Rest Room Swiftly slip off heavy pack, Swing the doors and check for sound. No one else can hear you crack, Shattered breaths and breaking down. Throat starts twisting, panic clasps, Burning nose & cheeks of blood, Shove it out in shaky gasps, Pressure rises, hold the flood. Turn the tap on, and the rush Spills into your desperate tears, Clean your face and cool the flush In this hideaway from peers. Breathe it out, then suck it in; When rest ends, the rest begins.
Imagination Oh, wake with whining kettle, Fold quilt, so dull and neat. Fry eggs and toast a slice From dusty plains of wheat. Then whisking through the sky Come swirling funnel clouds. You risk a life unlived, Steal best friend from the shrouds. Back to the house you run With Toto, precious pup. The dust blocks out the sun; The vortex sucks you up. Amidst the swirling dirt, You catch a glimpse of light. While tumbling through the blue, There comes a world so bright. A vast expanse of joy, Your land of vibrant thought. It bursts in technicolor, The life that you had sought. Past empty fields of beige, A road of yellow bricks. The city shimmers green Beyond mistakes you’ll fix. Where does the bluebird soar When clouds encroach the sky? Beyond the hidden rainbow, Where air balloons can fly. Where song is sprung from sunlight, And sugar tastes like spring; Tears melt like lemon droplets, Sweet, soft on pillowed wing. Pure poetry in poppies, Plush powder, snowy blue. Blow bubbles through the bad dreams, And melt the witch to goo. You work down every path With straw and fur and tin. Through pulling back the curtain, Ideas come flooding in. A world that you invent, A home that you create, A life that you revive, A story you narrate. Sparks shed as you slip back Within the farm’s old walls. But now your shoes are worn, You're ready when it calls.
Human Art A pedestal of marble, Muscled form & musing grace Reaching to the heavened light that bathes his sculpted face. Shadowed depth & power, A god of earthbound stone, The elemental skill that builds the mortal’s thought-made throne. All they see is perfection, And all he sees is flaws, The creator finds the cracks while the viewers drop their jaws. He breaks apart the vision, Fissures crack through chiseled cheek, Work in which he just perceives the narrow truth of self-critique. Unaware of others’ awe, Or maybe he denies Audience’s adoration ‘cause he thinks they’re gentle lies. But the viewers could be blind too, Since they don’t see the mistakes The blood, the sweat, the tears carved in the human art he makes They think he’s a paragon, Expectations get too high, To them, he is an Icharus, a soaring god of sky. He knows that he’s not perfect, But doesn’t know his strength, They know that he is talented, but don’t know to what length. Which is why it’s so important, For him to have honest friends, To open the beholder’s eyes and perforate pretense To lift him from the ground, But not set him aloft, Make him feel that he could fly yet keep his feet on ground that’s soft. Remind him why he does this, Turning dust to stretching limb Exploring self-expression with his focus, wit, and whim A balance of the ego Humility and pride Achieved through nerves and tempered steel, abilities applied And now the stage is always set, Art’s archway to the soul Unveiled by trust in who he is, the figure fin’lly whole.
Ego Sum Patronus Meus On a night of ash and coal, When the moon forgets to breathe, When the lake lies clear and still, And the chilly mist will wreathe, Twisting off the frosted grass, Shadows whisper to the deep. Sharpened air, it cuts like glass, Time ticks as life falls asleep. From the fog across the shore, Starry silver light collects, Whirling into fluid form That the crystal sheath reflects. There emerges ghostly doe, Beacon shining through the night, Brighter than a mirror of snow, Guiding hope, restoring sight. Weaving through the web of trees, Trees that clawed and tore your skin, Now the doe bridges the seas Of the pain you hold within. Then she charges towards death, Battling its tattered cloak, Yet before you take a breath, She vanishes in fading smoke. You are left, small and alone, With the darkness swooping down. But the thought of silver light Drags you up before you drown. There it surfaces, your strength, Driving sickened waves apart, Turning wood to mighty shield Gleaming from your own dear heart.
An Ending, But Not Really (24 Hour Plays 2022) Lying down on dewy grass, Stretching out across the field, Listening to cars that pass: Swishing tide of road and wheel. Staring at the vast, dark sky, Diamond-sprinkled, brushed with blue, Even if school’s where we die, I will not lose sight of you. Reaching up to navy dome, Planes are planets, flying ’cross, Cut the cork and cry of home, Every end’s a little loss. Raindrops trickle down my cheek From a sky of painted clouds, Cross the eyes and drop the teas, Draw the curtains, minor shrouds. Stack the photos, set them down, Pull on coats, and push in chairs; Time’s a-changing, don’t sit down, Exit downstage right, three stairs.