Playground

Clouds move quickly across a bright blue sky
casting shadows on pavement in the March sunlight
floating over playgrounds
where kids swing fiercely
trying to hold onto the sun while they can

And maybe it was easier then
when i myself kicked at open air
trying to touch the sky as i paddled
back         and          forth

But the clouds keep moving
and so do i

Annelyn

A Birthday girl,
nine years old and thriving.
She dances with a smile
plastered across her
porcelain face.

So Be It.

I'm happy,
so be it.

I'm at peace with my world.

Yes, there are questions
that remain unanswered.

Yes, there are so many things
that could change.

But I'm happy,
so be it.

I'm not going to fight a smile,
as it creeps across my face.

I will not mess with the status quo,
that I recently found,
an equilibrium of emotion.

Because I'm happy,
so be it.

Samantha Love

Pink balloons and smiles
Happiness mingled with heartbreak tears
A story that so fiercely needs to be shared
Of a little girl, God's child
and her mother so far away
Of love and hope in the midst of pain,
the power of prayer and faith.

Train Tracks [Draft]

Thoughts run through my head so quickly, 

as if life is stuck on fast forward and my mind is racing to keep up.

I hear a whistle in the distance 

and realize that there are 

freight train tears running down salty tracks on my face,

moving so fast I can't catch them.

But I chase after them anyway,

open arms in an open field

under a bright blue sky 

punctuated with white clouds that float away

with the wind.

Of Kavalier and Sufjan

(This is the beginning/an excerpt of a story that has yet to be written. I started writing it based on a receipt I found in a book I ordered from Amazon last year. The receipt was for cranberry juice and said book. Still playing with the title.)

"To love is to risk not being loved in return. To hope is to risk pain.  To try is to risk failure. But risk must be taken, because the greatest hazard in life is to risk nothing at all." -Anonymous

****

He arrived at the airport early, long before the plane would take off. He proceeded through security, removing his chucks and his glasses, emptying his pockets of the various items he had stuffed into them before leaving. He walked through the checkpoint, and the alarm sounded.

“Your belt, sir,” said the woman in the blue button up.

“Right,” he said, undoing the buckle and pulling it from the loops on his jeans. He set it on the conveyor and stepped through again, more beeping.

“Are you sure your pockets are empty?” asked the woman in blue.

He checked again, turned out his pockets and looked at her, as if to ask, ‘what next?’

“Maybe it’s my jacket?” he asked, slipping his arms out of the sleeves. He walked through again, relieved to hear silence from the machine.

The woman pushed the dog bowl with his contents in it down the conveyor toward him, “thank you.”

He put himself back together, grabbed his bag and headed for the gate. A bright red board announced that his flight had been delayed; he would have to wait two hours to board.

‘Now what,’ he thought, sitting down on an empty bench. He sat a few minutes before standing again to explore the corridor.  After walking down the hall awhile he stopped in an airport shop to figure something out.  He settled on a Michael Chabon book and a bottle of cranberry juice, then stood in line to pay.

****

She was behind him in line, and she couldn’t help but look him over as she waited to pay for her bottle of tea.  He wore a grey hat, the kind that barely covered his brown, shaggy hair, and hung casually from the back of his head.  It matched his grey jeans almost perfectly. His jacket was a faded black, as if he’d had it for years, and it matched his worn black Converse.  She couldn’t help but imagine what his story was.  He carried a small messenger bag, a book and a bottle of cranberry juice.

She longed to know more; his name, what his face looked like, where he was going. She wanted to know everything.

She suddenly felt subconscious in her old Levi’s and plain black t-shirt. She wanted to reach into her bag and pull out her jacket, fix her hair, dab on some lip balm... anything to appear more put together.  But she feared the smallest movement might cause him to turn around, and that thought, for some unknown reason, made her stomach lurch.

The Sufjan Stevens song blaring in her ears from her iPod fit him perfectly, a strong beat with an overlay of interest.  As he finished paying for his items, she reached into her bag for her wallet, afraid to make eye contact.  As she did so, her iPod slipped out of her hand and crashed to floor as the headphones unplugged themselves from her ears.  Before she could do anything, he bent down to pick it up, surveying the lit up screen as he handed it back to her.

“His ‘Michigan’ album is my favorite,” he said, a slight smile as he stared her straight in the eyes.
She was at a loss for words. She barely managed to say ‘thanks’ before he had turned around and walked away. With a sideways smile, he looked over his shoulder as he made his way back to his gate.

****

“Next,” he heard the woman at the counter say, slight annoyance dripping from the word.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” the girl responded. She started to speak again, but he was too far away to hear her.
Something about her made him wonder. She was intriguing, that was the word for it. Her auburn hair was perfectly falling across her eyes, while simultaneously appearing as if it hadn’t met a brush in days.

She’d been listening to one of his favorite artists, Sufjan’s newest album at what sounded like full blast.  He sat down on a bench by the window, in the perfect spot for people and plane watching, and then opened up his cranberry juice, took a sip, and began to read about the adventures of Kavalier and Clay.

Wishful Reality

Star light
Star bright
I wish I could see the stars tonight
But the clouds hang low
And the winds continue to blow

Over rustling trees
And open fields
Full of possibilities
And hope
And I find myself wondering
If I need to wish at all.