Love PoemsA collection of work for real people

An open letter to all:First of all, let me put out a simple disclaimer about

this collection. Most collected works of poetry are supposed to be viewed as such: ‘collectively’. The pieces

work together, the order adds emphasis on certain things, shows a progression. However, this is not such a collection. I merely transposed a list of folks, and then wrote poems. The order is not important. The collection itself may not be very cohesive, and so I use the term ‘collection’ rather loosely. That being said, the poetry itself is an attempt at real poetry. (I cannot with confidence say that it is excellent or even good poetry, but I tried to put my best work into each piece.) There will be imagery, form, rhyme, meter, and all sorts of other things included. For those of you who aren’t well versed in poetry, this might make it seem rather odd. Usually in poetry, if something seems odd it’s there for a very good reason. Strange line breaks, repetition, alliteration, they all draw attention to specific things. And hopefully sound and look very nice. It’s sort of art, after all.

Secondly, I would like to address the topicality of the poems. Some of them will be written directly for you in a narrative tone, some of them will be retellings of a favorite memory, but many others will be more abstract. They may be about concepts or qualities that I think you embody, stories or scenes that your personality brings to mind. They might even be aimed at providing advice later in life, reminding you of the person you were to me. This means that some of the poems might come across, once again, a bit odd. Do not be dissuaded by that. They are all written holding you in the highest regard, with the best of intentions. If you don’t understand them, read them a different way. One of the best things about poetry is that you can read it again and again and find new things. Poetry has depth, just like you.

Most importantly, let me express my gratitude to you for your interest. It means a lot to me that you would even take the time to be involved in something like this,

because I know most of you aren’t prone to poetry. Most of you, if this were any other collection of work by any other high school student, would not be reading. The impact of your participation, I am still slowly coming to know. I meant this to be a gift to all of you, and it has in turn brought me so much happiness, afforded me so much peace, gifted me some nameless splinter of each of you, that I will carry on and away. Your reaction and support has astounded me, excited me, and left me humbled. It has been a privilege to know you. And so hopefully, this collection will be another fond experience for us to share. ~BJ

for Cayden Borger

In life and all it holds,know this as forever true:

There is not a single personliving a better life than you.

No one is more highly prized,there are no special kinds of man.

For each is being as he should,to fit a special sort of plan.

It does not matter where you go,or what success you come to find,

because the measure of a life,is the trail we leave behind.

So do not listen to the people,who say you could or might or should.

Love your life and love the people in it,for that trail leads somewhere good.

for Amy HuttoCome fall with me through

a wonderblurry night, reelingunabashed, oh music sweet sound

loud and soft and dashing.

Pitter-patter red and laughter,twisting careening to cobblestone blues

hard rocks and water smog grey stinkthen handrails

and back to light and shadow ohhello music sweet again it circles us

Tasting swirling color glaresand carting from to here and to

and where? No no. and why? no no

Friend, come, dance and swelland ask no no but feel and hurl about

the reds the lights the fuzzy facesrocks and blues and to and fro

one night just one to stumble chipper

and oh the music sweet hello itcircles round it circles round and

fills fills fills ‘till sleep then on.for Rachel Tuttle

you laughwhen things aren’t

really that funny.(Well, maybe it

is more of a giggle)

But it bubbles upfrom somewhere rather

nice inside you.It fills an empty space

after people stoptalking words

and it finds fissuresin their day and seeps down in.

It is adorable andit makes everything adorable

and that isspecial.

It makes things more,which makes you

even moretoo.

for Luke Johnson

I took you andtore you out of

the worlds’ spine,threw you up up

into the space

that big black vacuousnonarea;

it swallows nothingkeeps nothingholds nothing

and I watched youbeing there for a timeyou suspended there

so contained.

Writing poems for strangers is not hard.

Falling in loveis incredibly easy.

for Joseph Newman

There is a place

A sprawling silver expansebetween merely living and dreaming.

A place where mountains towerand rivers surge and the wind actually whispers.

A place where people laugh round and full,cook over hearths and sleep soundly in soft beds.

A place where small villages seem not so small.

A place where good is undeniable,and evil real, plain to see.

A place where intentions are pure, Hard Work rears her fledgling Success,

and the fantastic tales of old dribble their toes in rich earth.

A place of colors unnamed and space unconquered,

peaceful glades and hidden tongues.A place of stories yet untold.

Make your home there.And invite in every weary traveler

looking for a respite from the road.

for Kendall Hanson

The best art is madeafter getting denied entrance

to every single art school.

The best music is madeon a dirty street corner

with a broken guitarwhile everyone walks by

not listening.

The best basketball is playedby a scrawny kid on

a rundown court;always alone.

The best life is lived not with regard to

approval or opinion,it does not “do for”

it simply “does”

The best life is lived for your,not for their.

Better yet, it is simply lived.for Jared Jonas

I just thought you would like to know:Websters has an accurate definition of ‘usually’.

And I agree with you on most accounts.That literary analysis can be complete crap,

some people are horrible for a grand majority of their lives,

and lots of “poets” just write simple blurbs mixed in with unrelated garbage

and then pass it off as something deep and meaningful.

Websters has an accurate definition of ‘sometimes’.

Everyone is a hypocrite and people don’t need ultimate purpose to be happy

andthat class WAS awful and

I DO need to relax more often andthe cynics are usually right.

but then sometimes

for Cassidy GeeIt was raining,sky grey and rolling,

while we walked,slowly,out to class.

t h e r a i nf e l l d o w n

a n d t h e r a i n h i tt h e p a v e m e n t

a n d c o ll e c t e d o n

t h e s t r e e t

We came to a puddlea big puddle

lightly dancing as the rain tickled

its surface.We stopped.

