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The only thing I want is to sleep
Just another few hours
Because four isn't enough.
The alarm clock reads 4:02
When I get in the shower
Which wakes my body.
The lack of sleep
Stays with me
Through my cup of coffee
And onto the plane.
The pain of leaving
Mingles with tiredness,
But I can't fall back asleep
The shower and coffee take their toll

But ten minutes into the flight, the plane skims eye level with blushing clouds
And the horizon beams gold at the beauty it has created.
Then, completely without warning, a brilliant pinprick of light crests over the earth.

St. Thomas

Sun glistening off the pearly blue-turquoise waves,
A bright red fish jumps from the surf near the reef.

Fake white leather seats on a too clean boat,
That took us from St. Thomas to a tiny island.
Scuba gear loaded,
Lotion amply applied and
Towels and sandals close at hand.
Soon velvet sand squishes
Between sunburned toes and heats
Bare soles that are used to shoes
Hammocks, brightly colored and strung
Like spider webs wait to catch
Unsuspecting visitors between palm trees
When they’ve had too much rum
At the nearby bar
Which is the only building in the island
And isn’t really a building
But a roof, (no walls) and a bar

But the hammocks seem so inviting that I go to lay in one.
It feels like my grandmother’s hammock
Strung between two crab apple trees
In the back of her Northern Michigan Bed and Breakfast.
We would sit and she would rock us with a broomstick.
But here the sun is hot, and the trees are palm, and
I lay by myself in a hammock and rock in the Caribbean breeze.

Recolections

I was six when we moved and
Although I don’t remember all of it,
I know the walls were red,
Since it was called the red room.

The dark navy couch with
Little white flowers must have been there,
And probably the red Lay-Z boys too.

And I’m quite sure the Christmas tree
Was always back in the red room
Because Buddy would lay under it,
Shedding on the tree skirt, or batting at ornaments.

I remember this is where I played,
My toys behind the couch that hid
The TV—I’d have to pop my head over
To see what was going on in the world,
But I never really watched, only glanced.

Because it didn’t affect me.

I was protected by the
Redness of my playroom.Laughing

The Photograph

Two dark silhouetted figures stand
Sharply in contrast to
Their bright blue sky background, and

Act as a mirror
As I stare through the glossy plastic cover and
See my face in the picture, but

Not my whole face
For the sky and clouds consort,
Rebelling, they omit part of me

Untitled piece

I have gone for a pleasant walk,
Among the rolling forests of upstate New York.
I stroll along a moss-softened path,
Carefully sculpted by deer and rabbits,
And come to a majestic clearing
With an ancient oak, and soft grass.
A fire pit stands in the center,
Which sparks a memory,
Of something I’d read, and soon it
Materializes, and:

I am in Pennsylvania
In 1916
On a church ground
That at first glance
Looks holy.
But soon I am part
Of a crowd
And tension crackles
In the air
Like the fire
That’s been lit.
Anger starts to swell
Like a wave
And I soon see
The cause of the hatred:
A proud, healthy
Young black man
Is being dragged
Into the sea of white faces
That has started screaming at him.
His undeniable
Innocence seems
Not to matter
To the white sea
That feels so much
Justification and hatred.
And the crowd
Starts shoving him
Closer and closer
To the flames
Until he is engulfed
Fighting to get out.
But pitchforks stab him
Forcing him back
Into the hateful flames.
He struggles against
The fire and hate
But in the end,
Can do nothing but
Burn
Like a bale of hay.


*This phrase is from an article I read in my civil rights movement class by W.E.B. Du Boise, who edited the Crisis, the NAACP’s journal.

You Can't Choose Your Dreams

Dreams are not to be picked
Like an apple from a tree,
Or hunted like ducks:
Rousing them to the air
And shooting into the flock,
Hoping you bagged one.
Dreams can’t be calculated
Like a math problem
With a definite answer.
You can’t hold auditions for your dreams
Or interview them, trying to see
Which one fits your needs best.
And dreams won’t stand in a line-up
Like criminals until you finger the right one.
You can’t reason with your dreams,
And you can’t abandon your dreams
Because your dreams Choose you.

It's Just the Way the Sun Shines In Sometimes

It’s the way the early morning crispness
Wisps in through my tents’
Open window, awakening the day to me,
And intensifies the warmth in my sleeping bag.

It’s the way I can effortlessly rollover
To the view of the gorgeous green mountains,
The sun cresting over their ridges.

It’s the way I can sense, rather than hear
The world around me starting another day.

But more than anything,It’s just the way the sun shines in sometimes.

Early November

One un-raked lawn on the block
Still wears its’ blanket of neglect
And is happy for the warmth

Smoke

The Fading sun light,
An eerie pink glow,
Illuminates a tree
Or not the tree,
But its autumn leaves
And makes it seem aflame
Except for the lack of smoke
That would be rising
In rich billows to
Play with the pure air,
Tickle it, and dissipate
Leaving only the
Rich smell that sticks
To your clothes
And makes you remember
Fond summer bon fires:
Conversing with friends,
Into the night until
Only vibrant red
Coals stand out
Against dark ash
Like bright leaves
On dark branches.