,
Tick,
Tick,
Goes the Timekeeper’s Clock
Ticking, tick tick
When will it stop?
Striking the hour,
A top of the tower,
But does that old man’s clock ever stop?
Tick,
Tick,
Tick,
Goes the Timekeeper’s Clock
Its little arrows whirling,
Spinning and twirling.
The gear shifts round,
While the hour grows long,
But will that old man’s clock ever stop?
Tick,
Tick,
Tick,
Goes the Timekeeper’s Clock
Five little hands,
And one little gear,
Around a few more hours,
And a few more years
For the timekeeper’s clock never stops
Sitting here, since dawn, so lonely, waiting
For a memory locked away for preservation,
For some knowledge is better forgotten.
Sunsets, and joyful breezes, swishes of
Euphoria, sing remembrance of dreams,
Like harmony, the burbling of streams.
Memories flowing, once one comes, so do
The others, like lilies dappled on a stream,
Some blossoming, and others only wilting.
Ashes of tests not passed, and expectations
Not met, burn my tongue like the smell of char and ash,
Like smoke, refusing to pass, flowing from memory.
As memory comes, it must come both with
Peace, and pain, both with the river gurgling with
Quiet, and the smoke burning away, joy and tears.
Poetry is not my thing but I like to rhyme.
I'm writing this on the third so I don't have much time.
I don't know what to write so this all freestyle.
This poetry is made up and the goal is for you to smile.
I like cracking jokes about dogs and teachers.
I tell funny stories while I sit on the bleachers.
I don't know what to write so I'll list things I like
Swimming and dancing and riding downtown on my bike
Here are three things more I enjoy
Legos and stories and tennis oh boy
I also like Disney land the dog named goofy
And Mickey and Pete with his hair so poofy
So these are somethings which I enjoy much
but I also like baseball and sports of that such
I don't like writing "What gives" you might say
But I like writing poetry late in the day
yes right around five I'll feed my dog and then rhyme a word
about lions and tigers and big mocking birds
I also like animals and cooking, the like
but one thing I don't enjoy is eating the fish pike
It tastes too salty and I don't like fish
except for a salmon and soy sauce, I like that dish
I'm getting tired of writing and such
So I hope you enjoy this poem very much
And may I remind you to always make friends
and with final adieu, I shall say THE END.
The Story
of
The
Golden
one
a young boy
wasn’t yet comfortable in his skin, and
wanted to be OK- better than OK- when he grew up
a struggling adolescent
wanted to escape childhood
Just be out of it. Be comfortable
By 13
he’d started to realize
fitting in
was
kind of
a
play
an
act
he
had
to
Give Up The Ghost
of
a dream of having
good feelings about
the Way
he
grew up
with
tough love
the equal
partner for the better part of two decades
Water
Icy cold,
Trickles through my fingertips early in the morning,
As the sun peaks through the clouds.
And this moment of perfection is gone in a
Snap.
I think of water as I stomp down the crowded hallway
Every second it gets tighter and tighter,
Squished up against sweaty bodies.
I try to forget water as the pencil grazes the blazing white paper-
But then I stare out the window
At the rain hammering rhythmically.
Finally-
The snap the swim cap
Gripping my head
The jolt of power as I dive into crisp, cold water.
That first second where my fingertips break through the waves
Everything is still
And I know that I’m finally home.
The Rock so peaceful
Siting on the grassy bank
Sees the world pass by
They glance off each other
Hard
Like marbles, yaw and torque and tempered steel
Sliding naturally and awful,
Cold.
They bounce and grate, nonstop,
Flat
Despite the motion, despite contour
Colorfully varied, distinct,
Same.
They are continually shifting,
Fast
Flitting about in mindless effort to
Make sense of the world, yet without
Care.
It hurts to look for too long—
Metal scrapes on metal, ice on ice,
Relentless.
It hurts to try too often—
They chip away, fragment, destroy,
Ruthless.
But yet I look
It is a world of humans, after all
Humans.
Plural.
Coexistence—
Amalgamation of ideals empty.
A girl passes by
Her raven locks flying.
A boy passes by
His golden hair bouncing.
Two pairs of them—eyes—hit my own and
Glance
Off, with a resounding clang,
Tintinnabulation between my ears, in my
Eyes.
I look again, and it hurts—
Again the clang, again the pain, I swear I shall not look again.
But yet I look,
Human.
When I walk out I gaze at the sky.
It swallows my eyes
Up
Into the painted-paper vault of
Smooth
Azure color-joints,
Soft
And endless, benign.
But it is not
Human
I peer into the mirror
It ingests my irises and spits out my pupils
And I cannot see
Myself.
I cannot
See.
Eyes.
They glance off each other
Uncaring
Cold
Untouching
Lost.
Human.
We don’t look, not at each
Other,
Not
At ourselves.
It hurts, metal on metal, ice on ice,
Eyes—
They meet. Our eyes.
I stare. You stare. We
Stand
Transfixed.
Ah.
They glance off each other
Hard
Flat
Cold
Same
Bouncing, marbles, all doing one thing—
Searching.
Searching.
Searching for another, for another’s gaze,
For another’s
Eyes.