We looked.And we walked

slowly,around to class.

The whole day was grey,so stale and so slowly.

We should have jumped.Always jump.

for Kaitie LangeIf words were water

you would be dumping buckets on mehot and then cold and then hot again.

If words were lightyou would be passing candles out on a street

cornerdays before thunderstorms take down every power

pole on earth.If words were movement

you would dance so smoothly through a black tie affair

spinning him and her and all of us about; whirling and reeling and dizzydrunk.

If words were treesyou would plant a forest in the desert and tend it

and keep itand it would be so green. so green. so living. It

would flourish. I would build a cabin and be quiet there, deep deep

away out in it.

But words are fine silk threads.

And yoursare woven up between two branches,

swelling softly in the breeze,collecting drops of purest dew,

catching moon and stars and universeand shimmering

for everyone and me to see.

for Jackie Hutchens

at the bottom of love is trustwhere between he&she is

some gentle promise to ask fortogetherness in dark blue

to clutch hard at tiny joys andgive daily he&she their gift:

a heart which explores youunder wild winds and waves

love is a sacred oceana big magnificent drenching turquoise sea

the kids kiss kiss and cuddle on the beachlive as girlandboys of hot island sun

finding pleasure, never paradise on sand.

but you, woman,let thy soul haunt the depths

for Cathy DonaldsonIn all honesty

this will probably never

sell for much of anything.

Which is a good thing.

At face value it is just

some words, some paper,not a commodity.

But we both knowthings need not

fetch a high priceto be worth something: A gentle curling smile,

a sun poking up from the edgeof a sleepyblue sea,

a steady arm wrapped acrossdrooping shoulders.

These are things actually worth

both giving and keeping.for Nicole Compton

you have this quietkind of patience

that I cannotvery well explain.

It has less to do with waiting to act

and more to do withthe act of waiting.

(maybe patience isn’t right)It’s more just a

condition of your being.An air about you.

That is calm and contentand very in the moment.

Like a pine tree in the woodsor a pebble on a beach

or a snowflake in the skyor any number of things

being themselveswhere they are.

You don’t wait to be or aim to be or want to beyou just are.

And that is quite rarein people.

for Riley Duke

Strong handsStrong hands

curl ‘round wood and steel and lift.Grip and strain, rippling; they move earth, iron,

trees.They twist and tear and shear and mash

bits of grime and dirt and sweat.They pull and crush and hack and shudder

molding world and time at once.They pummel, beat, and build and build.

A home. A name. A self; fulfilled.They work and work and wear and wear

and crack and weaken by days end‘till tired, rough they ache they ache

but rock a child, smooth to rest.Strong handsStrong hands

for Alex Stewart

It is so easyto think and ponder and

worry andquantify andwonder and

waver andconsider andcounter and

calculate andcomplicate.

How difficult,how bold,

to be simpleand happy.

for Jagar Konzleman

It is something very strangeto be a manto be a man

and hold so close the sordid cries of those around.

To pound them outall hammerlike ‘till golden

and slip them backas muffled shortened words,

some aimless deed.

to craft and sculptand sweat and sweat

and give and giveand give

but really just give.

To be a man, to forge for those around

some lick of strengthsome solid piece of being.

for Collin MooreGrowing up,

you were alwaysthe kid I wanted to be

more like.

You ate pizza rolls, had skateboards,played basketball, flipped on trampolines,

stayed up late and slept in,so completely cool.

But I guess we aren’t kids anymore.Those things seem silly to admire.

But now,You’re loyal to your friends,

keep your promises, and have a good time living,you’re silly and serious at all the right times

and everything you do is some means to a smile.

Growing upper,you’re still the man

I want to bemore like.

for Tia Reaman

Old wrinklewoman, tired eyes,draped in a wicker chair on a dusty street side

porchpeeling an orange in the colordry sun.

Little girl sits calmly by.

The woman paws and fumbles

her wrinkled hands at the flesh,pulling slowly at the layer of orange rind.

‘The world is like an orange, child’and the girl nods slowly, watching a mosca

loop lazily against white stucco walls.

Woman’s hands wriggle and scrape, dutifully so,and loose the last bit of peel.

She takes an orange sliceand pops it in her mouth, slowly rolling the flavors

about.

then hands the little girl a slice,who bites it quick.

Juice dribbles succulent down her chinand they laugh, fittingly,

Sitting in the sun, relishing their sweet fruits.

for Kit Stokes

There are things likemathematics and chemicals

and brain tissues and glaciersthat all seem to make

lots of sense.

They sit quite nicelyon shelves in boxes in stacks

and snap together and function.

Then there are things likecolors and soft furry cats and

the taste of peachesand

loveand the universe explodes outwards forever.

And there we are,on some rock

mathematically definedphilosophically unrestrained

hurtling through light and darkforever and onwards.

To claim to understand would just be rude.for Morgan Aramburu

It makes me very gladthat you know the

simple goodness that issolitude.

That on days whichdrag themselves against you,

rough and crumbling,leaving you raw

ordays that drape

themselves over youand go limp

or

days that slip through your hands

like smoke,you know what to do.

You told me.You climb a staircase

up into a little space in the sky above things,

and watch the sun sink; drain the day of color.Watch red and yellow fade to black,

sleep, and wake to welcome blue. for Ben Mueller

we do not fightto be free.

not you and i.we fight (and oh we must fight)

to keep ourselvesbound.

we struggle strain and stretchfor grip to hold and holdourselves to something

greater.

for we(you and i and all of us)are too small too blunt

to handle such propriety.

we cannot operate freedom.we cannot maintain justice.

we are crushed by their weight, stunned by their complexity.

no, we just hold and are held by Love

which is just and true and wholeand free.

for Alex MosherI may have lied(I probably lied)

when I said, that it was not

our last“good morning”

(They were so warm,those morning words.

