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.