A dozen hands
Tugging on my clothing
Restraining me
As I try to break free
To run to my Destiny
Must I wait till I break free
Or strip
And run nude publicly
To get to my Destiny
By a riskier journey?
These Hands of Late
There hasn’t been a lot of magic
In these hands of late
They haven’t folded much
Or handwritten much
They haven’t painted much
Or drawn much
Or strummed much
Or played much
Or sewn much
Or spun much
Or cooked much
Or snapped much
As such
They don’t feel like much
My Broken Language
My Broken Language
A memoir about others
In the words of its author
Quiara AlegrÃa Hudes
A memoir about others
A memoir about others
Brilliant!
Fear of Painting
I want to paint more
But I am afraid
Of how badly
The paintings will turn out
Effortless Micropoetry
A lot of micropoetry I read
Seem so effortless
Not in terms of ease
But lack of work put into it
Poems of Refrain
Many of my poems
Are not inspiration
But rather things in life
I find myself saying often
Until I realize it
At which time
I get them into verse
And magically
Seem to forget them soon after
Unofficially 50
Today
I turn 50
Unofficially
Cause my ID
Suggests otherwise
It was my family
Who told me so
For they know
How this became soÂ
I or Time
Dearest plant
Is it l
Or is it time
That has done this to you?
This drawn out death
Imperfect Apples
Imperfect apples
Don’t listen to the labels
You are perfect for me
My Element
Titanium is my element
It contains my childhood name
Ti Tan
And almost follows that with i am
It is light and strong
Like I am
And doesn’t melt easily
Like I don’t
What’s your element?
Art Procreation
Art is a form of procreation
In that it can inspire new art
After it meets a new artist
Who is moved by it in some wayÂ
Discovering Prose Poets
I love discovering unknown poets
The kind unknown to themselves
All because they didn’t line break
Their prose appropriately
Wroets
I call them
Who write prosetry