They set a tone, so light like snow.

I waited on them,some days,to wake me

up.(sometimes, I merely wake.)

)It may have been

ourlast good morning.

But it won’t be my last.And I hope it won’t be yours.

For many people need a todayraised high above their yesterday.

for Cindy Ji

People shape liveslike boats shape water.

They move in and aboutand make ripples of smooth glass.

Their course echoes,it flits and scuttles and

spreads all around.

Some wakes are largesome wakes are small

some carry very very far

reflections dance and melt;light dazzles and glances,

as boats stir and drag the sea

Our courses are set to crossand a very delightful swell

precedes you.

for Michelle Svoboda

People say a lot of thingsthey really do not mean

they curve their words and paint their wordsto make them shine or gleam.

but if you can look past the wordsand see the aim behind

you’ll see who’s just a silly jerkand true friends, you will find.

True friends, good people, do not slightthey have no goals or things to do

when speaking, they just say true thingsand always wait to listen, too.

I say this not to warn you, kid,(for these are things I know you see),

but to show you who you were,(a good person), when you spoke to me.

for Emma PhillipsForgive me for being so

forward, but if I may:

Someone so gentlesoft to the world and calming

as youis rather attractive

in the right way.Draws the best

the lightestthe warmest

out of everyone aroundand plasters it up together

makes a little roomfor folks to have tea in,

chat about the weather,be together in good-ness.

Goodness.

It sounds odd. But it’s wonderfulhow you provide a well-lit sitting room

every time you smile and say ‘hello’.

You host us, gracious always.for Quincy Budell

Red checkerboard tableclothold coats slung on a

wooden rack, slightly leaning.

Cat in the corner swishingtail back and forth

back and forth back

and

forth

While careful handspull warm apple pie

out of the oven.

The front door is wide openand smells trace out

to the street.

Dusk is on the edge,and fireflies dance about the yard.

You are as warm, as invitingas this

in just a passing glance. for Kim Stastny

I hope that in all the time you keep your p(i - e)(e - a)ce of mind.

Such a blatant doubleentendre

descendredescend

with me into the bowels ofwhat should and shouldn’t be.

with bright black paintto cut things up

move them p la c e swith curly lines and .basic

words

shoutwithcolorsmovewithsentencesbreathewitheyes

make what you will of everything.never be fearful

never be dictatedB

F R

for Abbie Belthoff

In spring,buds leap fromtrees like little

children,so eager and ready to go.

Delicate, they soak upsun and rain

and bring a little color back to earth.

Then a cool night brings frost again,

EE

E

and slakes the enthusiasm.

But there is always one. A bud prepared,

braced against the cold.

That bud is you.Keep bringing color,

when the rest of us fail.for Liz Wagner

Vous êtes unbelle fenêtre

or something nice en Français

Qui est le plus heureux,qui est le plus evier?

Que faut-il faire?I think I mean that nicely.

Oui oui, je fais.

Mon Françaisest mal.

mais le sentiment stands.

You’re like this:A wonderful jumble of silly

and suave. Nonsense and sense

hashed all together.Delightful, hopeful, so much content.

Je l’aime, je l’aime, je veux que vous restiez.

for James Kiselik

Words are small.You stack some up on paper.

They get bigger.You stack those papers up on one another.

They get bigger still.Then you make copies and copies and copies.

And larger still the words grow.Until

one would consider the words very bigindeed.

And then they get forgotten on back shelves,left out in the rain, torn to bits, tossed away

and ink fades, blots, and withers into oblivion.

Words need not be big.They cannot be for very long.

They need only to be strong.

By truth, by skill, by whateverhaveyou,some will persist.And some words,

is all we really need.for Kaylee Dougherty

My favorite thingis when you erupt.

I never know just whenbut there will be times

when you’re in a momentand you jump up, split it open

toss glitter and candy and white lighteverywhere and it’s all sparkling and

vibrant and sweet and a ruddy type of ethereal.

You catch the worldwhen it’s being funny again

while most of usaren’t looking at it

like that.

And you ride that wave of happyjoy all the way in,

and drag us back out with youin the tide.

for Taryn Connellyclichés are life’s anesthetic.

Because in truth:

Life is very very hard,and not all of us will make it.

It’s like some horrible hurricane (life),

everything is flying aboutsmashing into us,

knocking pieces offand tearing parts away

until we finishvery much smaller than before.Again, not all of us will make it.

But part of us will make it.Like river rock

crack-tumbling down a stream.It will settle, roughless,

a smooth stone.

So be broken. Be torn.Be rumbled and rattled.

Watch the edges curb down;be refined.

for Presley Stewart

If the worldwere to be,

shortly, consumed by some raging fireball comet

in the sky,

or twisted inside out by some rumble in the depths,

I would assumemost folk would be

rather frantic,if I had to guess.

Dashing about,trying things,

breaking things,cramming up those hours.

But you. I see

you baking cupcakes

riding a bike with flowers in the basket dri

nking lemonade on a quilt in the park.

How grand, to be so carefree.

How precious, to be so light.

for Jessica Semaha

A little girlin a bright green dress

sits on the side of the roadselling lemonade

from a pitcher on a box.

People drive by. She waits.

Summer lingers.Birds chirp.

No one stops.

All day, she perches on the streetwatching busy people bustle by

selling nothing.

But at days end, as the cricket sounds rise

and a breeze slides in through the treesshe walks up the driveway

with an empty pitcher, a belly full of lemonadeand a smile.

We should all enjoy it like she does.for Lilly Ragan

Junior high is pretty muchthe worst time I can think of.

Everything is awkwardand everyone is awful.

