It came scarlet red

It happened one night

then again,

and another.

It spread like a plague,

unbiased wildfire.

It couldn’t be contained

or shocked from the brain

It came scarlet red, burnt bright

in a pyre, it’s beauty, arcane

giving hope to the choir.

when Whitman sings

I often hide the cover of the book

I’m reading,

commuting on the subway

or relaxing over coffee,

like anyone would care

either way, because yeah!

What if they did? They don’t.

But what if? And how does one explain

his book of choice, when more than not

the books I read give me no choice! Aha!

They’d label me pretentious, surely they should

but what if they didn’t?

Would I really have time for a friend,

when Whitman sings and celebrates self

Oh! You better believe I butt in.

Writing.

Most of the time, it’s like

banging your head against a brick wall,

trying to knock some nugget of sense loose,

but other times it’s easier

like morphine, numb to the world — regardless —

while telling it exactly how you feel.

a drop of rain

The steps you take are big

where mine are small,

the steps I take are soft

while yours make imprints.

For now it seems that I am lazy

as you wipe sweat off your brow,

try to understand my empathy

for oak trees rooted to the ground,

and take heed in the soil, though I may

not make a sound, a drop of rain

breathing life, the only way I know how.

his coat, blue velvet

There is a blue jay

on a branch, in the sun

through blinds I peer,

whether he sees me

or not, I look back to the screen

then back again, he’s gone

his coat, blue velvet

my memory, strong

though perched somewhere else

I whistle his song.