Category: love

Birthing fragile flowers

My unborn children are wilted flowers.

I fear their feet will touch the frigid floors,

where I trail my sadness behind me.

My unborn children are potted plants,

because I am afraid I will fail them –

if I let them see the world –

where I have become a failure.

Incarnate god,

God, whose face rests like a lotus,

brow  not furrowed by calamity,

I weep for them.

My children, whose ribs ache of hearty tears,

I promise I have thought of you-

since I knew I had twigs in my uterus

capable of building nests.

My children, whose chromosomes are half,

my love is afraid to make you a whole being,

so I shall wait.

My children,

I was born in the flower bed,

where my parents used spoons

instead of a small spade to till soil.

My unborn children,

I hold my hand against my cheek,

and think how my love breathes only a few feet in front of me,

as a frost cloud when my lips are parted in winter.

A letter with no return address

It’s the things that I remember at midnight that will kill me.

I hope I forget the curve of your under eye,

When you’ve barely slept.

I hope I don’t turn over in the night;

Dreaming, how I heard your voice

Pulling wire between my ears,

Tuning over and over.

I hope I crawl inside that cardboard box

At the back of your mind so well,

And collect the lacework of spiders,

Mixed in with the dust.

I hope I carry my heart to the grave,

And never try letting her attach herself to people like stickers which peel off-

Eventually, turning into faded stamps

Which never grace letters.

I hope I remember not to pack a part of me

In your suitcase,

Pushed under the bed,

With shiny new locks.

I hope I pick myself up like a wooden doll,

Arms held up by string,

Succumbing to God’s puppetry,

How I step step step across the floor,

With nothing but a wandering eye,

Which falls on the grass,

Where the shade never casts the silhouette of a dandelion.

I hope you forget me.

 

 

Because wishing makes the room feel crowded

In another life,
Transcending past glazed sunsets,
And frosted night skies,
I hope I remember what now feels like.

I hope I never forget
The creases of my mouth,
And the casual hand hiding a smile
Nor the placement of my hands
Out of sight
and neatly in my lap.

In another life,
I hope it’s beauty that I remember
When looking for the faces of people in the past.
This beauty which cradles faces to weather the storm,
And this beauty where compassion overflows.

I hope time buries itself in the ground,
And all who walk here years later –
Know that this feeling of contentment existed.
Trial by default,
I harvest my doubts
And reap them alongside the fresh seeds of my future.
I plant these tiny memories in places,
Where I hope to come back
And live them once more.

In another life,
I hope that what happens here
Blooms under rocks
Bursts bombastically out of tree trunks
And says that my compassion is built
On nothing less than hope.

No sandbags to keep the water out

My whole heart aches for what I cannot tell my mother

We stand at either side of the stream, waving to one another, shouting

Come into the cool water ( I love you)

Come and see what I’ve reaped after I’ve sown

My worries and anxieties 

That grow like vines

My whole heart faces my father

And paddles out to him in the storm

Our canoes swishing like a rag being rinsed out again –

We will try again to forget our sorrows,

Saying

I’ve made tea 

Where the warmth feeling runs down our backs like waterfalls

I’ve made tea,

And there’s still some on the stove (I love you)
When I grew older, I kept things

Because I was afraid

That there wouldn’t be a parade of accomplishments

I was afraid that the path I choose,

Where I sense peace,

Will divide the lakes and the streams

My parents made me for me when I grew in the womb

Deployed airbags to your heart

Love the people already in your life.

This sounds simple enough. It sounds like something plastered on shiny journals at Target. Come to think of it – it sounds like a quote tucked away in the piles of quotes on Pinterest. A part of me ate these advice blurbs up.  I never chewed them – only swallowed them.
The people in our lives can greatly determine how we see the world. With refocusing lens, we can decide that the world outstretched before us is vast or bleak. Curled up on a school night, I slumped into the chair thinking that love is not what I think it is at all. No, it probably doesn’t have a glossy sheen or a plastic protective case. Instead, it’s made out of raw metals slightly discolored by the torch flame heat. It is as strong as the frame is.

Love the people who see you.

One of the biggest things about becoming an adult is feeling that you must become your authentic self. Okay…so what does that self look like? Is it the fictional person in your head who wins every argument? Is it someone who can catch every knife before it plunges into your heart or your back? I bet we give ourselves a bad rep for not being quite what we thought. As if suddenly, since we are not the mirage of what our younger self dreamt up, we are totally taking it. There’s something about being seen. There’s something raw about looking at someone and for that moment of eye contact, they see you. They see into the contradictions, the attempts, and the importance that molds you.
I don’t know much about “love” and why it makes all of us in our early or late adulthood years mad. But I do know that despite the masks we put on, we must have experienced some kind of love. A love that sits quietly alongside us on a park bench. The sound of leaves racing behind the cars. The sound of fountains gurgling water. Dogs panting. Skateboard wheels rolling on the sidewalk.
The people who loves us are not what we imagined. If anything, they are just as flawed as we are. All of us, walking with tension in our foreheads and shoulders, muttering to ourselves we are not doing enough.

Love the people who still sit beside you without saying a word, and in the silence the two of you have said everything imaginable.
Love the people who make you look inwardly inside yourself, and see that there is so much that you are.
Love the people who hold the world in both of their hands, and ask you how do you want to live. As the two of you, hold the oceans and lands in your heart – remember how much love can be an evolution.

A man made out of light

His rich beautiful brown skin shimmered in the moonlight,
beamed under the sun,
and glistened under the harsh fluorescent lights.
How have I ravaged through this time,
Taking only pieces of him in with my eyes –
Then turning away as if I cannot give myself up for sacrifice?
If agony is my companion –
Let me be free.
Let me be cast into the ruins of the earth,
dust sifting again and again in the air.
He stands like cattails,
Bending slightly to the breeze,
Then back again.

The sun did shine on a fixer – upper

Not shiny,
Nor polished,
Not a wax shine,
Nor glistening sun glean,
I knew you would not be perfect.
I sat with my knees bent,
Cradled into my chest,
And asked God if I knew how to love.
Did I really know how to look at a house,
And see that the front yard had tried to grow flowers,
And the paint chipping off the shed
Could be a welcoming place?
I knelt down,
Feeling the blades of grass with my fingers.
My mother comes out and behind her the sun shines,
And the breeze rustles our skirts.
We smile,
And I laugh that I love her when she says nothing at all but looks at me with words in her cheeks.
Tall stalks of corn are ahead, 
And my father plucks an ear of corn,
And waves at me.
His storytelling eyes,
And booming laugh – causes the birds to whistle a low tune.
I think back to what I asked God for.
Did I know how to love?
With my hands around my cup of coffee,
I idle myself with faces of those in my past and question if I was at fault for letting them go.
Was I at fault for not fighting hard enough?
No.
No silver plated mirror,
No bedazzled treasure trove,
No luminescent dream.
My love stringed together my years and sought that I ought not to feel shame for feeling.
My love sat with me,
As I stepped onto the porch of that house and smiled.
In the distance,
I waved at my parents,
I waved at my genuine friends.
And as I tilled my garden,
I thought my love cannot wait…
It will burst out of me:
Shining,
Bright,
And free.