They care about the mental health of children...

 They care about the mental health of the children

(but not about the health and wellness of the people who care for them everyday)

They care about the mental health of the children

(but not about offering them books that mirror their experiences and reflect their identities)

They care about the mental health of the children

(but not about offering them an education which centers the lived experiences of their ancestors and the realities of our world)

They care about the mental health of the children

(but not about ensuring that they receive life-saving, affirming medical care)

They care about the mental health of the children

(but not about keeping them from being shot in their desks at school)

They care about the mental health of the children

(but not about making sure they aren’t murdered by the police)

They care about the mental health of the children

(but not the ones in other countries, only the ones here)

They care about the mental health of the children

(but only the ones born in this country, not the ones who seek asylum)

They care

(about their power and their politics and control)

They care

(about their money and their status)

But you can be sure that they don’t give a fuck about anyone’s kids

–not even yours (and some not even their own)

…and they sure as hell don’t care about you.

2 of 26: Grandpa

At one end of the snug beige living room,

dim lit and smelling slightly of cigarette smoke and

milk and roses and old spice

and childhood

your cracked brown leather La-Z-Boy chair

still waits, calling for me to come sit one more time

in the spot so well worn that it might just be

warm, even after all these years.

It is home to me,

this room where I escaped

soft places to rest and

strong arms to hide behind.

I go there often these days, eyes closed,

leading me back to then, to all those million tiny moments

when we were all together,

so much less fragile,

so young.

All those nights you sat, a grandchild on each knee,

reclined in your slacks, bushy eyebrows, smirking joyfully

tickling us with your mustache while

Johnny Carson chatted on in the background

or Get Smart, or Dragnet,

or anything, really, it never actually mattered

because the time was ours...

is still ours, and for all few sweet moments when I laid next to you

in those final, quiet days

body weak but spirit strong

I wonder if your mind went to the places mine did,

getting ready for bed, Grandma dressing me in one of your

white undershirts (which my small body swam in)

brother and I climbing in between the blankets,

still petting my hair as I fall

asleep.

1 of 26: The Mechanic

Hands coated and stained with oil and grease of

another day, his weary body bends once more to

peer into the engine of a rusted old Chevrolet.

He begins to work

his magic by cracking his knuckles and stretching his fingers

once or twice, trying to get his aging, broken hands to work like they used to

With grace and precision he wrenches away each

overused nut and bolt,

finding potential in a car

slightly corroded, overworked and mistreated as he was.

His eyes are still bright as he brushes his rough hands across

the shredded canvas top, seeing only the glory of those days

before it fell into such disrepair--

only potential, only beauty.

6 of 52: Bonfire

The deep crackle of dried wood

set alight on a crisp,

apple cider and sweater day--

it is the heartbeat,

chasing you through cornfield mazes,

glimpses of your cold blue eyes

and dark hair stolen through

yellow paper stalks.

We catch each other and fall,

rolling through straw and changing leaves

as we tumble,

fabric in the spinning drum of Autumn.

5 of 52: Sunday Haiku

simple Sunday bright

coffee with cream and sugar

well warmed wooden floors

little cat dozes

sleepy sighs, snuggled nearby

keeping so cozy

wind blows, cars drive by

rhythm of the day begins

outside our window

time trickles slowly

to dishwasher lullabys

and we are at peace.

4 of 52: The Weight

I close my eyes, and I can see it --

the intangible scribble-scrabble

which like the dust enveloping Pig-Pen

floats in my head,

constantly in motion.

There is music behind it, too--

a cacophony of sound bites,

every moment I've tried to forget.

They repeat, and layer, and repeat,

syncopated by my regret.

3 of 52: Mac McGee's

Bright lights stretch down the street and people

push in and out of crowded doorways, shouting

their name to the hostess who turns them away;

booked for hours, simply no room.

Beer flows from the tap and people laugh,

bagpipes playing, reverb bouncing the sound

from ceiling beam to the wooden booth where we sit.

2 of 52: Reunion

From all corners of the country

(north and south, east and west

coast to coast) in cars,

on planes, we travel...

for just one busy weekend

of nostalgic summer leisure, safely ensconced

in small town USA, in high grown trees between

hayfields, in the rural Ohio countryside.

