If I were clairvoyant
I wouldn’t have to peek
and my pancakes
would all be perfectly browned
without one edge curling
bent out shape
with my indecision.
But it isn’t my fault
for it is God
who messed with my head
tossing and turning
my hair as I slept
checking to see
if I was perfectly
done.
Don’t try to change
my mind
like God changes
the wind
when he finds himself
lying on his stomach
on a lazy summer day
longing for clouds to billow
and twist like earthly balloons
into cotton-candy animals
and dream of far-away days
when all he had to worry about
was forming mud-pies
into imaginary children
who could be his friends
instead of today’s looming
clouds of destruction
that threaten to blow it all
away.
(From Poetic Bloomings prompt: http://poeticbloomings.com/)
I have blown my share
of tiny bubbles
sending them drifting off
to space,
yet not one of them
with my breath
could live a second more.
So when God
was done mixing up
the heavens and the earth,
I hope his mother
tenderly kissed his head,
and let him lick the spoon.
The day heats
my garden green,
overgrown to limpness,
mocking my bow
to God
who must find time
between listening
to my prayers
to rain upon my flowers.
Flowers wither
as my needs grow,
footprints hard in dusty dirt,
walking away
before the sun.
I am a prisoner
of Farmville,
trapped in walls
of colored bales
so coins and levels
can speed the deed
of harvesting plants,
and trees,
and God help me,
a hundred chickens.
You know my torture,
know my level,
my quest
for the next upgrade.
‘Till log in issues
temporarily stop
harvesting gifts
off my Live Feed.
So Tech Gods
solve the bug
sending farmers swarming
to their diamond dirt,
as the Devil seeds
a greedy need
for a hundred neighbors.
No more.
I have sold my farm,
chicken by chicken,
my voluntary commitment
for a Farmville detox.
I will be a prisoner
no more.
The morning cold
makes me sidewalk hard
and dampness
taps me on my chest
to say it is my turn again.
I’ve tried to beat God
at this game,
but it doesn’t seem
like an even match
when he plays with clouds
and I only hold
a rock in my hand.
Farmer tans are understandable,
a tag team effort with the sun
marking a man for a job well done.
But the white line left on your finger
where you have removed our ring,
lies about your futile effort.
Stop shopping at the open market.
Can we finish the job we started
before we both get burned?
I feel the void of everything
and the sky mimics my soul,
blue and vacant,
and I am one with it.
Then a vapor trail
slicing the empty sky
fills the nothingness
with a cloud not made from God.
I see the plane fly over
lifting you to a new place.
The crack in the sky grows bigger
and I begin to sob.
It is cold enough to change
exhaustion into ice.
I can breathe it here on earth
and cry till I feel empty.
My eyes closed
I slept beside you,
holding you,
loving you,
and waking today, you’re gone.
Someone stole my dreams.
“Clean your room already!”
she said for the thousandth time.
But six years said I deserved better
so I loaded my Radio Flyer with licorice and toys
and headed down the sidewalk.
The block was long but I was determined
to leave my chores behind.
Running away from everything
is a luxury that only children can afford
with a twenty-five cent allowance.
And I would have gotten all the way to Michigan
if only I had been allowed to cross the street.
It was a lazy summer day
with nothing to inspire a child
until Mom took me to the garden
and picked the hollyhocks.
With only her knowing fingers
she pinched off the opened flowers
and handed me the tiny buds
before going back inside.
I couldn’t see her vision
until flowers were flipped like skirts
and green removed from buds
left tiny eyes and upswept hair.
We filled a dish with water
and the flowers were transformed
into floating floral ladies
and imagination danced away.
There is no more our song
just pieces of love gone wrong.
Yet the broken glass of the disco ball
keeps on spinning its dancing light.
From ceiling to floor dappling shadows
transform my imperfections.
In time I’ll move from dark to light
wherever the music takes me.
But now all I want to do is dance
and learn the tune of my song.
Some days I kneel to the order of things
watering flowers and pulling weeds,
but deep furrows grow in my brow
and confusion chokes my life from me.
For if God is in the flowers
and the Devil’s in the weeds,
then where am I in the garden
when I can’t tell them apart?
I was twelve
a street away from a teen
when I stood in the rain
soaked to my skin.
It was one of those moments
you never forget
when you realize that the event
shouldn’t happen, but did.
I was looking across the street
and realized that my neighbor,
dry as a cactus,
was still in the sun.
It was a cloud over me,
but not him, and our street
was the dividing line
God drew in the sky.
I was sure angels were
forewarned not to cross
to the other side,
but I did.
It was that moment
I started on the road
to adulthood, brave enough
to challenge authority.
I was daring God
to bite me.
