I'm an ocean

and sometimes it's too much to handle.

Sometimes I just want to be a puddle.

The Glory of Easter

The day reserved for the celebration of Christ's rising

is everything but.

This year, my brother was the one who took a shower too late,

my parents grumble in response 

while fumbling to find the 70's station on the satellite radio.

All five of us in my mother's '09 Jetta, the "kids" in the back--

do my parents still think we are toddlers,

though the youngest of us is sixteen?

I'm miserably in the middle,

my overgrown siblings' shoulders crushing me--

but they've got one arm free, and

I'm pinched from all angles.

"Maybe we should take two cars next year,"

I say, and mom and dad are offended at the thought,

dad huffing, mumbling "smart alec," 

while mom is completely ignorant to our discomfort,

asking, "Why would we ever do that?"

as if the idea of taking separate vehicles 

somehow negates our identity as a family.

Then mom goes over that bump at the end of the driveway,

coffee spillage ensues

all over my floral Easter dress.

"Damn it," they say. "Why'd you have to bring that damn coffee?"

"Why'd you have to drill that bump?" I reply.

This is how Easter is every year,

a disaster of sorts,

fingers pointing in every direction.

We are late to Church, like always.

Heads turn as we pass, trying to find a spot to stay next to the stained glass.

Standing up the whole mass,

our backs quickly grow tired,

my toes hurting from my cork wedges.

We silently curse the one who made us late

eyes glaring,

betraying our suits and easter frocks.

The sermon is long,

full of the subtlest pleas for donations.

I watch people daydream,

hearing the priest's homily about the fragility of material objects,

and their worthlessness, as I play with my sterling charm bracelet,

praying to find peace in all the familial lunacy.

Back at home,

My family gathers to watch baseball,

hooting and hollering,

while I hole up in my room,

eat my chocolate eggs covered in pastel foils,

feeling that old-school Catholic guilt

for how disgruntled togetherness renders me.

Goddess of Wisdom- revised again by teacher's request, hate it to death

The goddess of wisdom steps gingerly across the shoreline,

rain whistling slightly as it meets the wind,

drops meshing effortlessly with the ocean.

It seems as if the two have always been meant to dissolve 

into fluid sameness,

as salted air whispers words you have never heard;

Maybe one day you will get to know them.

A white lily is tucked behind the goddess' left ear, 

as garlands of irises trail her.

Dressed in quiet white, she approaches you,

the sand between her toes,

her lips pursed just slightly.

Does she know something you don't?

You shudder, just barely, in awe. 

Her message is cryptic,

like the ocean's allure,

blurred by the presence of beauty.

new poems for class

The Feeling After Fireworks

Your attention

fades like a 

firework- fizzling

out

at the end of the night.

A trickle of light,

a few pops,

and then it's

spent.

The crowd releases a sigh in unity

when the show is over--

packing up the picnic baskets

and grassy blankets,

rolling the strollers, gathering the children,

the Tupperware, plastic utensils,

tossing out the burnt sparklers

and melted citronella candles,

forced to say goodbye to family friends

as the July sky melts to black.

That feeling in their guts--

that initial quick sadness,

is forgotten so simply,

as the night ends, their glances to the sky

as short-lived

as your eyes on me.

Braking

Lost animals,

lost causes

roaming the streets,

homeless and wandering.

Darting out right

in front of my bumper.

Helpless and unsure,

they are fragile.

My wheels squeaking as I slam on the brakes,

preserving vulnerable lives with one swift movement.

The wise say you aren't supposed to brake for anything.

The likelihood is higher that whatever you avoid will be slaughtered

at your feeble attempt to save.

Recognize that you are not a superhero.

Let dying things die.

I can't help but falter at the sight of such weakened spirits, 

pathetic as they may be. I carry the paradox, 

much like I broke for you.

The Elephants in the Room

It all seemed too much for a first date--

The overcrowded theater unromantic,

husks to the backs of chairs,

clumsy hooves clomping up the slanted steps.

The setting is traditional, a fallback for the uncreative,

and the metal cup holder arm rests dig into our gargantuan grey bodies,

amplifying our discomfort.

Our ears, oversized and untamed, brush against one another

when we turn our heads to shoot rowdy preteens the evil eye.

It is sweaty, loud, a zoo in here,

the theater is no place for elephants falling in love--

but our blatant awkwardness, the blistering fury of our infatuation

lusts to makes itself known.

Quietly, warily, I fumbled for your foot,

to touch you for the first time. 

Thought of the day- I'm really sick of being around dense people, just in life, just in general...

paintings for Japan

4:20 in the afternoon

I'm still in my pineapple pajama pants

watching movies and trash tv

the depths of the damned.

a confident knock on the door,

I thought somebody had forgotten their key

and were too lazy to fish for the spare.

to my surprise,

three adorable kids stood there

with painted pages,

crayola designs.

Would you like to buy paintings?

A smile cracked on my face.

How much are they? I asked.

2$, the ring-leader said.

The money goes to Japan.

Okay, wait right here, I said.

Went and rifled through my wallet.

I found 5 ones, and bought 2 paintings.

These are beautiful, I said,

and they went off on their scooters and bicycles.

Youth is surely wasted on the young,

and I'm sad that I wasted my youth on growing up.