Ice cold beer in hand and plush green grass between our toes

each year one sweet weekend

of laughter, hugs, high fives...

a few days to cement the bonds again

before the season changes,

the leaves fall and the wind blows us a year further

from collegiate simplicity.

Fond memories recalled and new ones created

amongst smiling faces and open arms,

we play catch up and kickball between

lazy swims and afternoon naps--cherishing

the luxury of whispering across the room

to those so familiar outlines when the lights go out.

Reassured that the spark is still there, we lament failures,

losses--we celebrate small victories,

acknowledging dreams become reality and

the history which makes us who we are

with the friends who have become,

inextricably,

family.

1 of 52: City Girl

I remember the hours of playing

curb ball on misty afternoons

just after the rain fall;

black asphalt steaming from the

heat of the day and

apple juice, cool and sweet.

Water keeps dripping rhythms on

the tin drain pipe

as evening saunters in.

First new tidbits in a very, very long time.

Certainly the most and closest to poetry i've written in well over a year. Maybe more. Typing it so that it persists to remind me that I can still do it! We'll see if I end up putting them into something solid at some point.
---

There are a million almost missed moments
in each day with you.
I struggle to catch them before they drop,
scattered by the swinging hands of a constantly ticking clock.

I can almost remember when time moved slowly;
when I had the chance to overindulge in you,
drinking in every single second, each word and whisper,
spoiled by the notion that we would always have
the same luxury.

----

I push past the crowds on the train,
aching to make my escape.
Somedays I come home so laden with the
dampness of my tears,
even my soul feels waterlogged.

---

The crispy crunch of the leaves has already gone--
they've been windbeaten to the ground,
washed into puddles and piles.
They stick to my boots when I splash through
the puddles of the pot-holed parking lots.
Their colors scatter the gutters;
Jackson Pollack might've placed them there,
they spread, clump together on the canvas
of another urban autumn's collapse into winter.

In Ohio, the snow has already begun to fall on quiet barns and
resting horses;
here we are, four weeks from Christmas,
sheltering ourselves from yet another
fifty-three degree evening. Our umbrella guards us
against the gusts edging
in between the buildings.

Arido

Every night I try to dream
you into being...
into becoming
a home.
I imagine you warm
(green and fertile)--
desolate cracked earth
overwhelmed by
(moist, beautiful)
rains and growth
and for once becoming
WHOLE
--no longer
(perforated, displaced)
turbulent.
--no longer
(spilling, splashing)
spewing your
contents...
no longer so scattered
as I am.

I imagine
what if would be like
if I could touch you --
if somehow I could wrap
my arms around you
(give you comfort)
nurse you to health--
I wish I could whisper
to you your importance
(your worth).
I wish you could (share
my dreams) open your
arms
instead of being
so
clammed up.

(There is no room at the inn.)

I wish you didn't feel so
EMPTY.
I wake in the night with the pains of your
(gaping, vacant)
desire--
I wish that I could calm your
labored sobbing
(your quaking, your thrashing).

I am so sorry for my neglect.

Tranquillità/Turbolenza

(Something I've been meaning to post but haven't gotten around to it. Not in my normal style, but...I kinda like it.)

It’s the best night of sleep I’ll have for weeks until you come back again—if you come back again, when you come back again. Until then, I’ll snuggle closer into my bed just to fall asleep. I’ll align the pillows so that I can pretend that you will be there to brush the hair out of my face when I wake up again to face the day.

Around 2am I’ll wake up and realize that your hand is not on my back where it belongs and frantically run my hands down either side of the bed, looking for you. Pretending has gotten me nowhere. The bed is just as empty and I am just as alone.

I’ve been working so hard to convince myself that living without you will be easier than living with you. I sort out the pros and cons of it all and think to myself “tomorrow I can do this all without him”; but the absence of your face makes the days even longer and I find myself distracted every minute you aren't here.

You are the sweet-silent-surrender of my day; I let guard down and lean into your arms and all of the world disappears around you.