They’re all rude and inconsiderateand completely insensitive.

most of them are grossand a whole lot of them

had no idea who they were.The food was terrible

the school itself was falling apartwe didn’t have any resources

and somebodythrew a glass bottle at me during lunch once.

I hated it. And I hate it even more now.

And still,I remember meeting you.

And I still have a hard timebelieving that it was during

middle school.

You are that delightfully contrary to the nature of the memory.

for Nana and Grandad

O heritage, so staunch and rich, of royal isles and rolling green.I live with memories ingrainedof countryside I’ve never seen.

I see the light inside your eyesas pearly cliffs and ocean swells.

And in your conscious laughter hearthe joyous peal of chapel bells.

To you, I owe my daily peaceand feeling of tenacity.

For once a Londoner is born,a Londoner they’ll always be.

I’ll hold a boon from you with me,though through the world perchance I’ll roam.

You are the soil of England in me,a solid ground, a richer loam.

for Stephanie Mahler

There is a big differencebetween

living for somethingand

living something.You can live a life.

You can’t live for life.Because

prepositionallyand conjuctionally

for doesn’t make sensewithout a different noun.

Peace is a noun.Hope is a noun.Love is a noun.

And this may sound likean English lesson.

It’s not. It’s a puzzlepoem.

Because in real life it’s stillpuzzling.

But you should always life for.for Makenzie Bennett

We walkedyou and I

along the river(and the water was moving)

(and we were doing something else)

but we were talking too.Your eyes danced,

they sparkled at times,which was a surprise

at least for me.

I don’t know if youremember what we talked about,

but most folksnarrow their eyes,

stare at the concrete,when speaking of such.

I mean,the water was glistening, gleaming by

and you looked right at me.

I noticed, and I remember.So much honesty

in those eyes.for Ian Hewitt

When we were young,(not small, but young)

we traipsed about my yardfighting some unnamed war

in the last few days we couldactually see such things.

Anti-aircraft took our chopper downby the shrubs in the side yard.

I laid down cover fire as wedashed from the charred wreckage tothe corner of the house and crouched.

You threw your rifle into the flower beds. I checked the pockets of my jean shorts. No ammo.We peeked around the rain spout, ducking bullets,

and saw a trench.We looked at each other.

You ripped the last grenade off your t-shirt;bit out the pin, dashed around the corner,

and took the rest of them with you.

I still don’t know why you did that.(There was probably a supply cache in the back

yard)But even in a silly fantasty,

you made sure your friends were ok.

Consider this your medal. for Ken Moore

sometimes poems play around all silly

like; as if they are just light things that we do not really need, but enjoy. some poems are just toys, shiny flashy wonders. sometimes poems are solid things. things with purpose that move people and leave marks. good poems are something light and solid. fun and useful. good poems are like good people. they work; they play.

for Tom FoisyNot in so much as speaking

did you sway me, sir.You did not carve my squaring sholders

with your smooth breaths and mouthsounds.For to a point the most clean cut of terms

may fail to burrow deep into a youthful soul’stawny beating chunk of life-muscle.

But you were funnyand exciting

and not formal at all.Nobody had been that to me.

Nobody had shown me that maybeGod doesn’t act/speak/wear Sunday clothes.

That God can be the deal,not a big one.

In a good way.

As in my tone of voicecould stay the same

when prayingas when watching football.

for Elaine Wilson

I ask you

to dance through life like asuperhappy viscous thing.

To run through youthwith a stick in hand and crash about

make noise and laugh and clatter.Spin stories like yarn,

knit them up into thick sweaters and wear them on cold rainy days.

And age. gracefully.Bring it into your living room,

sit it down on the sofa,offer it a biscuit, a cup of coffee,

enjoy having the company.

Then, when age goes down to the rented basementgrab your coat

a home-knit scarfyour best pair of shoes

and hit the town abuzz at night. Revel in the golden light,

the sound, the smell, let it permeate.Never stop dancing.

for Teresa ClarkThis poem is

more of a shrugbecause honestly I’m tired

of writing poems for people.

I’ve written a lotand there’s a lot more to go

and I feel like I don’t have much left in me at the moment.

Which sounds rudebut I know first hand that you take peoples’ shrugs

and their sighs and their achesand you warm them up,

smooth them out, and fill them with a sunny new color.

Tint them vibrant again.And it’s the greatest gift I know.

So here. Take this crappy deflated poem.

I know it’s bad.but watch what you do with it.

Better than what I could sayanyways.

for Li ChangI remember fondly

hours that we shared.

You grafted in so wonderfully and infusedthat fall with welcomesand fantastic premiers.

You seemed sofearless. Facing

up to every opportunitywith a smile.

So new, yet so familiar.You handled yourself

like an explorerseeing all that you could see.

My friend, you were a piece

of our home.

My brother,or nearest to it,

I hopeI hope

that we will meet again.for David Gardner; two limericks*

The man who spends time having fun,has work that never quite gets done,

he may lack some money,but oh is he funny,

and friendlier t’wards everyone.

Limericks have rhythm and cadence.They rhyme and they match and they make sense.

They follow the rulesteachers teach kids in schools

but in the real world some things don’t work out like that and you just have to go with it.

for Thomas Hagen; in haiku

You came to my house,were polite and quite civil,manners are good things.

But you laugh so loudsometimes it disrupts matters

that are important.

But you make othersshare in your raucous laughter.

A good gift to give.

for Reilly ScottHiking.

Honestly, it’sa bunch of

walking andwalking

and then you’re backwhere you started.

Again.

So the reason we hikehas something to do with

movement, butnot with going somewhere.

It has something to do with seeing things,but not with staying there.

It’s a very fluid thing, hiking.

It’s oh so very good,and oh so very hard to

figure out why.

