Poem: The sky is moving

The sky is moving

Sand between your teeth

‘Between’ because ‘beneath’

Is meaningless in this context

And shouldn’t a poem have meaning?

Shouldn’t a thing contain another thing?

To just be beautiful is rather sad

So, sand between your teeth

You’re probably at the beach, aren’t you?

Where else do you get sand between your teeth?

Suggestions are welcome

Though they will be ignored

This poem is not a team effort

 

Now sand beneath your teeth, however,

Wouldn’t that be fascinating?

A place where that happens

Is bound to be interesting

Yes, I have decided

That you’ve somehow gotten sand beneath your teeth

And now you’re looking up at the sky

Why else that particular title, after all?

Not because it seemed like a good idea at the time

No siree Bob

How dare you suggest that!

 

We’ve established that you’re staring up at the sky

You lie back in the sand

You close your eyes

And then when, after a while, you open them again

Does the world seem changed?

Let me narrow that down for you:

How does the sky look?

Is it brighter?

Darker?

Does it move faster or slower?

Does it move at all?

Something’s changed, right?

 

People say we look at the same world

No

We look through different eyes, so we look at different worlds

The world is in the eye of the beholder

Let’s take that a step further

The world is in the pen of the writer

And in this poem,

Of which I am the writer,

(Remember how your suggestions were disregarded)

Sand is beneath your teeth

Whatever that means

Poem: In the kitchen

In the kitchen

A kitchen’s a place where you cook

And maybe also eat

But you knew that

 

In the kitchen we set the table

And clear it again

Load and empty the dishwasher

 

In the kitchen we wrap birthday gifts

We read the newspaper in the morning

We check our email

 

In the kitchen we do our homework

We put away the groceries

Sneak a few cookies

 

In the kitchen we call 911

Because we’re not sure if we’ve got enough credit on our cell phone,

Which is a stupid thing to think:

911 is free

 

In the kitchen we’re unable to answer the operator’s questions

‘Is she breathing? Does she have a pulse?’

We don’t know:

We’re in the kitchen and she is outside

 

In the kitchen we hear our dad yell our name

His panic twists something inside of us

It makes us want to end the call:

We don’t, because the operator is still giving instructions

 

In the kitchen we secretly hope that everything will be fine

By the time we go outside

It isn’t:

But it isn’t over either

 

We don’t, like Taylor Swift, dance around by the refrigerator light

(though that must be nice)

We cook, we do our homework and we call 911

That’s about it

Poem: So you've got dreams

 

 

So you’ve got dreams

 

So you’ve got dreams

I don’t intend to be mean

But so what?

 

These dreams of yours are

Cotton candy forgotten, melting in the sun

As you read in a deck chair

(and think about your tan)

 

These dreams of yours are

Indentations in a piece of paper in the back of your desk drawer;

Whose existence you remember every once in a while

(and then push aside again)

 

These dreams of yours are

Fantasies you entertain when you play on your phone

Or don’t really watch TV

(and waste your time instead of doing)  

 

You’re halfway to sixty

You’re perfectly healthy

Yet, you don’t have a job

(and you live with your parents)

 

So you’ve got dreams

And what are they now?

(and will they always be)

Dreams