Elephants Are Creative People

Our expectations fail us
So we tire
Somber, removed, neglected, crushed
There's a wall
Built by two hands
Time, selfishness, pride
No window pane
To even look through
Depression, isolation, insanity
Etched into the walls
Reflecting like mirrors
We miss creating
Writing, listening, tasting, loving
There're no substitues
For just being yourself
Honest, scared, lonely
Circles don't fit squares
We still try
Shuffling, mixing, shattering, gorging
But two hands
Are all it takes
Humble, patient, vulnerable, mortal
Fingers threaded together
Sewn tight by commonality
Whispering, stepping, sitting
Dipping crusts into tea
Naturally becoming friends
Invested, open , restored

people

So many people, so many footsteps
Some wear heels, some sneakers, some flip-flops, and some barefoot.
So many people, so many voices
On the train, on the sidewalk, in the elevator, and up my stairs.
They are the music in my reality.
So many people, so many stories
"I am a father," "I am unemployed," "I am a waitress," and "I won't have 3 meals today."
So many people, so many ambitions
To be an actor, to be a millionaire, to be in love, to just have a family.
So many people.
So many.
So...people.

December LullabyDecember Lullaby

December LullabyDecember Lullaby

Sing me a lullaby
In all sincerity
Changing my memory
Of who you used to be
Post marked wishes
Faded faces are now what I know
No one would've hoped that this would come so close

No phone call today
How about a letter?
You'll listen better that way

Singing our lullabies
In all dishonesty
Changing our scenery of where we used to be
Wearing faces
Playing roles is all you've ever asked
All of this is going down hill oh so fast

Hoping again
Feeling again
Sleeping through the night

In one house
And you're still far away
Down the hall, down the hall
Turning every page
In one house
And you're still far away
When will you come out to play?

Singing your lullaby
So sadly
Changing your memory of who you could be
It's all gone and it's all spent
Enjoying your own journey
Pushing away, pushing away

Mandolins Aren't Scared of Butterflies

Describe the world to me
with adjectives that score you well on the sat
painting me colorless pictures
In ways that are courteous
telling stories of peoples' faces around me
of how they are true or false
By listening to what I haven't said
because you are watching my music play
sketching the harmony into your memory

Your words make me want to listen
because they are thoughts before speech
offering eulogies for weeping willows
Your presence always has an aroma
like someone whose close but afraid
Your hands hold things close
pulling in someone else's arms
Your arms regret the weight
pushing away someone else's heart

Your ransom won't be paid
the taxes left over from a former lover
that collect interest every day
because you are your own creditor
You are crippled
only watching the world play
as children do in a school yard
bouncing balls, picking teams, ignoring the one drawing in the sand
Making your excuses for broken bones
but they've only become figments

The Wait of Movement

Three months since I've seen you and I've met movement
Movement's a new friend, but I don't know how to  introduce you
'Cause I'm scared what you'll think.

I've got a chest full of pictures and globes
And a map that'll tell me which way to go
But I haven't
Found the right path yet.

I don't have all the answers
But I'm willing to share what I know
I don't have all the answers
But I'm willing to help you grow

I don't know what you've been reading
But you may come over and I'll share
The literature I've collected
It sits on my shelf.

I've got a garden and it grows in my backyard
I've worked and I've planted
But it's not the white picket dream
Not my dream.

I don't have all the answers
But I'm willing to share what I know
I don't have all the answers
But I'm willing to help you grow
Help you grow

Unread Valentine (Work in Progress)

I got your card-stock letter of affection
On the day love's definition equals gifts.
Tearing seams on a post marked envelope
Revealing evidence that my world is not the same.

Purple, blue, or black ink?
I know your name
I know your affection
Who scrolled them?
The letters squiggle
Filling a white landscape.

The feeling of being robbed
Even though it was expected.
With fading lights and haze
The swirling patterns every day
Be prepared is what they'd always say.
Better like this or better like that?
Once upon a day was night.
Learn your independence.

I've tasted the failure at the table of self pity
Where guests sit like ghosts entertaining the living.
And I've danced the waltz of depression
With partners who were mute.
I've heard the lullabies of dishonest neighbors
Whose intentions knocked open my door
Stealing hot kisses.
And I've seen the sorrow of bruised organs
Fighting the viruses of life.

But now I feel.
I lie in the field of hope
Resting.
Still.
Beside the lilies and cool dark soil.

Zippers

I wanna unzip myself
and spill all that's living inside me
All the cities of courage
villages of fear
fields of embarrassment
streets of sorrow and houses of joy.

I wanna connect the dots
the glowing street lamps
the white lines on pavement
the memories of fights
of bedroom corners
and closet caves for sanctuary
the present glass windows
of foggy drops that meet wipers
the last week of a trail
of white blazes and blisters
the few hours ago that were a headache
that were superficial conversations
that was my spinach ravioli.

I wanna sift through it all
the things that define me
that are mere characteristics
the stuff that gets my heart pumping faster
the boys that make me second guess
the Spirit's continual flapping wings.

I wanna arrange it all
like furniture in a doll house
so everyone may play nicely
may know my intentions
may listen to all the words that I've meditated on
may return the favor
or simply accept the gift.

I wanna zip it all up
like a warm winter coat
that fits in all the right ways
that hangs next to the summer dress
the one that's my favourite
with the twirly dancing skirt
that lives only a foot above
the sandals that I won't ever get rid of
the ones that sit on the wooden floor
behind the white door
with the old brass handle.

And all the insides
will one day match the outsides
when You've decided to conduct
that brass quartet
who will sing my name
in the sweetest melody.