Three Works of Poetry

                                                                         The Journey
I’m going somewhere.
Where? I’ll tell you later.
I’m reading, you see
The book in my hands
the buds in my ears.
Still,
someone sits down
Next to me,
filling the space.
An assumption,
Far off
from being anywhere near
The truth:
Yes, I read.
Yes, I can talk.
Not to you, though.
Still,
your questions assume,
And are very asinine.
You dig in my pockets,
prodding
clawing.
Hooked on your idea of me:
So shy, simply too quiet,
a loner. Lonely.
Just leave it behind…
That’s what I’ll do.
I’m meeting someone, you see.
Her name is Acceptance.
Well, what does she look like?
Don’t be silly.
She looks just like me.

                                                                            The Hunt
I really am sure
It’s just hard, sometimes
I think I’m ready,
willing to try something new,
something unfamiliar:
I might greet someone
I might go somewhere
Ask them how they are,
or where they’re from
They seem cool
I think my smile is warm,
friendly, kind, open
Up, is what they tell me
Speak up
I do, and a bridge opens
The bridge of a song
That thinks it should come in
During my hook
I get a sinking feeling
When my solo
Gets drowned out by the chorus
That they’ve tuned out
That this is growing awkward
Just like the silence
And the space already between us,
it is
Closed off
Is what kids said
Teachers said
Adults say
If people do not know
They will pretend they do
They will pretend to
Be a hunter
Searching for ammunition
Looking for a rock
To sharpen their blade
To get a grasp
Find their aim

Rounds of questions
Straight from a magazine
Firing into me with sharp tones
Piercing me with double-edged questions
I answer them
The dot of a question mark
A hole in my chest
Where details leak out
It’s not much
It’s not enough
And so they leave
They prayed upon prey
That scurried through the field
In pursuit of a narrative that suited theirs
A nice, snug, comfortable fit
Instead, a fit of rage
When their prey escapes
Their prayers unanswered
They found their target
Then decided it was practice
Sure, I’m still free
They did not take me
They did not cage me
This is still my homeland
But it’s not the same
Nor will it ever be

The Seasons and Me
It’s January, the start of a new year
For me, time feels like it’s at a stand-still
I see the ball drop
Yet I’m still suspended
It’s only 60 degrees
But my bones tell me it’s negative six
Weeks later, I feel myself thaw
My thoughts don’t feel as rigid
They flow
Like water
Dripping,
Cascading,
Choppy
But I love it
Love is in the air, after all
So is luck
Everything is green
It’s vibrant, radiant
The birds want to tell me all about it, too
I see them everyday
And we talk about everything
From sunrise to sunset
But I don’t see them as often
Once the moon slowly overstays his welcome
Then the birds leave altogether
The moon makes himself at home
Watching me through the trees
He’s the weirdest neighbor I’ve ever had