Do more things like that.We all should.

for Suzi Bryan

Line up 100 reasonswhy you can’t do something

and watch them blow overas you go past.

Reasons aren’t very heavyit doesn’t take much

to move them.

You unstoppable force.There is no friction.

You float, you glide, you soarthrough life like some

iridescent jet plane.

It’s good. Don’t slow down.

Because as much as speedisn’t that important.

There is something to be saidfor consistency.

So don’t let life drag you back.Don’t let things grab at you.

Keep momentum.

for McKenna Morgan

We baked bread onceto celebrate a birthday

and since then I’ve noticedthat you bake cookies

and cakesand brownies

and more breadsand pies and snacks

and you don’t do any more celebratingthan any other people.

You’re just really good at actually doing it.At remembering. Preparing.

doing something a little special.

Not that the food doesn’t taste greatbut my favorite part

is that notion that you do itcompletely unrequested.

That courteous intentionis like being given too much change

while the worker just winks and smiles.

for Sara TikkerYou wear a smile

like a little child wears a little hat.

Imagine, if you would,a small boy

wearing one of those little blue sailor suits

with the white stripes and all.

Flashy sun out,he’s trotting on the beach

with a red balloon in his hand.

But he’s wearing a real sailor hata big one

and it droops over his eyes.staggering he trips

and lets go of his balloon and it floats away.

Poor kid.Should have been wearing

something that fit.

for Ashley BasuraI like to think

(if you’ve read more of this, you know)

that people are likepoems.

Each their own. With shapes and sounds and

reasons for being as they are.

Some languid, flowing rhyming thingssome short snappy quick ones

Some fun some make you think

some are both.Some are simple.

Some are complex.And some,

you can’t figure out.

They stick with you,they intrigue you,

cause you to wonder,Say why or what if.

Those poems might be the best onesfor Pam

To write the poem that is youis to roll a bunch of big words

and important words and welcome wordsinto something fun and friendly.

In the best of ways you percolatedown into the day and thrive there.

You stick people together withthis effervescent aptitude,

it’s yellow, very yellow, such delight.

It gets me all up mixed, you see.Cramming sunshine and democracy,

because they seem so disjunctiveuntil you make bright of heavy matters.

And people take notice.So soon when you’re far and known

and being more of you I will point proud and say “She is mine.”

And I am yours.Forever and quite strongly

there will be us two. for Katrina Noud

There was orange lightand cracking metro stairs

and cool air swept ‘round us.We walked, we wandered,

chauffeured by city soundsthrough some beautiful paint smear.

Some dash of color.So quick. So visceral.

Time was not momentsbut moments

stacked on moments stacked on momentsslipping by and away.

Memories so rich

they tug at your selffrom beyond the sea.

A week in Parisis so much denser.

And while we were there,

so were we.

for Haleigh Sims-Douglas

I wonder what binds us to the everymanwhat lops off our ankles and shoulders

and bundles people up all tidylike.

Stacks us up all one on another on anotherin neat little rows and sections

feeds us grey paste and slurry matter.

Why do we twist and contortto cram inside the pipes?

When we force our squareness through round holeswhere do our corners go?

Well whatever it isI’m not very happy about it.

But I’m happy about you.Because you can move

and you can twiddle

you have corners.

Keep them.Flaunt them.

Be something else.for Morgan Fisher-Uriarte

You stood there,surrounded by stories(staunch heavy ones)

stacked up on the walls,and curled out your own.

Air in there is thick,breath of thousands

whuffs inside your head,crushes up the crevices,

pushes everything tighterand you

stood there,

Pealed out words andtore my heart to shreds

my body to dustso small as to be nothing

and everywhere.

So you are onmy shelf now.

A select few who

crush and not compress me.for Morgan Hand

There are a lot of people on Earthand I only know a few of them

but to me it’s a big few

and you are one of the small fewwho actually stick by what they say

in that you act and not acquiesce.As in:

Each seed of a dandelionholds a promise to grow

and then they take to the air.

Some dance and twirl and floatso lazylike and free and fanciful

but soon they’re far and gone.

I have so much respectfor the one seed that stays

that falls gently to the groundand

begins to foster a new flower.

for Emily Ellis

You sing with your heart

move with your soul and talk with your eyes.

A lofty creatureyou breathe in the world

and exhale something sweeter.Condensed and saturated.

in song.

There are a lot of thingsthat I do not really understand

like why things existor how silly things make us happyor how the universe is expandingor why there are different colors

of bendy straws

but I do knowand I mean

that I really knowthat you do speak

with your eyes.

for Cameron Owen

If I’m not mistakenan acoustic guitar worksmostly by being empty.

The strings vibrate, sure

and they’re the ones makingthe actual noise

but you can hear it because the wood is hollow,

it allows the sweet soundsto resonate.

It is best,if I’m not mistaken

to be much like a guitar.

Carve yourself outbe daringly empty

and find what resonateswithin your very soul.

for Jonathan Wheatley

We packed up a blue truckand we crawled into the mountains

and the screen door creaked shutand it was quiet for three days.

The speakers were up late at nightand the river was gurgling and rushing

pots and pans clanged in the kitchenlaughter and music interjected throughout.

wind swished through pine needles

and rocks crunched under footand then the engine burbled up

and we left back to town to work.

But while we were thereeverything seemed more enticing

because it was less pertinent.

a quiet trip to the cabindoesn’t have a lot to do with sound.

for Will Burginlife might be

some gigantic whirlingclockwork.

A precision matchedmachine thathammers onhammers oninto oblivion.

Some folk do notlike such talk.

They say itmakes them less

human, or something.It doesn’t.

It just makes humans more of a

means and not an end.A cog in the system,not the product of it.

It seems you appreciatemachines.

