Hummingbird Morning

Eight o’clock,

I believe my biggest

Fear to be this:

Never getting to

Live out my dreams-

See the hummingbird 

On the feeder? He does not

Care about his fate as

The next bird does-

He won’t drink from the feeder-

Frightened that I might harm him,

Say, what if he passed away,

And never drinks?

That bird’s baby birds will hear

How he never tasted the liquid

From the bright flower

On this cool morning.

The Artist Up Above

This leaf

No kind of pine could ever

perform the somersaults

this leaf can as it sticks it’s landing

in the half brown grass.

 

Somebody, somewhere,

swirled His paintbrush

in the warm tones on His palette

and held it to the Earth,

dropping the paint on the summer leaf.

This little piece of a delicate scene

became adored by people who build skyscrapers,

operate cars, and throw waste to the Earth’s core.

Yet every year, that same Somebody

keeps on dipping His brush to the palette

and creating the leaf that stands out among the others.

Poetic Things

Who decided that the image of drinking coffee and reading a book was so poetic? It’s certainly not my idea of being poetic or even artistic in the slightest. It is overrated at this point. Do you know what happens when you drink coffee every day and one day you do not? You suffer from what is known as a caffeine crash. Your brain feels like it may tear through your skull at any given moment. It feels impossible to even move your first foot out of bed. What’s so poetic about that? And what of the book? You might take a picture of your coffee and the book beside it is probably a classic like Hamlet or something. As soon as you finish editing the photo and posting it to Instagram, you put your phone down, and then what? You’re switching Hamlet for the Cosmopolitan newsletter on Snapchat. Maybe you leave the book out and pretend to read it, either way you’re not getting anything done.

Tell me, don’t you think there’s something poetic about the photographs of a calendar? Every photo is so different yet in the end the come together to represent the same thing. What about routine? People across the world wake up every day. eat breakfast, drink coffee in a non-poetic way, go to work, and do the same exact things they did the last time they were there. They wash their face and brush their teeth the same way they did last night. They kiss their spouse goodnight or clutch their favorite stuffed animal until they fall into deep sleep.

Have you ever looked into a still room? Be it old or new. The whole scene is so quiet. It absorbs absolutely nothing and gives off absolutely nothing. A crooked piece of furniture here, a dusty book there. How about a moving room? Nobody has to be inside. The lightbulbs scream with electricity on their own. The air conditioning blows the curtains back and forth. Music pours softly from a small radio. Bed unmade, clothes strewn across the floor. Tell me, what could possibly exist in these situations that is not poetic? From the overflowing hamper to the stain on the carpet, every single detain screams a word or a sentence or an entire collection of poetry. Why is it that the world is full of things so poetic it could bring tears to an author’s eyes, yet everyone just wants to write about how damn poetic a book and coffee is?

In the Cracks of the Sidewalk

Overcast

The weather was nice

His skin golden and ready for more

Never seen him before

Says he’s in my class

Must be sitting behind me

Overcast

Disappointment in the sky

But in the cracks of the sidewalk

Pollen piles up

And a tear in the sky reveals warmth

I am as sad as the sky

Because I didn’t meet his eyes sooner

They were blue enough

To fill the atmosphere

And banish the gloom

So I smile at the pollen

In the cracks of the sidewalk

It doesn’t occur to me

That I didn’t ask his name

Because it’s overcast.