poem

An Ode to My Boys

The oldest grandchild in my immediate family was a boy. The most recent grandchild, born this week, is a boy.
The six grandchildren born between the two also…have been boys.

I’ve got eight nephews, and this poem is an ode to the beauty that they are in my life.

To my first one:
Tonight, as I read you a story in your bed,
My mind wandered as you leaned your almost-seven-year-old head on my shoulder.
I felt your little sighs and the little struggles on your big heart,
As you prepared to go to sleep, a big brother for the 4th time.
It was a long book, and I asked if you were ready to press pause,
And right before you said yes, you said quietly “can you just read one more page?”
And my heart split, and I read three more pages.
You have younger brothers, four of them now,
And three little cousins who live past the hay-filled farms and old American towns on the other side of this country.
There’s 8 little guys in all.
And my love, for each, continues to grow.
For the little eyes that blink awake in my arms,
And the little eyes that blink shut as I sit nearby,
And the little hands that squeeze tight,
And the tighter hugs when it’s only been a couple of days.
And the giggles, and the jokes that really make me laugh,
And the long talks about space, and the Mayor, and saving the day.
For the FaceTimes, and the naps on my lap.
For the exploration, and the trust I see in your sweet little eyes.
For the way you reach out your hands and ask to play.
For the songs we sing together, for the inside jokes we share, for the little whispered secrets.
And for the moment your hand grips mine as we walk down the street,
my heart not ready for the fact that any day now you’ll realize you’re too big for that.
And the best part about loving all of you
Is sharing you with all your aunties and uncles.
Because it means you’ll always be loved.
And you’ll never doubt
That the world has your back
And that you’re capable of everything.

To my newest one:
Last night, I sat near your oldest brother,
Waiting for his many thoughts to drift
Into peaceful slumber
And tears found my eyes.
My heart swelled at the thought
Of you: my newest boy,
Ready to join the chorus of little boy voices
And my tears fell
But they were happy tears, baby,
And they filled eyes that will watch you grow,
My heart barely containing my love for you,
And all my little boys.

 

 

24/52


Photo by Dragos Gontariu on Unsplash

Bare Feet

What is it about an airport,

that everyone’s soul shines through?

I see it through the little holes in their socks,

and their bare feet at security.

Who doesn’t think to wear socks on airport day?

I see it through their sweet voices,

explaining to their five-year-old,

why must we go through this security line –

“to check if anyone has snakes or spiders in their bags, dear”

I can see a world in which that is why we must all bare our feet

for TSA to peek through our shoes

and find our secrets.

I can see the soul in the woman whom I’m begging

to switch my middle seat to an aisle seat,

I see her long day, her long future,

I’m tired, but so is she, and I am not the first, nor the last, to beg her for something that is not in her control.

I see the soul in the man who sits beside me,

who talks about the old days

when corporate airlines didn’t charge for hot meals

and headphones.

I smile at him and I reach out to buy some headphones because I’m not doing this middle seat flight solo. 

What is it about airports?

They say airports are a no-mans-land, no country can claim it, and perhaps that’s what it is.

None of us are home, yet none of us are lost, we are all in between the beginning and end of a journey.

And we’re in our socks.

For some of us, it’s bare feet.

And we all hope there are no snakes in someone else’s bag.

 

 

19/52.

Photo by chuttersnap on Unsplash

Powerless.

Powerless.

That is how I feel as I whisper psalms.
Hands tied behind my back,
As I beg G-d to chill, the, freak, out.
Exhausted.
That is how I feel in my every bone,
Heavy with the weight of the tears
That refuse to come out.
I’m aching; aching; aching.
My stomach is in knots,
Where will the next fracture in our earth occur?
Who will be the next to break?
How do we live in a world so filled to the brim with pain?
I pray; I pray; I pray.
17/52.

Memory Lane

A walk down memory lane
can be filled with pot holes
and thorny bushes.
Sometimes,
I close my eyes,
trying to avoid the things that hurt me.
But,
when you walk down memory lane,
guided by one of the people
who was there with you,
someone who
recognizes the same cracks in the road,
and can remind you of your voice,
and who you used to be,
the walk
becomes filled with beauty.
You can remember the flowers,
and the sound of silence,
becomes sweet,
rather than scary,
and the walk down memory lane,
with those special souls,
shows you the length of how far you’ve walked,
how far you’ve come
and how much you’ve grown.

12/52.

Photo by Simon Rae on Unsplash

It’s Midnight

 

at midnight, the world quiets

the flowers close

a baby cries

a wolf howls, maybe,

in the distance.

 

someone turns in her bed

her mind awake

with millions of colors

and millions of dreams

a future calls, maybe,

in the distance.

 

someone lays in her bed

thinking about 6am

and the to-do list

and the endless journey

there seems to be

to tomorrow.

 

It’s midnight,

and everything is dark,

and the future

is hard to see.

 

5/52.


