Elli

(This is from a series I did entitled "Snapshots".)

She danced across the carpet, a sea of faces staring on.  In her mind, the pink shirt  and polka dot leggings she wore were skin tight, a tutu shooting out around her petite hips.  Elli had just turned six, and like any little girl she had big dreams.  With her arms bowed out in a “O” to her front, she leapt gracefully from light brown square to light brown square on the busy airport carpet.  Her mom walked behind her, trying to keep up as she pirouetted toward the bathroom.

“Look Mommy! I’m gonna be a ballerina someday!” she said while she spun.

“You can be whatever you want to be, baby,” her mom said with a smile.

But Elli didn’t hear her; she was in her own little world, full of sugar plum dancers and endless streams of light pink tulle. Everyone was watching her, sitting in the audience on pins and needles as she made one beautiful leap after the other, creating music with her movement across the shiny black stage.  Elli danced all the way to the airplane, where she fell asleep on her mother’s lap, dreaming of orchestras and stage lights as the plane soared among the clouds, headed for a place she called home.

Sunshine on my Windowsill

Sunlight flickers through the open window, 

illuminating dust particles, 

which seem to dance in their own little spotlight. 

The light triggers my heart to feel rejuvenated, 

the stream of light a sign of the hope 

to be found in a new day.  

And I feel myself start to smile, 

the corners of my mouth creeping up on both sides, 

as I think about the chances and possibilities 

that await me in the snowy wonderland 

outside these four walls.

No amount of hurt or pain 

could take away the feeling 

that comes with a new morning. 

For the happenings of days past 

melt away with the sunshine, 

as if they are but ice cubes in summer's heat.

Maybe One Day: A Poem in Haiku

Maybe one day I

will get the courage up to

say something to you.

Maybe one day I

will find that I already

had it all this time.

Maybe one day I

will answer these questions of

mine, and be alright.

Maybe one day I

will get the courage up to

say what's on my mind.

The Search for Harry Potter: An Adventure in Waterstone's

(This is a poem I wrote while in London about my encounter with Waterstone's Bookstore. After a day of rain, I find myself longing to return to the beauty of the ancient city.)

The Search for Harry Potter

I navigate our little group from one side of the city to another.

Transfer from one tube line, exit at Piccadilly, surface.

And as we make our way through crowded sidewalks and buzzing streets,

with confidence we push forward.

I move my way through laughing children,

parents walking close behind,

and past old buildings filled with new businesses.

Down a few blocks,

I shut my eyes to consult my guide,

a photographic memory.

I see the store forward on my left,

open my eyes and trudge on,

as fat raindrops start to trickle down.

We’re close now, I can feel it.

We pass the hotel from Notting Hill,

expensive and extensive,

where Julia Roberts fabricated

a life as a movie star.

And there it is.

A smile creeps across my face,

“I told you we’d make it.”

“I never doubted.”

“It’s bigger than I remember.”

Upon entering I’m overwhelmed,

five stories to get lost in.

The mammoth store glares at us,

three girls standing weakly in the entrance.

It’s trying to intimidate our Barnes & Noble mindset.

Then it opens its arms and welcomes us,

the warmth of literacy blinds us.

And I comb the shelves for one particular story,

while revelling in the beauty of looming stacks;

best sellers crowd the floor,

titles I’ve never heard before distract me from my journey,

as I set out to find my favorite wizard.

And I find the ‘R’s’ and navigate through,

until I find the ‘Ro’s.’

And I flick past books one, two, three, four and five;

each beautiful in their own nature,

until I find the gold I’d been searching for.

And suddenly, it’s over.

The journey complete,

as I walk away from the cash register,

find my friends

and head for the street.

Frozen Passion

The light snow fall isn’t as playful as it would have us believe.
It looks so peaceful, serene, falling softly to the ground;
beautiful even, as it flutters down,
shining and glinting like little diamonds.
But like so much in this world,
it deceives.
Beautiful flakes betraying onlookers,
who venture out to partake in the presumed magic.
As it flows from the sky in glittery, glimmering strokes,
it sticks to eyelashes, fogging sight with frozen passion.
Much like life, that which seems perfect,
that which seems beautiful and alive,
betrays without a care.
Things change, perceptions warp;
pain billows in where happiness once held strong.
Faith, though strong, in momentarily broken.
As we pull the pieces back together,
it’s easy to see why we fell in the first place...
for who can deny the beauty and comfort of the first light snow?

Clay

I am but clay
              molded.
Each occurrence a new dent
         in my previously formless being.

Just as a tree changes with age,
              I find myself practically unrecognizable
Slightly different at the end of each day
                             by each struggle I pass
                                          hurdle I jump
                                   and mountain I climb.

I am the same in many ways
             same eyes
                      that see differently
             same ears
                      new sounds;
             same lines in my face
                      but they have made new friends,
etched in my skin with each laugh
                                           cry
                                           smile.
And though I am reminiscent,
                          familiar,


I am clay,
shaped ever so slightly,
into a new creation.

Silent Search

(In honor of the start of February, here's a poem from my chapbook, Exposed. Enjoy!)

Silent Search

She walks, head high; floating on the recent peace of mind,

discovered behind her own doubt.

The beat to which she moves is silent,

unheard by those around her

but resonating in her heart with each footstep.

Shoulders back,

she doesn’t know what to do with her hands;

fumbling in her pockets,

or hanging meaningless at her side.

Her eyes dart from ground to sky,

building to building,

resting on face after face as she

silently searches the ever present flow for

those eyes;

that face, hopefully looking for her,

as she moves, vulnerable,

across the snow.

Focused;

aware;

searching.