My Life

The moon was coming up

over the horizon to dance and play.

It sent the sun to run

away, whispering “go, go”

The moon watched the day turn a page,

and then the sky was its to take

for the night. It was time for me to take

to bed, but I would be up

with the moon. The night was a blank page,

and with the night I would play.

I was told my imagination had to go,

but with them I could run

far, far away. My life was a long run

of dreams and fantasies I couldn’t take.

I just wanted to go,

to make my life go up.

My life was a play,

And it was time to turn the page.

The small boy page

knew to say he didn’t see me run

outside so I could play.

I wanted to take

back my own life or go up

in flames. I needed to go.

If I were to go,

if I were to turn a page,

my life could only go up.

I could run and run and run

my life would be mine to take,

and my words would no longer be in play.

It would be my turn to play

with the night, to go

to the sky, to take

my life page by page.

My life could run

its own course, up

and up, with me to play

and run, to go

and turn a page. it was my life to take.

Accident

When I was six my father took my brother and I out to the park

to ride our motorcycle in circles.

My brother and I shared only one,

but my father had his own monster sized bike

that towered over me as I stood next to it

with my own

My father helped me power up the bike

and sent me driving

around and around making

giant circles around him and my brother

But I was only six,

drunk with delight

at the speed the wind blew my hair back.

Distracted I turned too suddenly,

racing toward the center of the circle,

straight towards my father and brother.

My brother, only four,

stood and watched as my bike roared closer and closer,

with me absolutely unable to help

Closer and closer I came,

and he looked up with big eyes,

not yet knowing enough to move.

Closer and closer I came,

until my bike was on top of him

My dad was screaming

and my brother was crying

and I crashed the bike to run back to him

The image stays with me

every time I close my eyes

of my baby brother lying on the

cold hard ground

I never rode again

She and Me

           She loves writing. She could write for hours, creating characters and lives and wonderful far off worlds. But it's the hardest thing she forces herself to do.

            It’s the focus she lacks- the motivation and the discipline it takes to actually sit down and write. She lacks the self-control to leave her distractions behind, to leave the TV and the internet for the simple blank page to write her story.

            That’s why she requires me. She needs me to stand there over her shoulder, refusing to talk and distract her, but to push her back to her seat as she tries to leave to avoid her work and take a break.

            She only needs me for the first half hour. After that, she enters a trance, and doesn’t need to be watched for hours on end. That’s when I can sit down and rest, because I know that when she awakens from her trance the process will start all over again in trying to get her to stay down and be still.

            She needs me, but I would be nothing without her.

Sometimes Earth

Sometimes the Earth

stretches up with a muddy grasp to take my ankle.

Sometimes slices of water

splash my shoulders in happiness.

Sometimes ribbons of wind

play with my hair and twirl it out of shape.

Sometimes crackling snowflakes

land gently on my tongue to melt.

Sometimes silent lightning

reaches down from the sky to touch my palm.

A veces una moneda

se encendía un pezado de sol entre mis manos.

π

To get to the bottom

of a page titled

“One million Digits of Pi” you have to

continually scroll for five minutes.

You have to get your friend to take

over your duties scrolling down the page

as you nurse your cramped hand,

aching with the repetitive motion of

down and down

as you scroll.

Your friend doubts you’ll ever reach the bottom.

He says that there’s no way to beat it,

that you’ll be stuck there scrolling

forever.

But finally you reach the bottom,

and you cheer

and your friend sits there stunned into silence.

Who says you couldn’t get to the bottom?

No one now.

Pi is the numerical value of the ratio

of the circumference

of a circle

to its diameter.

Pi is a mathematical constant;

a special number,

usually a real number, that is

"significantly interesting in some way"

Pi goes on forever

and ever,

a never ending repeat of numbers

and numbers

and numbers

and numbers.

Maybe pi is interesting because it applies to real life.

Our life goes on,

and on,

and on,

and on.

Life is never ending.

And history always just ends up

repeating itself.

Darling

The sun comes through the window like a flashlight beam shining in,

shining the spotlight on only you.

The sun hurts my open eyes,

but pools warmly on your sleeping face,

waking the birds to smell the fresh air

and to chirp loudly for the coming day.

I sit beside you with an open journal,

my words swirling with color on the paper before me,

blues and pinks mixing with purples and reds.

Words kin to William Shakespeare’s dance across the paper,

taking me back to Old England.

The world is silent outside.

My coffee steams with the smell of

caramel and cinnamon,

the caffeine gently putting me to sleep

next to you.

Mother is here for you.

Lys et des roses dansent dans vos mots,

pouvez-vous trouver le jardin?

Spread your wings and fly, child,

don’t stay stuck on this earth.

The shimmering wings of beauty

will be the only things to set you free.

To know yourself,

you’ll have to forget

everything you ever knew.

The colorful white walls gleam with the sun.

You can’t depend on your eyes

When your imagination is out of focus.

The sun shines bright and levels with your face.

You glow with love.

Snow Angel

Because last week through the translucent window

I saw the glimmer of the first frost freeze

over the trees and hills around my house—

shimmering and coating everything in bright white

that shone undisturbed and sparkling

as if calling to the deer and the foxes to come make their mark—

and because this was the first morning

that the snow stuck and stayed on the ground through the morning

and the children played

and laughed,

I settled in my cozy window seat

with a cup of caramel coffee— the snowflakes fell

in swirling patterns to the earth,

large, chunky, flakes that would catch in hair and eyelashes

and coat people in a dusting that looked straight from a fairytale—

and because the earth was peaceful

and a blank paper stared up at me,

and a pen itched to write,

I wrote: the frost sparkles up at me,

and beacons me to come join it,

in its cold embrace,

spread out on the freezing ground

like a snow angel.