World’s Eye

World's Eye


What do you see, when you look at us?
shards and pieces
fragments of a whole truth


To be found
on any day of your choosing

should you choose to search

Look closely, and you will see
and shushes

a quiet so loud it rumbles and hums

Emotion and daring and dreaming and more
underneath our haloed surfaces

Underneath our shields of rippled glass
of torn sky
of softest earth

underneath the crystal veil we wear

But step away

away for just a moment more

a distance

Let the fragments become whole
let the pieces fall together
let the strings intertwine

See every detail
See them coalesce

See them through world’s eye



A Sheep.Sheep.

(One sheep)

(Two sheep)

(Three sheep)

There’s a moment, a moment
between awake and asleep
Where I have both, and yet neither,
so I count my sheep.

(Four sheep)

(Five sheep)

(Six sheep)

Under a milky way sky
I could count the stars
I could count some buttons, or marbles,
or glass mason jars,

(Seven sheep)

(Eight sheep)

(Nine sheep)

But sheep are for counting,
for counting at night
It’s in their fluff—their hops—
that makes them just right

(Ten sheep)

(Eleven sheep)

(Twelve sheep)

I can keep counting them
on fingertips, on toes,
For as they nibble the grass,
the number of them grows

(Thirteen sheep)

(Fourteen sheep)

(Fifteen sheep)

They float and they fly
weightless as clouds in their fleece
Nothing can hold them
as they bounce on release

(Sixteen sheep)

(Seventeen sheep)

(Eighteen sheep)

Over white picket fences
white fences of snow
They move over and on
but where do they go?

(Nineteen sheep)

(Twenty sheep)

(Twenty-one sheep)

I dream, I dream,
of my dreamy-eyed sheep
And in dreams I am lost
when I finally fall asleep.

(Twenty-two sheep)

(Twenty-three sheep)

(Twenty-four sheep)

Water the Roses


Water the Roses

Water the roses, she said.
Water the roses.

I was such a good girl
such a good girl
so when she told me to
Water the roses,
I did

When she was gone and she couldn’t do it herself
I’d do it for her
I cared for whatever she’d left behind

Every day
Every hour
it would be on my mind
Water the roses

I would take my rusty little daisy-print water pail
fill it to the brim
filled it to spill over
and I trickled the water down

The pail was heavy
the water fell heavy
it knocked away some of the loosely bound petals
but I watered those roses
I watered those roses

I was such a good girl
such a good girl
every day water fell,
fell like rain, like drops, like—
I watered them, every day

And every day, she’d look down on me
watch me with her gray, stony eyes
now frozen over
she’d make sure that I’d watered them,
that I’d watered them that day

It didn’t matter that the roses were
beyond help
like a mess of metal string to untangle, immovable
like granite, like marble, like—

it didn’t matter that they were spiked and spined,
that they tore through my skin,
sending rivulets of blood dripping,
dripping like drops, like—

It didn’t matter that the soil was eaten up
dried to crumbling cakes
matted down with decayed leaves
fractured like gingersnaps,
powdery, store-bought gingersnaps

last minute
grocery store

like for parties when you forgot to bring food
or like when you were in a hurry to find something to bring to school
or like—


The ground cracks and the briers snarl and the flowers have recessed
but I am a good girl I am a good girl
I was a good girl

Water the roses, she said
Water the roses, she said.

The roses are dry, she said
Dried up and gone, she said

Dried up and long gone.

• • •

For three roses of mine– two gone, one still strong.

Who Saves the Hero?

Artwork Originally Titled Heartbroken

Who Saves the Hero?

Heroes are strength.
They are everything we aspire to be.

There is a certain light in their eyes—
be it a warm, comforting glow,
candlelight flickering undying against shrill winter winds
or a blazing, furious fire
a crackling whirlwind of growling flames
ready to consume

They are both shield and sword, ready
to jump in front of the bullet train,
driving it to the ground with only the flat of their palm
to meet cold metal
Ready to launch themselves into smoke,
to tear enemies down as if they were only grass blades.
Because to them, that is all they are

When I am weak.
When I am nothing but a shriveling dust in my shell
When ashes have come to claim me, and I am no more

A hero shall rise

A hero to come to my aid
When my own arms lay broken and torn
A hero will raise his hand for me
When my voice is a mouse, limp and bleeding in the cat’s mouth
he will shout, a clear, bellowing shout
and all will hear him

Who will save me?

