Fig Season – A Poem
The fig tree is ripe
Its juice eats my skin
So you may have
Paradise with honey
For breakfast
Fig Season
Category: Writing
Driftwood
Driftwood – A Poem
My blood is bound to water
The sea salt’s in my veins
My drifting bones bleach under sun
Hoping to find a place to rest
Until the next violent tempest
Monday, May 9, 2022
In the America I knew you loved me
But that was years ago
Before we saw the future
Before we were wise enough to know
That it had all been an illusion
One that in many prefer to stay
But I could never exist
If we were to continue that way
Some dreams are meant to be broken
Just to shake ourselves awake
Few things can be truly healing:
Surgical wounds; unpacking heartache.
Once this morning fog has lifted
And the world has enough data to go
I’m here to pick up my pieces
Of destruction unintentionally sewn
My Only Flag
A hundred generations
And for a hundred more
My family carries their identity on a boat
No land can contain us – our story is Time
Our semaphore is our story – it signals passerby
Carry these rags: storms and harbors
To the four winds: remember your teachings