Lazy Comfort (pantoum)

Laying in the prickly grass
Clouds float by
While the sun blinds my eye
And sleep overwhelms

Clouds float by
Passing the time
And sleep overwhelms
Continuously

Passing the time
In my bed
Continuously
Reading his words

In my bed
While the sun blinds my eye
Reading his words
Tears of joy

While the sun blinds my eyes
Clouds float by
Tears of joy
As sleep overwhelms

Too Much Fat (pantoum)

One across from the other
Balancing our weight then
Upsetting the equilibrium on
Our teeter totter

Balancing our weight then
Here comes the cat
Our teeter totter
Can’t handle that

Here comes the cat
Leaping up it
Can’t handle that
And tumbles

Leaping up it
Trots towards the juniper
And tumbles
Into the mud

Trotting towards the juniper
Upsetting the equilibrium
Into the mud
One across from the other

It's really You (pantoum)

How on earth could I be more blunt?
This is just sad—
you panting on my street.
I don’t love you.

This is just sad—
Nothing could explain us.
I don’t love you.
Please walk away. Now.

Nothing could explain us.
I would always be waiting.
Please walk away. Now.
Can’t take that chance.

I would always be waiting.
So keep on playing “our” song
Can’t take that chance
How on earth could I be blunter?

So keep on playing “our” song,
This is just sad—
Can’t take that chance
That I may love you.

Come Self, awake (sestina)

I can’t believe that I am still awake
and not anywhere close to finished.
Once my work has completed its self
all I want is for morning to come
so I can hand it in for credit
and move on to the next.

I don’t want to do this! What’s next?
That class—as if only I stay awake
but if I did, then he’d give me more credit.
It’s not too early to be finished
with the project. Just waiting for him to come
So I can be more of myself.

Now wait. Why is he not his self
today? The only step we can do next
is to see what this will become.
We need to be awake
to the possibility it cannot be finished.
We’re gonna finish so we get credit.

There is no way I believe his credit
score is low. Him and his self
only will have to be finished
with this or next
I’ll be laying awake
waiting for him to come

home back to me where they come
to collect what he owes, his credit.
How was he not awake
and let this happen? He’s not his self
at all. I don’t understand what’s next
going to happen. It needs to be finished

although it feels as if it could never be finished,
not between him and them, now that they’ve come
and want all their dues next
because it isn’t his credit
but theirs and they only care about self.
They don’t lay awake.

I will awake my husband until it is finished.
I don’t care for myself but it has to come
to an end, this credit, or else he is next.

Suprising Conversation (ghazal)

When he doesn’t know what he’s talking about, it’s really funny
especially when you know what he’s trying to attack.

You can’t help but listen with amusement and incredible awe
that someone could be so stupid. You weren’t expecting funny.

You feel sad for the poor guy, wondering if he knows
how far off he is because he wouldn’t think it was funny.

I know I have an opinion and I like to share my thoughts
but I hate feeling stupid. How many times have I been “funny”?

I just can’t help myself though. He really is ranting.
Should I correct him? No, it’s just too funny!

Muggy (ghazal)

To some, humidity stifles their airway
preferring to lay around in dry heat without the sticky moisture

To those who have lived in air void of rampant amounts of water
gulping in thick air and constantly feeling wet to the touch, are no fans of moisture

Some women complain about frizzy hair or curls falling out
while children would rather sit inside with AC instead of Moisture.

But to me, I feel stifled in dry heat and my skin cracks.
My body craves water, longing for air that brings my lungs moisture

Smothering air wraps its arm around me each time I step off the plane,
Splashing my face with the essence of home: moisture.

Sidewalk Slurpie (ghazal)

Walking from building to building trying to avoid the slush
wondering why the salt doesn’t also dissolve the slush.

Keeping your head down to fight the biting sting of the wind, watching
your feet take step by step through the snow, salt, red rock, and slush.

A five minute walk seems like twenty and while you try to walk fast to escape the cold,
you are careful not to walk too fast or else you may end up with a rear end covered in slush.

The snow may look pretty but the salt that climbs up your jeans is not
Nor the red rock that stains your shoes as you tromp through the slush.

I don’t mind the cold that chaffs your face or the layers of clothes that add bulk or
the off chance that I may fall but I dearly dread the continuous red salty slush.

Freedom (ghazal)

Surrounded by shadows, who knows how long I’ve been awake,
laying here dreaming of the time when finals are done and I can newly awake.

At last! The tests are over and possessions packed tightly in boxes, wrapped up in bags.
The thrill of the day long adventure alone in my car tingles my body awake.

Singing my heart out along with Delilah as the miles flash by my eyes
as the feel of the hot sticky wheel in my hands keeps me awake.

Driving for miles and miles, and yet still more to check off, eyes begin to droop.
The wind rips through my hair, reminding me to keep arousing my faculties and awake.

Landscapes become familiar and my heart surges with joy.
Hugs and kisses all around, cries of welcome fill the air. I am completely awake.

A Working Man (villanelle)

There’s always something else left to be done
yet no one can ever accomplish all in this life.
It feels like it you are always on the run.

Everything keeps piling up but in the long run
it doesn’t seem like too much of a strife.
There’s always something else left to be done.

You long for home where your newborn son
will be in your arms along with your wife.
It feels like it you are always on the run.

Could this day be anymore devoid of fun?
Why doesn’t someone just cut me open with a knife?
There’s always something else left to be done.

One cannot help but to shun
The clients who only bring you pain with rife.
It feels like it you are always on the run.

In my own little corner I am the only one
Who can pass the time by playing the fife.
There’s always something else left to be done.
It feels like it you are always on the run.

Pipsqueak Geek, Speedway Monday (villanelle)

Cry when you laugh, cry when you speak
That’s what you hear them say
Trying hard to make her voice meek

Although this life can make one weak
There is always a brighter day
Cry when you laugh, cry when you speak

Don’t view the world as bleak
But let her live her life as a cliché
Trying hard to make her voice meek

Not everyone should belong to a clique
You are every version of the sky: do not downplay
Cry when you laugh, cry when you speak

Believe in her for she does seek
To find her place and not stray
Trying hard to make her voice meek

Let us go down to that boutique
Before this goes away
Cry when you laugh, cry when you speak
Trying hard to make her voice meek

The mountain air reminded me of why I wanted to live.

As I began up the mountain trail, I sucked in a lusty breath of fresh air, pulling in everything I could. These were the days I lived for—where pine trees scented the air, chipmunks, birds, and squirrels darted through the rocks and brush, tall grasses swaying with the wind, flowers peeking out to bloom. Nothing so fresh dotted the high-rise silhouette that was my daily companion.

I always knew my mother hated me.

Every card given for her birthday or mother’s day is nowhere to be found, unless you search in old forgotten boxes or files only touched by dust through the ages. I walk through the house, each room hiding a gift I had furtively deliberated over. A pair of butterscotch silk lamp shades atop twisted wrought iron lamps that brighten the den, full-length eggshell satin curtains trimmed with intricate lace cascading over the living room windows, an elaborate chandelier hanging above the dining room table creates prancing rainbows across the walls and floor, while the hand carved chest that fills her bedroom with the sweet tang of cedar wood. All passed over, daily, nothing cared for. Yes, my mother hates me.