Source of Light

So this is how it works.
Flip a switch,
turn a crank,
or just put up a rod
and wait for lightning.
See the pretty city lights
all lit up for your convenience.
What makes them glow?
Might as well be magic,
for all I know or care.

If only it was magic,
if only it wasn't
some boring trick of wire and current
that anyone could learn
if they tried.
How I wish it was
the wave of a wand,
a flash of fairy dust,
or a potion bubbling over
that lit the space between us...

(Photo credit: "194/365: City Lights" from Andres Nieto Porras on Flickr)

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Caught

Feel these threads all around,
and enjoy them while you can.
So soft and yielding, aren't they?

Feel them stick and pull.
(Sorry, there's no helping it.)
Funny how insistent they are, isn't it?

Feel how they let you go so far,
but how their gentle pull ensnares you.
Do you really want to get away?

Welcome to the spider's web.
Do you feel it watching you
with its empty eyes?
Do you feel the lines vibrate
with each small slow step?
Do you see these sharp fangs
and think how they'll feel?

Web of life, I think they call it,
and nature does know best.
So why don't you relax?

The spider gets all and every one,
and you knew this day would come.
So why do you struggle?

You gave up long ago,
and you don't even fool yourself.
So why pretend to resist?

(Photo credit: "Spiders web" from woosh2007 on Flickr)

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Alone

Teach me how to play.
I want to play with the others,
like we were such wonderful friends.
Do you hear them laughing
out on the grass?
Do you see them throw the ball?

Teach me how to play.
I'd give anything to be like the others,
almost anything.
I've been so sick all winter long.
My voice is hoarse,
and that's what scares them off, I think.

Teach me how to play.
I want to be one of them.
I want to be with them.
I want to laugh with them.
What ever went so wrong with me?
Teach me how to play.

(Photo credit: "India Black and White" from anthony kelly on Flickr)

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The Chameleon

"Oh, yes, I love that movie too!
It's one of my favorites!"
"Really, that's wonderful,
what's your favorite part?"
"Well, you know,
I haven't seen it for a long time..."

Come to me.
Come here, you chameleon.
Sit on my shoulder
and spit all my opinions back at me.
Tell me just how right I am,
as I sit here talking nonsense.
After all, despite all my airs
I really am too fragile a soul
to put up with a woman's opinion.
Tell me just what I want to hear.
You don't have to be subtle.
I'm sure it's what I want.

"... and that's why I think
global warming is a hoax."
"You've got such a clever mind,
I just feel so smart talking to you."
"Would you like to see
my rifle collection?"

Of course I just want a toy,
of course I just want a warm body
and a parrot for my prejudices.
Who likes to be challenged?
Come now, chameleon,
match my shade and I'll give you a smile.
Why pretend you want anything else?
Of course you don't really want a mind of your own.
Doesn't it make you anxious,
all that thinking, having opinions, and choosing for yourself?
You don't have to do it any longer, chameleon.
Come to me.

(Photo credit: "Woman in the mirror" from Ley on Flickr)

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My Life is an Open Book

I sit on the shelf, waiting,
and my pages quiver with excitement
each time a child rushes by with a pop-up book,
or a handsome man with square-framed lenses
pauses to examine my cover,
or a pretty woman with a finger twirling in her brown locks
passes me by without a glance.
Dust gathers through the day,
but they clean me off when I need it.
Scent of coffee fills the air,
rising from the little shop in the corner.

Take me off the shelf.
Pick me up and open me.
I'm not just this cover,
I'm more than a surface that draws you in.
Turn these pages, read me through,
open me up, and learn what I am!

I love the store, really,
and I'm happy here, mostly.
It's just sometimes I worry I'll never leave,
that I'll sit and age on this shelf
till all my pages turn dry and yellow,
my spine comes unglued and separates,
and my ink fades from my pages.
I worry that someday they'll pull me off the shelf
and leave me in a garbage dump,
or else recycle me
to print the last newspaper in America.

Take me off the shelf.
Pick me up and open me.
I'm not just this cover,
I'm more than a surface that draws you in.
Turn these pages, read me through,
open me up, and learn what I am!

(Photo credit: "Bookstore" from plofiz on Flickr)

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Treat

Sweet, smooth,
tiny treat at the end of the day.
You sit there, solid for now,
but so ready to melt,
so ready to dissolve
just as soon as I pick you up.
I'll wait a while
and just imagine how you taste.

I'm quite particular, you know,
and I'll take care
that my pleasure is perfect.
I'll strip off your wrapper, slowly,
just gently enough not to tear anything.
Then I'll break up your pieces,
one by one,
and spread you all over the plate.

I'll take your first piece
and nibble a corner,
just enough for a hint of your flavor.
Then I'll set you on my tongue
and let you melt there.
I close my eyes
to enjoy your silky smoothness.
You're really too much for me.

The next one I'll bite,
tear, swallow, scarf down all at once.
It seems like a waste,
but your flavor is different, that way.
Then I'll have you slowly again.
But I'll never stop searching
for the best way to enjoy you,
my sweet bit of chocolate.

(Photo credit: "Chocolate Bar" from James White on Flickr)

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In This Warm Light

Come here now.
Come lie together with us
on this fine shining day.
Feel the warm light on your skin,
the grass so springy on your side,
and the scent of flowers all around.
Listen to our happy song,
and join your voice with ours, so sweetly.
We're so safe here, so free,
and our fences keep the neighbors good.

Come feeling the light with us.
It was such a warm day,
and the sunshine feels so good.
Don't you feel so safe with us,
here where the wolves of war are far away?
Isn't it so very nice here
now that we're all the same?
Doesn't the man by the fence look kindly?
We're safe here, so so free,
and fences keep the neighbors good.

