Days of Old

The chimes of the old clock
The sizzle of eggs
The sun-bathed covers as the morning rises

The whispers
shh, she's still sleeping

Grandma's Birthday

The day would come
The same each year
Through 60 plus years of marriage
The haze of dementia
Grandpa never forgot
Grandma doesn't like jewelry

Weeding

Cooling water
thinning ice
moist rocks

Delicately embrace
the green among the stones
Pull up and observe the root
Drop

I hate

I hate how you think everything's about you!
I hate how to try to guilt me.
I hate how you whine and act like the victim
but don't take any help
and you stay the victim and WHINE!

I hate how you try to have complete control over me.
I hate how you think you can because you're male.
I hate how if I get mad at you it's cos I'm "White" and you're not.
I hate how I can't be mad simply because you're an arrogant ass.
I hate that you ask me why I didn't think of you
when I made a decision that really doesn't involve you.

I hate how you think I'm going to love you later
when I say I will never love you.
I hate how you think that I'm "catching up to you" in age
just so you don't feel like a pedophile cos you're twenty years older.
I hate how you act like you're my friend, but if one thing isn't to your liking, I'm suddenly
"weird"
or you hope I get hurt or in trouble.
I hate that you live next door to me.
I hate that you get really really close to the line, but never cross it.
I hate that you get away with doing so many things.

But I like that I have dirt on you if you ever truly cross me.

Making Bread With Grandpa

(Written during Poetry Workshop)


I was about nine
when I first made bread
with Grandpa.
I sat on the dishwasher,
amongst the loose flour,
as he kneaded the dough
and explained the steps.

This was all done from scratch.
The eggs' delicate shells
cracked open
letting the yoke slide
into the hole formed
in the floured mixture.

Once the dough was kneaded
and rolled
and the flour was,
yet again,
all over the floor
and my corduroy pants.
We placed the unleavened dough
into stainless steel pans
and set in the windowsill.

As the yeast took affect in the sun,
and the bread rose,
Grandpa told stories of his youth,
his past,
while Grandma told us
to clean up our mess.