When I cannot run
cannot stand
When I can’t climb or jump or step or speak or breathe

A hero will.
A hero will save me.

A hero

A hero to defeat all those I cannot defeat
A hero to defeat them all

Every last one.
All of them.


But all empires come to fall.
All days must fade to night
Even the crashing tide must recede

And the hero will have no strength
he will know his weakness
feel it

When he can no longer shake the earth
When he cannot run
cannot stand
When he can’t climb or jump or step or speak or breathe

Who will save him?

Who will save the hero?

If he was the strongest of us all
If he was the one bearing the mountain on his back
Then who could carry his burden
When it became too heavy for him?

When the stars fell from the sky
who caught them?

When he couldn’t

When we couldn’t

When I couldn’t

The final battle hymn will die out
leaving only the frailest of heartbeats
the unsteady rhythm
keeping time as the funeral march begins
the requiem will fill the silence

And we will remember him
the hero

But I pity him
for while there was always

stronger than me

there was nothing stronger than him

There was nothing there for them

When you are the net to catch those who fall
who will catch you?

Who will save you?

Who will save the hero?

• • •

The artwork above is a piece I did two years ago for my art class, originally titled “Heartbroken.” If I were to rename it now, it might be something like “Silenced” or “Flightless” or something like that. So feel free to imagine up your own title for it.

White Winter Rabbit Run

Running Rabbit

White Winter Rabbit Run

There is a white winter rabbit, hidden in the snow
with two heartbeats

One rests within his chest, a humming

thump-thump, thump-thump

The other is with his stride
for when he runs he is free

thump-thump, thump-thump

His quick-padded feet pat the snow
and he races

a dart with no target
simply flying

as fast as his feet can carry him.


He is lightning in the woods
there is thunder in his ears


He is only free as long as he runs
One heartbeat cannot continue without the other

else they fall silent
clutched in the mouth of the snare

So the white winter rabbit runs

thump-thump, thump-thump

He runs until he can run no more.

• • •

*I wrote this poem a few weeks ago, in the back of a notebook along with Little, Little Fish. On Saturday, I had scheduled this eerie poem to be posted for today– nothing special, just another thing to place and move on. And then suddenly… it hits. Suddenly, things change. I think it has more meaning to me now than it did then, in light of recent events.

My heart goes out to everyone affected by the tragedy in Boston. You’re in my thoughts. Keep on running.

Little, Little Fish

This is a poem I wrote in one of my notebooks. For some reason I was on a poem-streak and I actually completed some.

Doesn’t happen as often as I’d like. Finishing things is always a challenge for me. Especially when it comes to writing big things. I. Just. Can’t. Finish. This happens to me with paintings/drawings/knitting/everything else too.

So here’s a finished piece. Hope you like it!

• • •

Little, Little Fish

I am a fish, a fish in a barrel
but fish, little, little fish, have no wings,
and are stuck in their little, little pond

Water is a slice of glass, with ripples from agitations
that make the glass grow and shrink as it heats and cools
but alas, though the ripples may be there,
and many a creature punctures through

we are stuck

It is a glass we cannot break
no matter our kingfisher leaps
no matter how we jump and flop,
and agitate the surface
we never truly break it,
we never truly break through

And like those fish, those little, little fish,
all boarded up in the barrel,
to that little, little barrel, all must we return
past the slipcover barrier of the glass

because in truth, to breathe pure air is divine
and fish, us tiny, tiny fish, were not made to fly
We have no wings with which to hang alate in the air,
soaking up sunlight, taking in the sky like fresh peppermints

feeling the wind rushing

And so it is, little, little fish,
that as you attempt to shoot straight from glass and barrel
to freefall, spinning with the airy sylphs
that taunt us in their unreachable atmospheres,
that gravity will pull you back down,

to plop

below the surface of the glass
in the barrel
and you will thank it, if halfheartedly

and deep in the skin of water, you will be able to breathe

• • •