Good.We need more people

to help the universefunction.

for Grace Gibney

If eyes are the window to the soulthen words are the door.

When you writewhen you speak

when you singyou open that door

and you beckonto all “come along, come along”

for there is so much to do out here.

And that’s the trick.The inside becomes the outside because

The soul stretches so much fartherthan the sky or the waves or the trees.

A boundless expanse of dazzling brilliance,the soul maintains its magnanimity.It fosters hope and offers it so free.

So wonderfully curious, thenhow we must descend deeper within

to broaden our horizons, to experience fullness,to see.

for Robert TigheI want you to buy a typewriter

and sharpen up each letter.Roll yourself in the back and

punch vigorously at keys.Feel the words cut your flesh

let it bleed.

I want you to get a tattoo gunand etch essays into the blank pages of your skin.

Pierce deep and let the ink flow.Force it far beneath the surface.

Tear some of yourself up.The pages with sticky keys, typos, slanted

handwriting.Get rid of all of them.Shred bits of yourself.Burn bits of yourself.

Throw parts of yourself away.

Then brandish your scarsyour bruises

your ink.

Good writing should not be easy.Good writing should be worth it.

for Austin KirkhamIf light is time and time is air

then where to all my words go?

Because between the theories and conjecturesof time and life and matter

one begins to feel quite weary.At least I do.

For I cannot take the constant tumble of manthrough subjectivity

and so at times I close the blindsand water my little plant in its little pot.

But it seems to me youwrestle here and there and rummage through

a warping universe almost always.And I cannot tell

what there is to search foror why there is to search for it

but I like that you do those.

And maybe I’m weak or you’re strongor I’m at peace or you’re aimless

I really don’t know.But I wish us all the very best.

for Lilian Li-Chen

Don’t believe the system or they rules they have you playing by.

The road to wisdom’s nothing but a set up for a diatribe.

They postulate and pessimize until a concept’s concrete.

Then use it as a paving stone to burn the soles of more feet.

It’s a stupid gamethey hype and hype so much

that people actually listen.

But you can’t cram freethinking inside green-curly walls

and choose who gets in.

It’s ridiculous.It’s impossible.

The world is widethe world is tall

the world does notcondense

well.

Finding how to get a grip on that is

what learning really is.for Michaela Barr

Wind rips through tired concrete blocksand icy snow barrels around corners

charging left and right and everywhere.

A hushed light is seeping intothe edges of the sky as it

screams and howls and shudders,tinting the flakes metallic silver.

And from grey to greyand white to white

the streets the blocksare empty until

A woman jogs by.

Head down and arms swayingshe trundles through the sparkling fright.

The only person awake.The only person in the whole city

out and unbattered by the storm.

for Kateri Bilay

Truth is nothing like a fancy shirt.

You cannot stitch it up

or iron out the wrinkles.

Truth isnothing like a newspaper.

It cannot be torn upor tossed out to recycle.

Truth issomewhat like a garden.

Some plants are nice.Some plants are not so nice.

You go into peoples’ gardens

and pick them bouquetsthat smell so sweet;

bouquets that sometimes, they had forgot they had.

for Garrison LewisA lot of the time

I see folksscurrying and scuttling

and worrying and fussingabout anything.

They shudder and twitch and

twitter and ramble

on and onand on and

on endlessly

all for things that just don’t matter.

And that’s where you differ.

I’ve never seen youfret over nothing.And that’s good.

Show peoplewhat it is

to stay calm.

for Joe Harper

There are moments, sirwhen words simply will not do.

For all their worth,for all their weight,

there are some magnitudesto which they simply fall shy

and it is not poetic at all.

For they wrap up concrete thingsreal concepts

and sometimes those break and dissolveand the words remain.

an indelible inconsistency.

But I suppose it cuts both ways.For when things slip beyond time into forever,there are the words, remaining. A monument.

So speak your mind, good sir.Or don’t.

For to be imperviousto be fragile

are both to be.To be at all, that is one’s magnum opus.

for Mariah MooreWe would drive home from school

the same way a lot and I would seeyou in your car.

Sometimes you noticed and smiled or wavedwhich was nice

but it was nicer when you didn’t.

Because I would watchyou in your car

when you didn’t thinkanyone was.

Most people, when in their cars,pick their nose or yell or burp or yawn real wide

(I notice these things)and seem altogether uncivilized.

But you seemed rather pretty.Smiled, toyed with the ends of your hair,

leaned on your window, nodded subtle-like at the radio.

You were quite yourself in there. And that takes a special person.

Who knows no show time. A real person.(I hope this isn’t that creepy)

for Matt Dayton

Without a doubtI have my doubts with

plenty of things, doubting included.

Which makes about as much senseas I can make out of it (not much)but it’s kind of goofy so I thought

you might like it.

But if I put it this way:There’s more than one kind of goofy.

There’s the guy with the broken briefcasewalking through a blustery day

papers blowing to and fro and he’sbumbling about frantic reaching for stuff

and it’s funny but sort of sad.

Then there’s the guy walking through said day

with a spring in his stepthrowing a paper airplane and then

chasing it all back and forth and around.It’s a much more jovial thing.

To be happy about the lack of control. It’s rather refreshing.

for Selma DelicPoliticians don’t really know

how to throw a very good party.They’ve got balloons and streamers

and lots of people and cakeand buttons and confetti

and while it might look very festive,it never really looks that fun.

Because you can’t be seriousabout fun. It doesn’t work.

Get a nice little box and paint itbright colors and tell fun to hop right in.

You can’t tell fun anything.It isn’t hanging around waiting on anybody.

Fun is out there doing all sorts of things.People don’t realize this. No matter what you do,

you can’t plan on fun. (It’s bad at keeping a schedule)

You have to go places, do things, and hopefully find fun somewhere.

