there are sighs written in my eyes

there are sighs written in my eyes

there are so many things i still miss.
desperetly, some nights, staying up late
and replaying memories in my head.
i seem always alone with my thoughts
and they always seem to return
to the same far off places.
sometimes it's my past.
the mountains, the snow,
the life i lead for eight years.
i miss those things.
sometimes it's my future.
the possibilites, the unsurities.
i want to go back home:
my school with my kids
my carlos papa and my misti mama.
but i don't think my past
can become my future.
so i suppose i should just let.
go.

but why let go when there is nothing
new to grab onto?

Bad Poetry is the White Spaces Between the Lines, Me Thinks

Secrets

Reading the Valentines' Day Secrets
On PostSecret
Reminds me of all the boys
Who have come to me,
Their eyes searching for love, love,
Any kind of love.
As if it will solve all their problems
And make them happy, finally, finally.
Here is a secret, my Valentine's Day secret:
It is not love that makes you happy.
It is not the other person beside you smiling,
It is not the girl nor the boy who whispers forever.
It is you that does it. You.

Happiness is you.

Always First and Last

The last time I skipped was a week ago.
The last time I danced in front of a mirror was two days ago.
The last time I sang by myself as loud as the air was yesterday.
The last time I laughed was an hour ago.

The first time I skipped was as soon I could walk
My legs tripping in confusion, creating patterns out of energy.
The first I danced in front of a mirror was when I realized
That behind the glass that was me, not a shadow mocking.
The first time I sang by myself as loud as the air was when I felt
The tingling need inside my vocal box.
The first time I laughed was when I
Opened my eyes
And saw the beauty of this world for the first time.

Wishin'

I wish I was a hippie.
So I could sit up all night
While guitars playing protest
Sing to the desert sky.

I wish I was a beatnik
So I could ponder truth
While fighting to stay alive
And speak in poetry to my friends,
Crazy as I.

I wish I was a hipster
So I could speak in words even I don't understand.
And wonder in the Biggest Apple
Losing myself just so I could know where I was going.

But perhaps it is best
That I am me
And only me.
Otherwise it'd get pretty confusing.

We the Bad Poets, We Are an Army

So long ago
The west was won.
It took cowboys in chaps
Blazing their guns, shading their eyes
From the restless desert sun.
Sweat dripping
Tears falling
It took ditches
And those who can conquer mountains.

I lost the west.
Now in the south, never won,
I stay,
We here are still giving
And trying to cushion the land.

The south, unlike the west,
Never put up a fight.
She just smiled demurly
And let us come and come.

A Rooftop Not Too High Above the Wind

My window slides easily open.
No lock, just a stick to keep it shut.
I slip out, through the screen torn and old
Catch my balance,
And gently thud onto the shingles.
Here I am the daughter of trees
And leaves, lying wet and lonely all around.
The smells of molding life is strong
And dying life, still stronger.
The dirt of plantations and indians
Still piled all around.
And the wind.
My friend now.
We talk of ancient things.

The Face of God

I saw the face of God in a leaf
And bent to pick it up. The face of God
Has been lying in my back yard since it fell
From the trees last fall, unraked, untouched,
Except for now, by me. I look into the vein eyes
of the face of God and I can see the green of spring
And summer and the beginning of fall.
I trace the nose of the face of God and I feel
The crack and crinkle of boots on the face of God.
The nose of the face of God is off center,
Broken, repaired, broken again.
I hold the mouth of the face of God to my ear
Hoping to hear what the face of God has to say.
I almost the catch the whisper of children's voices
And the burble of the creek
Until the face of God is taken
By the wind, arm of God.

To Me, The Wind, My Mother

It seems the wind,
Ferocious beating and gentle breezing,
Is often in my poetry.
When you are born in the praire
Where the wind gives and takes at will,
You come to love, to need.
To suckle on the wind.

There is nothing better
Then Mother Wind
Pushing me along.