Pensa/Mattina

(Something new, because i've not actually posted any writing in awhile. Give me feedback, it's the time of the season for Exile submissions and i'm trying to put some things together.)

Pensa/Mattina

eyes open;
glancing from behind my hair
(we play peek-a-boo)
I see you smile as
Fingertips trace the
curving path to hips
and back again.

Your
grazing lips tickle
(it makes my heart giggle and)
I lie resting in the
friendly, familiar comfort
of your arms.

patches of soft pink skin peak
through half-hazard blankets
daylight breaks in between
broken window blinds, brushes over our groggy
limb entangled awakening.

It really is horrific.

Kari took the free ColorQuiz.com personality test! "Intense, vital, and animated, taking a delight in ..." Click here to read the rest of the results.

Senior Year.

I am aware that this isn't a poem, but I wanted some place to post these goals so that I could remind myself of them when I begin to lose track of myself.

Cut my hair short. Write 150 poems. Get a tattoo--one that doesn't matter to anyone but me. Take a road trip. Buy a car. Lose 40 pounds. Kiss in the rain. Start to be the change I wish to see in the world. Stretch my limits. Invest myself in the people I love. Buy myself a suit. Drive somewhere late at night with someone cool for no reason. Walk around Granville. Go to Swasey Observatory. See Canada. Take more photographs. Do yoga. Learn to love my body again. Make myself cool clothing. Bring my little cousins to my apartment to visit. Read for pleasure--at least one book a month. Draw everyday. See the sunrise more often. Watch the sunset with the people that I love. Go on a picnic. Find a teaching job. Sing Karaoke. Go hiking at Hocking Hills. Go camping. Find a teaching job. Remember that sleep is wasteful when there are good people to be with. Call my brother once a week. Learn to love the theatre again, rather than feeling obligated to it. Dance on my kitchen counter. Remember to thank the people that keep me sane. Buy myself flowers.

This is where it stands now. I think it's doable.

Here I go.

Less than.

The stars are bright
but tonight I find myself
feeling
less than stellar.

Maybe it's that I just cannot
peg the moment when I let things fall
so far
into disrepair.

I want the rain to hit hard
again, to wash over the mess that I am
and restore
the confidence I seem so lacking.

I can tell it's time for me to begin
rebuilding; maybe this time i'll make
something strong
enough to stand on it's own.

Magnetic Poetry

*I found this today while scrounging around on my computer for some unfinished pieces. I'd forgotten about it...but I think it's growing on me.

Magnetic Poetry

Sleeping with you in the safe warm night,
cool day rises every time.
It is never easy, you say
too alike, same mind
you will always have her, you will never be mine.

Ventana: An Exercise

The Window is white
It is taller than I am
When I hang curtains.
It sits across from my desk
Which sits under my bed
And when the sunrises it turns
Them both orange.
I can see anything through
The clear glass.

White fabric falls from
The top of my window it’s
Cotton and clean.
There is snow and rain
Sunshine, too, outside.
Broken into pictures by the glass panes.
Open and close the
Gateway into a new world
Everything is there.

No matter how cold the glass feels
From inside, outside of the window it is
Always spring.
In the late summer
The wind blows through mesh screen and
Smells of fresh cut grass.
It is safe behind the window when the wind howls
Or when the rain pounds—
Nothing can get through the glass.

I look and see my
reflection in it’s panes like
crystal clear water.

It’s always as open or as closed
As I want it to be.
The locks at the top
Can keep other people out
and keep me in.

(Drips)

Raindrops
.
.
.
.
on my forehead
down my nose
over my lips
soaking through brown hair,
pink t-shirt, blue jeans.
soaking through my winter hardened skin.

Mud mucks
Grass tickling my ankles
wet between my toes
Silky, soft and tender.

Sonnellino

gentle breeze whispers
sacred soft grasshopper lullabies
they drift in my window
making the curtains dance and the
shiny plastic blades of the window fan
spin lazily
green grass fresh and soft with dew
heated by the sun send soft sweet aromas
mixing with summer barbeque and
slightly coated with the memory of rain
water tastes electric on
warm summer days slight perspiration
rolling along the hairline
as naptime arrives and the world is refreshingly
at peace.