Many would like to be younger,
and yet no one wants to be held back.
There are few who want to be weird,
but few who just want to blend in to the pack.
Lots of people would like to be funny,
but few who are ready to be laughed at.
There are seven billion people who can only be themselves
but relatively few who want to be that.
Apricot
I saw the apricot fall.
It hit the dirt with a thud.
Now it sits on the ground
with dirt all around,
but it tastes so much better than mud.
A Month From Now
A month from now, who knows what will be
as the future passes through the sieve of reality
and straight on to the past, where it can only make us wise.
All that I know is it will be a surprise.
Just To Get It Out
I would like to write a song
but nothing on my mind is worth singing about.
But I could sing it anyway
just to get it out.
Clear my mind of calculations
of who owes who and explanations,
Clear my mind of pros and cons and
spreadsheets they are written on
’cause I just want to write a song.
I would like to write a song
but nothing on my mind is worth singing about.
But I could sing it anyway
just to get it out.
Clear my mind of to-do lists,
wish lists, hit lists, things to get.
Clear my mind of goals and plans
… and clear my mind of who I am.
I would like to write a song.
Something in my mind is worth singing about.
I’m all humming inside.
Now just to get it out.
Slivered Almonds
How do they sliver almonds?
That’s what I’d like to know.
Do they drop them from a tower
onto well-placed blades below?
Do they run them past a mandoline
with several sharpened bands?
Or do they sit there with a paring knife
making slivers in their hands?
I Am a Woman Full
I am a woman full of
agonizing empathy and
welling convictions,
and I don’t know what to say or do.
If My Vagina Were a Gun
(In response to this poem by almost the same title)
If my vagina were a gun, how careful I would be,
knowing that it could mean life or death to somebody.
If my vagina were a gun, yes I’d treat it with care,
and carry it (concealed of course) with me everywhere.
If my vagina were a gun, I’d assume that it was armed
so I could keep it safe from children, and so they would not be harmed.
If my vagina were a gun, I would not lend it to just any man.
Still, there’d always be a risk that something would not go as planned.
And if my vagina were a gun, an accident could mean dead.
But the magic of vaginas is they’re designed to bring life instead.