You seem rather good at that.

for Britini Smith

water does this thingwhere it changes

but it stays the same thingit’s always water.

And how, I sort of know. And why, I do not know.But more importantly,

I implore you not to be like water.

We do not stay the same.Yes the world

chips and breaks away at usand paints over us

but it also dumps us in a beakerwith plenty of other people and things

and we get all blended upand certain thoughts fuse to ours

and change the way we are.

It is not bad to react.It is not bad to dissolve.

It is not bad to morph.

Because life is not about the principle or the product

it is about the process.

for Victoria Gray

There once was a girlwho focused and focused

and worked very hard.

She studied and readand had shelves and shelves

and lived there in words in her room.

Her neighbors grilled steakswatched sunsets, laughed loudly,stayed up late, watched movies,

went dancing, skipped breakfast,and she scoffed at the lot.

She learned and learnedcontained so much

and at the endknew the secrets the meaning the purpose

of lifebut she never lived it.

While the neighbors didn’t knowthat they knew.

for Valerie Barker

Out behind houses astwilight hugs softly the edges of the earth

and fireflies swell into the skya wonderful thing begins.

The porch chairs sag comfortablyand folks meld together into a

rich sort of collective realm;past and future together and then some.

And on it proceeds, as lamp lights flicker and sprinklers turn on

the voices they murmur and rollso patient, so timeless, at peace.

Your daysLet them linger, simmer, bask in fading warmth

and share them with everyone.

Live each daylike a back-porch story.

for CeeAnna Derouin

You would do this thing in classevery so often

when I would lean slowlyobtusely out of my desk to pick up a pencil

or when somebody wouldsay something silly over and over a few times

never get it to seem any less silly

or when somebody (sometimes me) would say something with sound but not words.

You would shake your head,say something along the lines of

“you’re weird”and laugh a little bit.

I’m glad you do this. Because you’re absolutely correct.

People, at their very core,are strange, fleshy, lost, lofty little things.

And if you can get joy,or at least amusement out of them,

you’ll do just fine in this life.

for Hannah Shirley

When I say pretty things,they tumble out of my mouth

and slop into a pile on the floor.

Heavy lead things, they are.They’re nice, people like them

(sometimes I like them)but they always seem to me

such a mess.

When you say pretty things,

they slide out easyand hang there in the air a bit

before fitting into some sort of lock

like a key to the whole damn city.

Some universal important piece, they are.They’re good, and people like them.

(I like them)Yet you seem so quiet

when you say pretty things

I like that toofor Justin Sands

It seems to methat you have a pretty

solid understandingof something that

I am not entirely surehow to phrase.

But you seem to sprawl comfortablythrough life, like some big

worn-in couch.Shoes kicked aside,

pile of dishes in the sink,fan circulating air,

and you’re lounging soprofoundly.

I think it’s because you knowbetter than most that

even if you put the work in life doesn’t always work out.

But it has this funny way of working.

And you throw your feet up on that thoughtNot lazy-like but stress-less, and watch the fan

twirl. for Blythe Spiers

I don’ really knowthat much about animals

but I know a little aboutthis one thing called instinct.

Birds can fly south without compasses.Cats can usually land on their feet.

And salmonthey can swim back

from the oceanup streams, jumping rocks

and fighting currentcovering really far distances

to get back to where they were born.

And so no matter what happensI want you to know that

at the bottom of it allthere is something inside all of us

that guides ussets us right

and directs us home.Call it what you may,

you have it and so you willnever ever fail.

for Danny Ciaccio

FrigginI don’t really know why

we don’t wear clown nosesand big floppy shoes

to church. For real.

Giggle and chortleand make folks shimmy

in their little suits.Boisterous and all.

Cause it’s not somebad thing.

(I’m not that funny)But you are.

And if God is who everyonesays God is,

then He’s funnier thanall of us.

And nobody thinks about it that way.

for Juan Bernal

Pretty sure it was freshman year(I’m terrible at remembering things)

we played dodge ball in P.E. and you were very good

and dodging things.

We had this strategywhere we would run about

and duck and weavebut rarely would we

throw a ball.And we made it pretty far.

And I like that concept. Because we mightn’thave won very often

but we didn’t concern ourselves with that.We concerned ourselves

with staying far from trouble,not causing it.

And as unbeautiful as it soundswe can’t win this game.

But we can keep ourselves out of troubleand that’s an honorable thing.

for Taylor Stump

Crystal clinks and warm brassquivering over red satin and thick oak

black and white and buttons for all

brewing lightly around linen traysbumping and swooning with another

swirling around the dazzling center

perched so high and farlight catches and splits a thousand different ways

glass teardrops glinting off gold and glimmerblack and white and diamonds.

How magnificent. How marvelous.

How positively splendid.

And then I can see you arriving,dragging me off the floorinto the brisk pitch night

pointing at the sky and shoutingdiamonds diamond diamonds.

How stunning, indeed.for Connor Ellis

In life, there are men who will tease you.They will pester and pummel and squeeze you.

They will yell and berate you,tremble and hate you,

and I would advise you: say nothing.

For men such as these, who pummel and teaseonly resort to such violence,

because they cannot bear the icy cold stareof the entity we know as silence.

They make noises and shout, their voice scuttles about,

because they fear something so pure.But you, my brave man,

in sweet silence can stand,so good and so fair and so sure.

And if people keep teasing and poking and squeezing

for the lack of the things that you say,look them right in the face, and with style and

grace,turn and slowly, unmoved, walk away.

Then wallop them with a rubber chicken while they sleep

for Alexander Bell

To know the woodsis not per say to know them.

Because they spread and climbso very very far.

