writing poems

Honestly, I don't think I'm that good of a poet, and I don't particularly like writing poems, but, as you can see, I continue to write them, against my own will. Just one of the mysteries of life.

Juvenile Eyes

My grandmother’s eyes kept me wondering,
What a grandmother was,
Long after she stopped being one.

In her juvenile eyes
The drugs of the past were present.
Her poppy seed pupils once frightened
My stems, green legs connected to hers.
Quivering roots collapsing,
My father’s spread petals
Caught my legs, made them straight,
So my grandmother could try again.

In her juvenile eyes
Snow melted into icy puddles.
I tried to drink from them and nearly
Choked, yet continued, trying.
How badly I wanted to nourish
The whites of her eyes.

My grandmother, you tried
To teach me your tongue,
Time is tiempo, you said.
I’m still working on its meaning.

The child you were, my grandmother,
Left me wondering
What a grandmother was.
But your juvenile eyes assured me
We are all children
Regardless of the word.

caring enough to wonder

sometimes i wonder
sometimes i wonder if anyone cares like me
if anyone feels like me
if anyone listens like me
and sometimes i wonder
if i care like someone
if i feel like someone
if i listen like someone
if someone is at all like me
if i am at all like You

It all began with the word wax...

Axeer

wax in you ear
tax is your fear
quacks say your queer
cracks in your mirror
Pax chants your seer
smacks from your jeer
backs to your tear
relax I Am here.