Your very flesh shall be a great poem.

Virgin Islands

The ocean breeze flutters in,
kissing my neck,
running it’s fingers
through my hair.

The candle on the nightstand flickers
gasping at the wind’s caress
while the clouds pucker
like lace in the sky.

The salty water laps at the edge
of the beach, licking away
the sand and teasing
the seaweed as the tide rises.

A sailboat on a night’s jaunt churns
though the midnight waters,
the billowing sail arching
as it strains against the mast.

Palm trees arch towards the sky
heavy with their coconuts
as the hibiscus spread their petals
wider to welcome the dawn.

And as the sun forces itself
into the night with a burst of red,
I smile because I recognize
this dance for the first time.

Poetry is dropping a rose petal in the Grand Canyon and waiting for the echo.

To relive my poor brain from straining it’s neurons to understand the biochemistry within it’s own biochemistry (so meta), I enrolled in a poetry workshop course that requires us to write enough poetry to create a chapbook.

Not only that, but we have 16 weeks to create a potentially publishable chapbook.

And, that potentially publishable chapbook must contain around 25 poems(!), each representing it’s own color woven into this literary masterpiece that bleeds from the fingers hastily typing “vivid verbs” for the deadlines.

As if I could manage that (on top of my two jobs, other schoolwork, and wedding planning)…

Here’s something that we kinda like and are willing to subject to your ever-reading, ever-critical eyes.  Bon appetit.


Little feet slapped the kitchen tile,
pitter-pattering to the table.
Chairs scooching
across wooden floors
as tiny fingers grabbed tiny plastic forks.

Butter spattered against blueberry flapjacks
as maple syrup pooled on the plates.
Crispy bacon crumbled
as tiny teeth chomped,
washing it down with chilled milk.

“Another round!” my breakfast bar flies
cried, tiny heads peering around the door.
Tiny messes galore as I made a few more
and as my husband gave me a kiss,
I wondered how much I’d miss

when they weren’t so
little anymore.

There is strong shadow where there is much light.

It’s been a long time since I’ve visited this place, this secret cave that has become my online home where I can hide all of my vulnerable pieces in one out-in-the-open spot.

But it seems that I have roommates.

Whenever I come back to this blog and take a careless glimpse at my stats pages, I’m always taken aback at the number of days that pass between posts punctuated by the number of people who have rifled through the words here.  I don’t mind! It just feels like someone has moved things three inches to the left – there’s just enough of a difference for me to feel awkward stumbling around, but subtle enough that I don’t realize it.

What could you possibly find interesting about this place?

I come to this bean-bag chair of a blog with the fuzzy blanket posts because I’m lonely, and I need to spend some time alone with myself, cuddling with the words of a girl who doesn’t exist anymore.

I come to this infirmary to treat the poison ivy of my soul, because out there, I scratch until I bleed and the scars freckle my skin.  There are no mirrors in this place because ugliness is part of the charm.

I come here to multi-task and cry such gut-wrenching sobs that it turns into an ab workout.  Sweat and grime only add to the decor and sweet stench of the place.

What would you possibly find interesting about that?

But to that loyal follower in the Philippines, to the fellow tea-sippers in Great Britain, to the reader who lives in my namesake city in Australia, to my remarkably large clan in India, to the salt-and-pepper shake of people sprinkled in the Middle East, to all of my silent and shadowy roommates from across the world, I say thank you.

Thank you for helping me pay the emotional rent of this place.  You’re welcome to stay as long as you’d like.




I’m not tired – I just want the world to be quiet for a bit.

The writer came back.

Of all people, I should’ve been the one to know better.

I asked him how he was after he already told me.  How rude of me.

The caverns under his eyes whispered the secrets of his nightmares while his coffee breath murmured quiet confessions about his drug addiction.  Multiple hangnails on his thumbs turned away shyly, dripping evidence of his stress-filled days as the sunshine leaked through the window and splashed across his desk in his tiny NYC studio. Straggling hairs crept out his ponytail, ashamed of their existence that rivaled the tangles of thoughts that bounced – no, pounded – like hammers on anvils in that rugged head of his. The charcoal eyes had lost their spark, and I worried for him as much he worried his lip with those aching teeth that sorely needed brushing.

He smiled. How sad he was.

He reached out his hand.

I panicked.

I was too weak to be his lifeline!  Don’t ask this of me.   I stared quietly at the fingers shadowed with ballpoint smears, shadows of his soul’s troubles quivering there.

“Two years ago, I thought you were an asshole.”

No, that wasn’t my script.

“For two years, I hated you.”

Well that wasn’t much better…

He laughed. The sound of such an empty emotion echoed as John 11:35 veiled my thoughts.

But this drama was far from over and I steeled myself for the rest of my monologue.  My elegy distracted him from his own troubles for awhile and he cried tears – not for himself but for me! – by the time the tale had trickled so slowly from my lips that it reached it’s end.   Despite the clownish makeup on my face, he recognized me beyond the costume.

When I bowed and walked away, I thought the play was over.  The look on his face made me wonder if there would be an encore.

I will never see him again.

Except when I look in the mirror.