Boy in the Moonlight A silver swirl lay upon a silver button left on the rock hard floor its keeper, an unknown person A silver swirl in my palm like a whirlpool in the sea I could almost feel the cool water A silver swirl lay upon a silver button left on the hard rock floor its keeper, an unknown person.
Poem
Hairs
Everybody in my family has different hair. My papa’s hair is russet, like freshly watered soil, sometimes charcoal when it gets wet. Laith’s hair is light brown like lush potatoes straight out of the garden, like the crisp part of a cookie. Layla’s hair is yellow, like pasta in the pot; it’s darker on the top and gets bleached towards the bottom. My hair is strawberry blonde, all yellow inside, and redder in the sunlight. But my mother’s hair—perfect blonde, all bleached on top and tan underneath, sunbathed and splashed with a dose of light like it laid down on the beach for hours. It is dough sprinkled with flowers, flowing with a variation of colors in every strand. It is the color you see in your dreams, the color that is neither fake nor real. You feel its beauty when you sit by her, and the long flowing strands on your skin, and everyone laughing inside, and the thunder clouds rolling in. The thunder clouds rolling in, everyone laughing, and Mama’s hair that looks like a dream.
Rainy Dawn
Lighthouse in the Rain Warm & soft at waking You wonder & remember the night before when rain was falling gray & dark The world is silent with thoughts I place my right hand on the glass I see joy in the sky pink & yellow I see rain drizzling down the dawn
Rainy Night
Dark, wet, scary The world outside quivers Raindrops above our heads Two umbrellas black We sit on wet earth The world darkens One umbrella leaves One umbrella alone Crickets quiet Cicadas chirp and flee One umbrella returns Two umbrellas moving Across the rainy night
Perspective
Rainbow Duck Ducks aren’t beautiful They aren’t even pretty Yet when you look at a duck Your mind feels at rest You feel content Like you are in a trance But in reality You are just amazed At how serene the duck is You can’t tell what made you Stop and stare so you move on But there is a flicker of envy In your heart because You truly wish you could be As composed as that duck You shake your head At the thought and walk on Who could be jealous of An ugly duckling? Yet in the right perspective You are the ugly duckling And the duck is the graceful swan.
On the Road, Dreaming of a Garden
Driving in a rented car We stop for a second I observe the diamond Tessellation on a fence I look at the one-way sign Then turn my head I see bricks And yellow paint And beautiful Pink, purple and white Flowers I see green And four trees And yellow flowers I close my eyes And think about The move And how Our new house Might have a Roof garden I will plant Roses and shrubs, Broccoli, celery, Tulips and proteas Orchids and hibiscuses Spinach, mint, dandelions Rosemary, garlic and Onions and thyme There will be Tomatoes and Potatoes and Lilies and buttercups I blink my eyes and I’m no longer in my garden I’m in a tunnel I watch the white And blue and yellow Go flashing by I think of blue proteas, Yellow buttercups, White roses, Chicory Then I’m back In my garden I sit down Among the plants and Read my favorite book
Questions about The Banks of the Loire
The Sunset Stream of consciousness— What is a stream of consciousness? Does it flow like the Loire In J. M.W. Turner’s painting? Is it a river of thoughts? Is it the blue of the sky Reflective like the water Or the pure white of the clouds on the canvas? How do we think? Why do we think? What is thinking? Am I thinking right now? How is thinking possible? Why did Descartes say “I think, therefore I am?” Do we have to think to be? Do plants think? Why am I having a stream of consciousness About a stream of consciousness? What is the meaning of consciousness? Why does the world exist? Why does the universe exist? If something created the world How did that something get created? Why is it possible to exist? Can anything come from nothing? But if it can’t How did anything get started? Has anything existed forever? What happened before the Big Bang? Did the Big Bang happen? Is the simulation theory right? Am I part of a computer or am I real? Is anyone real? But if no one is real Who made the simulation? Why am I thinking about this? Why am I even thinking? Am I thinking in circles? What is a circle? Was Plato right about the world of ideas Where a perfect circle exists As the starting point for all other circles Like a circular cookie cutter? What is the meaning of life? Why? When? Where? What? Who? How? Why do I have so many questions? What’s knowledge? What is anything? Who am I? What am I? When am I? Where am I? Why am I? How am I? What? Am I? What’s going on? What’s not going on? When J. M.W. Turner painted The Banks of the Loire Did he create a parallel universe Where the girl staring at the river wonders If her consciousness flows like a stream? What are questions?
Arrival
Meadow At dawn, I ran to the edge of Olive Border. All I see is the field of flowing gold and the morning fog coming in over Charlotte’s Hill like a tidal wave. The shrubs alongside Gracious Court sway in the eye-opening breeze, pointing to the horizon. I waited for what seemed like hours. Like I was waiting for a fish to bite the bait in the middle of a storm. Like waiting no longer meant anything compared to the soul-wrecking suspense awaiting Father’s arrival. Mother had warned me not to go out too early in case I caught a cold but I had insisted that I would be the second loveliest, welcoming sight he saw after the village. I was about to turn, settling on the fact that Mother was right and Father would be home much later, when I saw Macho the donkey on Charlotte’s Hill, then to my delight the familiar figure in my heart appeared right by his side, arms open wide. “Anna Maria, I’m home!”
Night
As I lay in my bed in the dark of the night when the world silently sleeps, the trees rest and the sun grows dim and the gleaming light of the moon casts a shine over the night-stained pond. The poor old whip-poor-will rests from his journey to bask in the light of the stars and the Moon-woman brushes past with a sudden sort of solemnness, dabbing the tips of the grass with a silvery frost and leaving a diamond-like dewdrop in the center of every flower. The night is a gift to be enjoyed. Windowpanes greet the stray leaves rapping against them. The wind paints an invisible picture through the air whistling its way through, raindrops adorning the leaves of the white oak tree like star-studded ornaments, the frozen silver drops clinking together like chimes on a porch falling victim to the wind. The pattering like little footsteps. The night is a song to be listened to. The wind carries the subtle smell of fresh grass, of the just-wet mud, and the aromatic wildflowers adorning the side of the field like jewels on a crown, and the sleeping willow—the freshness of soft, sleeping nature. The night is a fragrance whose scent is rarely recognized, but it is the sweetest smell for those who realize it. The round, glass orb of the moon, shrouded by wispy gray clouds, too shy to show its face. The clouds, like gentle, lavender-grey tufts of cotton candy, inviting you to fly amongst them. The stars, like pieces of hope chipped off of dreams themselves. You let the night slowly, and silently, rock you to sleep, and fall into the sound of the rain.
Coltsfoot
Coltsfoot pokes its coltshead through the melting ground. Like a new butterfly it unfolds its winglike petals. So round and the yellow like a fresh sun marks the start of spring.
Owlet
One quiet hour the sky is beautifully bright. One quiet hour darkness seeps through the light. But while you are slumbering a noise splits the night— a tiny owl breaks its shell looking left and right! Thinking its hollow is the whole world, thinking the Earth is small.
Phase Change
Water freezes while dripping down from the ledge of my house, forming icicles no bigger than a mouse. The moment the sun strikes— a burning glare. They turn into nothing but a giant flare.
