I Wish to be Seen and It Won’t See Me

Here in the sight of splendor, 

of golden stone

of flying buttresses and of diamonds,
where kings have slept, and played, and dreamed,


here I stand and find it untouched.
I am an outsider, and it is aloof.
If I touch the glass, 
it will not shatter, 
and if it does, 
no one will blame 
me.


Oh to be visible, oh to be tangible!
To know that I, little I, will leave a mark upon the world.
Too much to hope then,
that I will be remembered someday for the 
eyes that see and fingers that know.
Too much to hope without possessing that splendor,
those 
kingly 
dreams.

Chambord's Beautiful Details, a photo by Samantha Decker on Flickr.

Am I American?

Free Verse Poem Inspired by Langston Hughes' "Theme for English B"

The instructor said,

Go on and write a poem now
About being an American.
Put in how you see yourself,
What is and what is not.

And so I pondered on a white page,
Typed, paused to glance out a darkened window.
What is this land I see? These curving highways
Patched with rivulets of tar and striped yellow.
What is America?

Land of the free,
Land of the brave,
Land of plenty,
Land of hope.
What is an American?
What am I?

I am no tycoon, no socialite,
But I dream dreams and I hope hopes.
I am no solider, no patriot,
But my heart beats faster when the anthem plays.
I am no great inventor, no political firebrand,
But in my mind run plans and schemes and ideas.

Because I know no bounds inhibit me from pulling myself and others up,
Because I will suffer and grit my teeth against the wind,
Because I am willing to make my voice heard above the lies and corruption,
Because I see these highways and dare to call them my own,
Because I am white, and there are many
Black
Red
Yellow
Slant eyes
Strange voices
But I can join hands with them, and
Because I can, I call myself
American.

This is my poem, my country.

Tears for Free Wings

Little bits of me, dribbled out by increments.
Tearing, tearing. One creates the other.
Breathing comes choked, blockage in the throat and it seeps into my eyes.


     Give thanks for the dove that has flown,
     Rejoice for the white wings that at last found freedom.
     How hard it is for a caged bird to bless the unhindered ones.


          We smile through our tearing,
          We smile through the bars.
          No longer hearing their sweet song, we know
          The clouds will one day welcome us.

HeartBroken-Tears are the Baptism of Soul, a photo by honikum on Flickr.

peace dove, a photo by AlicePopkorn on Flickr.

The Path that Runs by Frostlight

Bench, originally uploaded by The Neepster.

Slight and all alone, where will you go? 

The frost beckons down the path,

will you follow,

will you follow it? 

Sit down on this bench and rest,

no hurry now to run.

The path that runs by frostlight

will not perish in the sun.

Studying in Comfort

The intricate patterns left by rain originally uploaded by GirlReporter

A hot cup of chai by the rainy window;

my day slips behind a cloud and I'm so grateful.

Try to bother me with future responsibilities.

I'm doing my work and it's all I can do

in this moment.

The Old Year Displaced

The Old Year plays a mournful dirge

On his organ dusty, dim.

He awaits the full, hateful hour

When the New Year will march in.

A blast flinches the candle flames

The Old Year’s strength grows feeble.

Dark tear glistens on hoary cheek

Against the coming evil.

Hark!

And see the New Year coming;

Mark her blithesome pipers.

A wreath of blossoms crowns her brow

A gladdened tune she’s humming.

She treads a path of melting snow,

Winter shivers in her wake.

Up to the church where soon she’ll reign.

Icicles snap, fall, and break.

The New Year dances up the aisle

Young and light and bright is she.

The Old Year turns from organ keys

Fearing, to face the beauty.

Hark!

Seeing her young girlish face

The Old Year does recall,

That mirror of springtime whispers

Echoing his former grace.

Casting out all anxious keening,

New Year clasps the Old Year’s hands.

They dance through caliginous dusk

Laughing at the night’s demands.

This in past and this in future

Always then shall be the way.

Darkness falls and dead men lecture

Never marring break of day.

Hark!

Mourn not for Old Year’s leaving,

Lest springtime pass you by.

Stroking the bark of withered trees

Leaves April’s blossoms grieving.

As he passes into the night

The Old Year turns ‘round once more.

The New Year’s pipers warble sweet

Up and up the glad notes soar.

The Old Year passes silently;

Light from windows fades away,

Leaving the steady candlelight

To brighten each song, each day.