Photo by nrd on Unsplash

The Edge

I’m on a mission to learn from all the people I see around me, to listen close and gain from the process.

This poem may not mean much, it may mean a lot, I’m honestly not sure, and I simply wrote it because I want to be writing more. More than once a month.

And so here is a poem born from a line overheard from a stranger in the library:

“We’re always 3 steps away

from becoming those

we fear

and those

we pity”

the boy in the library

explained

“I always feel like

I’m right

on the

edge”

He wasn’t talking to me.

I heard it as I studied,

I sat only on the

edge

of his conversation.

His bleached blonde hair,

nose ring,

and long black leather coat

said a story.

Did I fear him?

Did I pity him?

How close was I

to the

edge?

Those we fear, and those we pity.

Heretic or

fanatic.

Rich or

poor.

Bad choice or

good.

Always,

right on the

edge.

Those I fear

and those I pity

and then me.

3 steps to an

edge.

For how long

can one balance?

 

Photo by Joshua Stannard on Unsplash

A Poem for Today

Tomorrow is when
the flowers bloom
The grass grows
The project ends
And the diet begins.

Tomorrow is when
things come easy
Dreams come true
Tasks get done
And life makes sense.

Tomorrow is when
I’ll write the poem
Start the book
Call the friend
And chase my dreams.

And one day
I’ll make tomorrow
Into today
And I’ll stop saying
Tomorrow.

And I’ll start
With writing this poem
On a day
In which there are no more tomorrows
To push today upon.

Blog post: 46/52

Featured photo via Unsplash.

The Before

A poem titled: Potential.

 

A baby, fresh in his parents arms.
Fingers and toes,
A beating heart,

A lifetime ahead.

A couple, on the brink of the rest of their life,
Breathless with joy,
A new home,
Full hearts and big plans,

A story waiting to be told.

A child, feet swinging in his chair,
A new notebook,
New pens and an open mind,

Eager to be nurtured.

A seed, buried gently by fingers,
Watered and watched,
Cared for and sun-kissed,

A flower about to bloom.

Me, as I wipe the sleep from my eyes,
Yesterday’s mistakes fresh on my mind.
I feel pockmarked with
Bad choices.

  …. 
A fresh start
Doesn’t mean the cracks
On my fragile heart have healed
But it means
I can fix them.

 …. 
A fresh start
Doesn’t mean my soul
Is ready to speak to me,
But it means
Today-

Maybe I’ll listen.

Each day I awaken
With fresh potential
Always able to turn a page,
A new chapter,

A new start.

Yesterday may be stained
With yesterday’s pain
But today is still clean
And the future lies in wait.
And lives are waiting to be changed
And stories are waiting to be told
And lessons are waiting to be learned
And growth is waiting to be grown
And time is standing still

For only a moment.

Blog Post: 42/52


Featured Photo by Markus Spiske on Unsplash

A Letter To The Ocean

First,
May I begin with an apology,
For I know we all seem
Like we love hypocrisy.
 …
People flock to your shores
But when you try to come closer
We flee, put up walls, shut our doors.
  …
We humans throw ourselves
Inside of you
Aching to fight your current
Yearning for the challenge
Of keeping ourselves afloat.
Why do we do that?
  …

Ocean, a hypocrisy yourself.
Your water,
It gives life,
But in an instant,
It can take it.

 … 
Which kind of reminds me of myself.
I am inherently good,
A creation of G-d.
Yet sometimes I feel closer to evil,
Destructive,
Of mind, body and soul.
  …
Your roar is both silent
And loud at the same time.
Your waves are both menacing
And welcoming.
You are paradise
And destruction.
  …
And I love every moment
I get to share with you.
As you wash away my pain,
My tears disguised
As your own.
You hold so many of my memories,
Sweet ones,
Summer ones.
  …
You’re endless in the way
That I need.
A reminder that there is no limit
To your vastness
That there is no limit
to greatness.
No limit
to joy.
  …
So I thank you
for even though you know I can’t stay
You’ve welcomed me
Again and again,
To get lost
For as long as I need.
  …

Blog Post: 40/52

Featured photo by Karl Frederickson via Unsplash.

What is Beauty to Me?

In a world of beauty,
and a world
of ugly,
what
is
beauty
to me?
oooo
A heart ripped open
beating
pulsing
a heart worn
on one’s sleeve:
that is beauty
to me.
oooo
A plate filled
with warm flavors,
warm laughter,
a moment
together:
that is beauty
to me.
oooo
A handwritten letter,
a smeared edge,
thought
put into
each word:
that is beauty
to me.
oooo
A small face streaked
with leftover
dinner
sticky hands
a bright smile:
that is beauty
to me.
oooo
The sound of the sea,
the silence,
and roar,
the stars above:
that is beauty
to me.
oooo
A tear on a face,
a whisper
of love,
a look
that says everything:
that is beauty
to me.

Blog Post: 38/52.

Featured Photo by STIL on Unsplash