The forest is the keeper of such a mysterious solitude

that is aimless and timeless;the foremost bastion of an overwhelming vastness

tucked away ‘tween branch and fern.

Something impressingly large and complexnestled deep in shadows, curated on sweet pure

air.

To know the woodsis to open yourself up

to such a vacuous expanse,embrace the seen and miles beyond,

to nod yes yes to the large unfathomable.

To know the woodsis to know yourself.

for Carlos LunaLife might be a whole lotlike a crowded swing-set

at a very small elementary school.

There’s the few kids who get to swingand the bunch of kids who stand around waiting.

Some of them talk and kick rocks aroundsome of them yell and the kids swinging

every once in a while there’s a kid

who so badly wants to swingthat he offers to push just to be

involved.They move back and forth

back and forthuntil recess ends.

And there’s always that weird kidby himself with a bucket on his head

spinning around and running crazy through the field

out past the swing-set.And everyone else may laugh.

But he’s swirling and careening about the grassgoing different places

and he’s having more fun than anyone.for Megan Konzelman

I can’t really tell right nowif we’re at the edge of the precipice

or the foot of the peakbut we’re at some notable destination.

And perhaps even that’snot entirely correct. Because I know

people tend to label life an a to bwhen it isn’t really like that.

Existence is so much more spatial.

Yes there is a lot ahead.Yes there is a lot behind.

There is also much at either side.All around everyone, is everything in particular.

life crisscrosses and ripples and bloomsand all too often we funnel it down into a line.

Do not do such a thing. Do notlive fixated on the horizon,

but dwell among the moments rich and full.You will be continually surprised by the world’s

proximity.

I, and others, will be forever close by.for James Suchy

There is a young manwho lives in an old clocktower

in a village by the sea.

Every day, he wakesand he cleans off the top of the tower

bird poos and cobwebs and alleven though the clock does not work.

The townsfolk they see him.Some laugh, some pity, some scoffall belittling his toil in the morning.

Until one day

the most beautiful of girlsmoves into town.

Other men buy flowersnice dinners, fancy coats.

They strut and they swoon and they yearn.

But no one else can offersuch a spectacular view

of the clouds and the skies and the waves.for Timi Koyejo

Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?For I have known them all already, known them all:

But thy eternal summer shall not fade,when I am pinned and wriggling on the wall.

I am the people, humble, hungry, meanthough wise men at their end know dark is right.

Let America be the dream the dreamers dreamed,do not go gentle into that good night.

You see, to form a sound of sweetness takes not aim

but careful planning, thought, perhaps a colon.Some poetry’s an art and some’s a game,

for every piece of beauty’s somehow stolen.

for Mom for Dad

you you

reach beyond contain

reaching with multitudes that arms forever are completely wide like as to in alignment. embrace everyone. you teem with some marvelous knowledge, wisdom sweeping curve that science, progress says welcome welcome and never spill over. never calculating but the widest expanse always so sincere. folds up inside your you wrap us up and pocket and you roll us out in some carry it like car keys, expert fashion that some average thing.

I love you have never gotten the do not grasp of. some lurch or strain, delicate timing that even gleam in knows when to holding such. you do everything. sit still, unassuming you harbor and just have it from the world at the ready. and shuffle you do not protrude; folks back in you do not waver; so well. you are a calm quiet seamless. with magnificent As in: you rolling clouds inside. always know you are special, when to hold you act it not, or to release which makes you or to push more so tome. me.

for Meghan Phelps

You are the nightlistening as I

drive by to nowhere.and

You are this permeating dustyou hover in rooms

and make the light scatterall soft and slowly.

andYou are roll upon roll

of unused filmwaiting so justly for

exposure and development.To capture a moment

is so very beautiful.To hold its place in time

and surround it fully,experience the bends and curves of light and

shadowlet it all in, let it all impress upon you,

let it wrap your neck your face your eyes.How beautiful indeed.

You are all this and moreand you will always

always be.for Sean Nelson

My checklist for living a good life:1. 2.

3.4.5.

That’s the honest truth(the dishonest one has a lot more words)

but in a nutshellnone of us know what we’re doing.

And I find it of the kindest conditionthat you made me feel like I might have

something of worth to say.But really,

wisdom does not flow downhill.Wisdom is the dry dust

at the bottom of some mountainand sometimes the wind blows it around.

Welcome. Join the subtle mixing.

And wait with us,for the small trickledown of melted snow.

for Logan Hansen

The way fog movesis such an interesting one.

When it’s heavyit folds and fills between

earth and evergreen,curls around and swells and billows

thick and wet, it drapes over everythingso strongly.

And then a light breeze comesand ever so gently

it spreads its airy arms andlifts away.

Floats off and dissipates, tailing and leaving no trace.

Something so present leavingso quietly.

Good men have a lot to learnfrom fog.

to be strongto be quiet

To be present, but gently.for Gabby Gore

There is a certain waythat a bird approaches the sky.

Moment before takingto the air

it aims its head right up,it rolls its sort-of shoulders,

so quick and concise-likeand makes a definitive up.

Unabashed and unapologetica bird flies.

Sometimes, you wear that confidence

like a white checkered peacoaton a drizzly New York morning.

And it is so becoming.

for Clay Jones; an English Sonnet

Take care, my friend, to use your time so wellthat those with whom you spend it are amazed.Fear not the sprawling world beyond your shell,

for to the corners lay your trails, unblazed.And on your way aim always to progress,

be true to you and live a life so free.At times your path may not lead to success,at those points, friend, be happy just to be.

For wandr’ers, we all are, so none can boastThough some may get to places far and high,

and claim themselves the best, the first, the most,that gives them just a what and not a why.

And in the end the what will all be gone,

but echoes of men’s whys will carry on.