At last, she sits upon her bed
An herbal cup of tea she's poured

Ocean blue sheets, against tan skin
A sunset in her crystal cup

Wrinkled fingers curl the glass
And rosy lips take in a sip

Fasting in FSM (Free Speech Movement Cafe)

written by a hungry, fasting girl.


You chew.
I watch.
"You want a piece," you say--
a mouth spraying crumbs
your teeth pestles ever so gently grinding
the food against the walls of your cheeks.

"No, thank you," I say--
all the while looking at your lips
gates of heaven opening and closing
to sour dough bread embracing
fiery cheddar cheese
ripe tomatoes
crunchy cucumbers
bread pieces soaked in heavy, red tomato soup

"All right," you say.
the redness of strawberries caught in the cracks of your teeth
and melted chocolate against your lips.

I think the glee held in my stomach,
escaped through my eyes
at the sight of your meal.
And as doors to my stomach's desires,
my lips uncontrollably smack,
yearning to recreate the sound yours do.

She sneaked a handful of tea leaves
from her mother's tin tea can
In her palm they looked like thick, shriveled, black ants.

Between the edge of her home with peeling, blue paint
and her red bicycle thrown on its side
she dug a hole,

and one by one the speckled daytime stars
fell from her fingers into their underground sky.

She had watched the tea leaves fall from her mothers fingers
into her teapot always gently humming on the stove
and she had watched that with her mother's touch
these speckled shriveled leaves came to life in full bloom

So now she sprinkled water on her tea leaves.
She gave those same black tea leaves from her mother's tin tea can.
room to grow underground
so that they could bloom
without glass walls caging them in.

Raining Against the Windows of My Office

pit patter against the windows surrounding my room.

It's difficult to work in front of a computer when the only thing separating you from feeling the drips of rain strike your cheek is a solid pane of glass.
Sitting behind the glass window under the rain is a tree with bright green leaves and tiny white flowers sprinkled across it's stems. It's leaves and gentle stems drape across my window like curtains.

At times I fall into a lull with the rhythm of the rain pit pattering against my window, and the greyness of the sky that seems to put a shade of color on all that sits below it, like the world's blanket, protecting it from the disappearance of the sun.

Then suddenly, across my window a sparks of color fly by- the breast of a robin perhaps. Midst the gray it was refreshing to suddenly grasp the color. I always wondered why it is that the under breast of a bird is the one of the only features in rain that seems as if it is invincible to the gray shade of the clouds.

Perhaps it's because with rain, the birds huddle among themselves, they face their breasts in as they sit near each other in a circle, and they silently whisper the songs we normally hear to each other, lullaby.

So I guess the robin that flew across my window, must have been the one who finds the rain across its wings, sliding down its beak, fitting gently into its undersides exhilarating. The robin that flew across my window must be the one who finds a way around the single glass pane window.

The Artist and his Palette

One week ago I went on a trail that passed by a creek carrying a steady hum. That passed through trees whose branches were bare, but carried powerful character and hills that were carpeted in the a shade of green not typically seen. It was a as if the color in the sun's deep yellow rays and the forest green from leaves that were on trees earlier in the season were literally blended on a palette and sprayed across the hills. The trail would ultimately lead us to a single bench on top of a hill with green grass carpet at its shoulders.

As we stepped on the thin dirt trail that ran like a beautiful woven braid from the back of this bench to the tips of our feet, I was given a California golden poppy picked from the trail and placed between my fingers.

This poppy has changed my view of the world.

As I held the poppy between my fingers and gradually stepped on the braid so delicately situated in its surroundings, I began to notice the complete coordination in its coloring. The poppy was painted with colors I would never imagine complimented each other. A bright green, similar to the blend of the green grass in its surroundings was wrapped around its stems. The petals were orange as if their artist had taken an orange and flattened its surface replacing bumpy texture with silk-- letting color move with more flow and grace through its veins, free from obstruction. And what held the green stem with the orange petals wrapped around each other was a bright, pink ring.

Green. Pink. Orange.

