Speed Bump

I would run if I could walk
without a limp. It rarely shows,
but only because I stand still
instead of embarass myself
with stumbles and falls.
I am not weak or incomplete.
God botched my wiring,
forcing me into acrobatics
for movements others take
for granted. The effort exhausts
me for nothing to gain,
so I hide inside a chair
to hide a limp that will not be fixed,
because it hurts less never to walk
again than to fall on my face
in front of a world that is not my friend.

One-Sided Conversation

Feels good to write again. My poem for day 3’s prompt of Writers Digest’s 2014 April Poem-a-Day Challenge: Write a message poem.

r u hungry? let’s go 2 panera!! :)
thats cool. im busy 2. :(
still need help w/math?? im a wiz! :)
no didnt take statistics :( maybe i can help anyway :)
how’s the essay coming along? need help with that? :)
no. i never read that book.
ready for a break? let’s hang out a bit. i’m just chillin’ in the library.
that’s a lot of homework. i have lots too. i should work on my essay.
No, I finished it, but I should probably look over it again. :) See you next week!
Oh. Well, have fun at Disneyland with your boyfriend. I’m so jealous.

Minimum Day

It’s about time I wrote again. My poem for day 2’s prompt of Writers Digest’s 2014 April Poem-a-Day Challenge: Write a voyage poem.

Home lay over the overpass,
but a yellow sign forbid two ten-year-olds from crossing.
I thought the trek around would be as straight,
but streets branched into industries
we never saw on drives back home.
The paths I hoped would lead us back
ended in walls we wouldn’t scale.
I understood street names as little
as graffiti on the sides of empty buildings
and company logos unseen at Toys’R’Us.
The few passersby that drove these streets
would neither stop nor slow for us—
we knew not to talk to strangers anyway.
A nudge and a prayer guided my way.

We crawled through the labyrinth
hungry for food and home and Sega games;
I wished I could reset now that we were stuck.
I would’ve listened to my brother when
he said we should walk to grandma’s two blocks from school
or even wait for mom to pick us up,
but I knew the way home, just not below
the overpass we had driven across before.
Halfway through, we couldn’t turn back.
Tall blocks of buildings hid east from west—
as if I could read a compass anyway—
but a hunch encouraged me forward.
I just had to find the right direction.
Home lay only a few blocks away.



In response to Writer’s Digest Wednesday Poetry Prompt: “Write a poem about something in the room.”

Spilt salt spoils luck
but sprinkles season meat
and shrivels up the slugs
and erodes healthy teeth.
Salt makes you sneeze
and makes wounds sting
and flavors your tongue
with words that spice
up life with a savior
but still burn when thrown
in someone else’s eyes.
Salt resides in seas
inhabited by schools
and inhabits mines
occupied by kids,
then transferred to stores
in family-friendly packages
to preserve factory meat
of genetically modified sheep.
Salt softens ice
and hardens fruit
and seasons lies
with supple truth.
Salt lives in our flesh,
our bones, and in our mouths,
but the salt we crave most
comes from the clouds.

Transit of Venus

Transit of Venus
Amazing what you can capture with an iPhone and a telescope.

A beauty mark on the Sun–
the final event of the century.
Its procession across the star
observed by passerbys.

A sight to blind, but worth the burn–
history brands the eye.
An encore promised one hundred years
too late for minute lives.