Connie

You look like a Connie
Something about you screams the name,
The shape of your nose
And the glasses perched on them
You are undoubtedly american..
your face is long and thin.
You are taller than most of your friends.
You'd look horrible in a hat
Unless it's a black unmarked baseball cap

It must be your name,
I feel it is required.
That you parents,
Taking you home for the first time,
Must have crossed off all other names
Jane, holly and Amanda
Briskly and confidently etched through
All because I see you,
Pulling your suitcase behind you,
In search of your assigned seat
On this plane
You remind me of one
And it is what i imagine.

Breaking the Box

Today I dared think outside the box,
And daydreamed what was beyond the walls of this character.
I created a forest to be explored,
And behind it a lake where you and I would spend the afternoons
On the Banks.
And know I am grounded for breaking the box,
And am told to not step out.

But the cut I suffered,
And the blood I bled,
Was well worth the joy of being able to watch the glass shatter
In slow motion.
The rivulets of cracks
Snapping away through their glass landscape.

We enjoyed my crime together.

As you ogled the monitor screen
I wrapped my knuckles in a bandage,
Looking on over your shoulder,
savoring what little bit of pleasure we gained from destruction
But both considering what the replacement of free time with chores would mean,
And agonizing over what it would do to our small spheres.

Birds

What would the Seagull say to the Arctic turn,
The rat speaking to the squirrel.
Do you work?
Do you save yourself?
Why? Do you know my ease?
Do you sea me,
Sitting on my thrown, same thing everyday
Eat, smile, be wealthy.
The wind rises though,
And carries Her on,
She's gone in a moment.
But they know the truth,
The sea breeze is the softest pillow.
The land you are lead over will provide for you.
You are not lost,
You will be back again soon.
And till then hold my memory close,
So that that ghost comes to life on my return.

My Calendar

What day is it?

I do not know, I’m sorry.

My calendar hasn't changed for longer than I’d like to say,

And the picture of a kitten,

Poised in a basket, starring out into my empty room,

Has been there for the past few months.

I’d occasionally flip through the months of the year

And let the puppy with his head cocked,

The dog with a kitten perched on top of his head,

All got a glimpse of me and the pale white wall behind.

That’s all they’ll probably ever get to see.

He is extremely cute, the kitten of this month, that is,

But I've begun to feel his eyes on me

Whenever I am around

Even while I’m falling asleep.

Poor thing, he is bored.

He wishes I would change the month

And that this window would close,

So that he can stare out of a different window

Onto a different landscape.

Or maybe just a different, plain, sparsely furnished room,

Occupied by some different boring boy or girl.

The Life of a Puppet

I feel sorry for you,
Your shaped plastic, paint and thread,
Sentenced to death by hanging.
Brought back to life by the strings
That broke your neck
That now move the plastic jaw,
Arms and legs of cloth.
And dance you around on stage.
You only come to life through the hands of the puppeteer,
Who's skill is limited,
And emotions are hampered with translation.

Steal a knife,
Cut your bonds,
And escape your jail of children shows.
Stun your jailer with your cry for freedom,
Leave this life to build a better one.

Someday soon I hope to be sitting in a cafe,
Considering the politics of drinking coffee to fast or to slow,
And see you flash by on the street.
Free to be your own puppeteer,
Expressing your emotion without translation.

Saturday Morning

I sat in your living room

Listening to the buses and cars

Drive by, nine floors down,

The sound filtered by the sheer curtain

In front of the open window.

My tea tastes strange,

I haven’t taken the teabag out yet,

And the taste of metal has stepped from the spoon,

With the tea leaves, into the hot water.

And you keep talking

I came to listen to you talk.

Lean forward in your chair

Hold the paper still on the table,

Now fling it around in your hands.

I’ll stretch and suppress another yawn

As I try to follow and understand.

A Ship In a Storm

Are you ready?
The sun is setting
And yet you stand still,
Save for the movement of your chest,
Like small waves on the shore.
The sky isn't red this night,
No Sailor is taking delight.
They've taken the pub,
Where I'm watching you from.
Your hair is up,
It isn't caught by the rising wind,
Those sails are hoisted.
But still you pull, then turn into it,
Waiting for it to begin.