Wednesday, August 24, 2016

Imbalance and Inequality or What Happens When You Tell a Poet to "Go Write a Poem"

The only way to find out what that title means is to read the poem. Go on now, read it.

Imbalance and Inequality or What Happens When You Tell a Poet to "Go Write a Poem"

"Go write a poem" they tell me.
As if this is some great insult.
As if poets are some sort of second class,
Only here to write about or speak on pretty, delicate things.
But shit,
Life isn't always pretty.
Though it is always delicate.
So, if we're to take Thoreau's advice to "live deep and suck out all the marrow of life," 
We're going to find that life isn't always easy.
That wine can sometimes give us horrible headaches,
And reminders of what that sad, sad song said about roses.

"Go write a poem" they say.
Oh, I will.
It'll be a poem about how I won't be silenced when I speak out against racism,
A poem that clearly says that even though it's true that all lives matter,
It needs to be said that black lives matter too.
Because as inclusive as the word "all" is supposed to mean,
It has became empty rhetoric, at best,
At worst, used only to dismiss and demean the issues others face every day.
I'll write that poem.

I'll write a poem.
A poem that loudly says that men don't have the monopoly on intelligence,
That mansplaining,
Or attacking a woman's gender,
Doesn't put a guy in first place.
It actually exposes a fear of intelligent women. 
We can't just criticize ideas can we?

Yeah, I'll write a poem.
A poem about how "gay isn't synonymous with "stupid."
Or that equating anyone who's gay as the lesser only brings the aggressor lower.
Not the target.
We don't choose who we love,
But we do choose how we treat each other.

"Go write a poem."
The last cry of someone so insecure,
So fragile,
So helpless,
So out of words.
"Go write a poem."
What exactly do you do?
Are you more qualified somehow?
Go write a poem?
Well, I did.
I wrote a poem.
What are you going to do?

Thursday, August 18, 2016


What can I say about the "you" of this poem? She's a beautiful soul and one of my most favorite on the planet. I love that she's part of my world and that I'm a part of hers.


I look up often.
Especially to the sky.
I have no grudge with the clouds,
But I prefer the night sky.
The night sky has always grounded me.
The gentle light of the countless stars,
To finding constellations,
To drawing my own shapes.
The night sky.
For the simple joy of just looking.
From time to time there's more to see;
Shooting stars,
The International Space Station,
And comets.
This, is how I see you.
You are a comet.
Comets aren't always in view,
Though NASA knows where they are.
You, my comet, though I don't always see you,
I know where you are.
Even when you're in other ends of the galaxy.
This is why, when you come into my sky,
I make sure to look up.
Because I know your time in my sky isn't like that of the stars.
Or the moon even.
You do as comets do.
You light up my sky when you come by.
And though the time shared isn't constant
The intrigue and energy is.
I'm not selfish enough to think you belong to my sky,
Though I'm blessed to know you're there.
So I always look forward to seeing you again.
Knowing that some of your light is for me,
I'll keep looking up,
Smiling and knowing you'll be back,
That you'll be there,
In my sky again.

for Christa