Look opened the gate the man
who feeding us all so gently.
How well he raised us all,
and how kindly he fed us from his hand.
How kind of him to shear us
when our fleece grows all too long.
How gently he leads you to the gate,
so you can join the others who leave us.
Aren't we all so safe and free,
with our fence to keep the neighbors good?

(Photo credit: "Mountain sunshine" from Tobias Van Der Elst on Flickr)

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Welcome to the City

Echoes down the red lit alley,
voices melding together
with shouts and a tinkle of breaking glass.
Whirling wind,
footsteps drawing near,
if only she could see the crowd...
Welcome to the city,
where smiling teeth
will rip your throat if you let them.
The city lies to its children.

Echoes in the sweating alley,
nearer now,
they'll find her soon, she can feel it.
So many hands and arms,
so much blind fury
where there was love a moment ago...
What did she do wrong?
How can their love be so thirsty for blood?
The city lies to its children.

Echoes through the crowded alley,
they're almost on her,
and she can hear her heart pounding.
Is this how it ends?
Such a waste.
They told her the world was hers.
They told her that she would go far.
They told her that she'd win them all.
It tears her apart to know that
the city lies to its children.

(Photo credit: "Trade Center Skyline" from Derek Mindler on Flickr)

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Paper Flower

I am the paper flower.
See how they’ve folded me?
I rest on the table when the students have gone,
while the woman grades papers at her desk.
I lie, limpid rose,
with paper petals that spread in the silence.

Shuffling essays, a million misreadings
that never touch the palpitating point.
Just look and see, “What the Savage realizes is that…”
Or even worse: “Bottle babies and terror of the Mother.”
This one finds “A warning to the future.”
No brave new readings here.

I am the paper flower.
Won’t you look at me?
Won’t you learn my every fold and crease,
and relish my complexity?
I am surface and decoration,
and I die to be seen.

She frowns and marks a red “A” with a red pen.
As good as she’d hoped for,
but nothing that connects.
The world’s still new to them,
and even the ones who know don’t know… yet.
Warn them not to be ruled with pleasure.

I am the paper flower.
Too late, she finds me on a little desk,
and who can tell if that’s recognition on her face?
I am not unfolded.
I am not examined.
She tosses me in the trash on her way out.

(Photo credit: "Flower by Chris Palmer folded by Andrea Acosta" from Jorge Jaramillo on Flickr)

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Catching Time

Live without hesitation,

and taste each sweet moment.

The stream keeps hurrying past,

and every sunrise rushes to set.

Try to hold on,

and the days just slip faster

in a haze of fear and boredom.

"What if I'm never good enough?"

"What did I do wrong?"

"How did I get so trapped?"

"Why does it hurt so much?"

"Why does nobody care?"

"What's wrong with me?"

"How will I ever get out of this?"

We all know what we need to do,

somehow.

But how to take that first step,

when we might fail?

Why do we think we'll never make it,

just because it's hard to begin?

Why do we give away our power?

You can wait a lifetime,

but you'll never hear permission to be great.

You can wait a lifetime,

but that guarantee will never come.

You can wait a lifetime,

but never find the prefect moment.

Don't wait for what won't arrive.

Yesterday is gone,

and tomorrow may not come.

Time keeps flowing on,

all-powerful time, piling day on day

without end.

Be sure to spend that time living,

not waiting.

(Photo credit: "Stream" from Adeel Anwer on Flickr)

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Insidious

Call me insidious.
I'll be the little taste of sugar
that you can't deny yourself.
I'll be that one last chapter
that keeps you reading all night.
I'm harmless, at first.
Call me insidious.

Sure, I want your body,
and I'll work my way in.
But it's your mind I want to own.
I'll slip in through your ear,
or an open window.
When you try not to think of me,
that's when I'll have you.
Call me insidious.

I'll be that next drink
you can't turn down.
I'll be that last cigarette
you hate yourself for lighting.
I'll be the needle
when you take too much.
Call me insidious.

(Photo credit: "Colors of the rainbow" from Jason Meredith on Flickr)

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Tell Me

Tell me all your secrets, love,
and let me know who you are.
Come here, here
in the shade of this tree,
and tell me everything.
What was it like
to be a little girl?
What frightened you at night,
and how did they comfort you?
Was it a doll you held close at night,
or a bear, or a little tiger?
Were there purring cats
or a panting dog
to greet you at the door?
Would you laugh with friends,
brothers, and sisters,
or imagine worlds all alone?
What was the world to you,
when it was so big
and you were so small?

Please tell me your secrets, love,
here in this gentle breeze,
under the shelter of this leafy tree.
Let me look into your eyes
and feel your hand in mine.
Time slips by so fast, you know,
and there's nothing to hold on to,
nothing that feels real.
Let me hold you, my love.
Let me hold you, my sweet.
Be real for me,
and let me hold you close at night.
Be real for me,
here under this tree,
and please tell me your secrets, love.

(Photo credit: "Jessica" from Tommy Kirchmeier on Flickr)

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A Little Sunshine

You're such a wonder,
such a brilliant, shining creature.
You've got so much life in you,
so much energy and cleverness and potential.
Why do you hide it?
Why don't you show your gifts to the world,
amaze us with what you can do?
It can be terrifying
to put your gifts out before the world.
Don't be shy, love.
It can be discouraging
to think of how much work it might take
to perfect your talents.
Don't be intimidated, dear.
It can be infuriating
to watch others get the praise
you deserve so much more.
Don't be bitter, sweetness.
You know what you have to show the world,
and never let anyone tell you
that you can't make it happen.

(Photo credit: "The Doubt" from Strolic Furlan - Davide Gabino's photostream on Flickr)

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