Three colors I would never paint together in an image, or wear together in an outfit, and yet side by side in this poppy it seemed as if they were three sisters, all born from the same mother, standing side by side--complete compliments.

Since I held this poppy between my fingers while standing on the world's shoulders, I notice the beauty and design of nature's colors on a daily basis.

Strawberries with vibrant red dresses and white speckles, and deep, green, bangs.
Salads with dark green spinach and bright purple cabbage.
Trees with patches of green moss sown into deep, brown trunks.
Cliffs blended brown and gray with strings of dark gold running across.

Since the poppy, the world around me is overflowed with color. Vibrant, passionate, jovial color. It's a world no set of words will ever be able to describe sufficiently. And rightly so because its a world I don't need to describe. Lift your head and open your eyes and you'll see it for yourself.

I Journey Through My Heart...

Take my hand. I’ll take you somewhere you’ve never been before. Take my hand. Follow me. I have places to take you, a life to show you

I hesitantly slid my fingers into the hand stretched before me letting the breeze push me gently along in the direction of the imprinted footsteps ahead.

Let go of my hand. We’re in the meadows. Don’t put steps in front of another. Pause. Look around you. There’s no one in sight. It’s all yours to hold.

I let go and for a split second I was afraid. She was right. It was only me.

The grass twirled between my toes, wrapping itself around feet, dancing around my ankles. I lowered my hand forward, mesmerized by their ability to bend in thousands of directions yet remain graceful. The instant the tips of my fingers brushed against the tip of the meadow’s hair, I was no longer in control. Each blade of grass ran through my fingertips—veins in my body, surrendering my movement to the will of the wind. My feet stepped in sync with the dirt below me. I was blade of grass in a meadow, dancing to the rhythm of the wind I was immersed in. The breeze would rush up through the roots my heels had grown in the dirt below, and move my body backwards and forwards. With every beat my head would fall back toward the sky embracing the meadow with its vast ceiling of clouds. We were synchronized dancers—unified—the blades of grass and I. We kept our rhythm so as to bleed into the dirt below us.

All we were missing was a heartbeat strong enough to prick lives and engrain my heels deeper into the dirt. I felt my heart, but it lacked beat. It was void of a rhythm to push us in sync.

And as if waiting for a reason, our heartbeat started from the ceiling of dark clouds above—drip by drip, slow at first but quickly gaining speed. Every beat struck upon my tender body was a burst of hope. Every beat lost from the clouds was one bestowed in the depth of our veins. We were complete, surrendering and overpowered by the beat. No longer did we simply move with the guidance of the wind, but every heartbeat pushed us into a new direction.

With every beat, my heart gained momentum deepening its rhythm.

I felt it push against the walls of my chest, stretching its walls. And with a final beat it broke through and out it stretched…

Take my hand. I’ll take you somewhere you’ve never been before. Take my hand. Follow me. I have places to take you, a life to show you…

And so I took the hand that was extending from my body outward, from where my heart used to be. I pulled my roots out from the dirt. And I followed.

X-Ray

I saw bare bones,
naked
no flesh, no thick red meat to protect them
no skin masquerading their appearance.

I saw bare bones,
and they were painted with tiny, vibrant wild flowers,
stems weaving through colors,
and binding around the whiteness
"For every time she felt love and was loved," He said.

And as I stared in awe I came across a deep, dark crevice
"Scars of when her heart broke," He said.

The darkness, filled with desire, to wrench colors from the flowers
A vacuum to unwind stems and suck them down.

Just as I was drowned in the power of a broken hear to agonize existing beauty,
A young, green stem appeared struggled in the depth of the crevice.

It pushed through the bends and dents,
blind in the darkness,
Its head peeped out,
It gained speed and began to thicken.

Color appeared,
blooming into the largest, most vibrant flower,
standing out among the rest.

I turned to Him in awe, suspicion.
He gave a smile.
And I understood.

Better than the thickest flesh,
and the strongest skin--
A flower that can fight through the crevice,
resist the hallow,
and blindly find its way,
will hold her bones together.