I Am Here

The vine will wrap

its limbs and climb

the veritable concrete,

just as we resist

the burden and

convenience of

greed

through the

sheer will of

living.

I am here.

I am here.

I am here.

IG: @daydreamifications

Of the Moon

I used to love

staying up

well into the night.

It was a sanctuary

where the young

rejoiced

in the defeat

of death.

But now that

invincibility

has proven

only theory,

the night

is no longer

my haven,

no longer

where I play,

where I laugh,

where I dance.

So heavy

this burden.

The night

now symbolizes

the end

to all

the happy endings

I can’t seem

to believe in.

How I long

for the innocence

of babes

who so easily

close their eyes,

who can

so easily

rest.

I wish beauty

was not

so often

tainted

with the wisdom

of goodbye.

I wish

I could

learn how

to live

with the fear

of the end.

We cannot escape

our final breath,

but I wish

I could

<be>

like those

who do not

live

in fear

of sleep,

who can truly

live within

the unknown.

So heavy

this fear.

I am not

comforted

by the idea

of space

and stardust,

not at peace

with the idea

of heaven,

of cycles,

of seasons.

I wish

I could

be present

with the forever

that lives

in each moment.

Wish I could

live in the moment.

Why am I always

simply waiting

for my sunset?

So heavy

this burden,

this fear

of the moon.

IG: @daydreamifications

For Only God Knows What (NYPC #13)

New Year's Poetry Challenge, Prompt #13

We share our world with about 9,956 species of birds. Write a poem about birds -- their lives, their habits, the wild, the domesticated, their place in your life, what it might be like to be one, metaphors associated with birds, whatever bird-like imagining you can come up with.  

We were sitting

in the living room

when dad spotted it

through the window.

He sprung to action,

“Get my shoes!”

And we were all

in a panic

for only God knows what.

“Dá-me uma toalha!”

to mom he bellows

like his accordion.

She hands him a towel

then swings her hands

toward the ceiling,

What crazy thing now

is he up to?

For only God knows what.

He quickly limps out

the back door and

glides down the stairs

like polio was only kidding.

Mom warns us kids

to get back,

so we rush to

the window to gawk

for only God knows what.

We watched him crab walk

to what we could finally see

was a dull, green,

wild-eyed cockatoo.

Dad’s eyes were alive

but he approached with

ease before—whoosh—

that bird disappeared

for only God knows what.

He brings it inside

and furiously it beats

its wings along the rim

of our living room sky,

swooping on lampshades

larger than my entire body,

and roosting on the antennae

of that knobby old television set

for only God knows what.

For minutes that

stretched like hours,

utter chaos spanned

many tongues:

my brothers' cackle and whoop,

mother’s Portuguese slang, and

father and mine's

delight

for only God knows what.

We fed that cockatoo

until the color came back

into its cheeks

and gave it a place to nest.

Mom, who had protested,

let it perch on her head

as she set the table

or sat down for a telenovela.

In fact, mom was its

favorite, I think,

even though dad

had been its savior.

Or had he?

I often wonder if that cockatoo

was happy there on

Watkins Street,

for only God knows what

freedom can mean.

IG: @daydreamifications

Wild Woman (NYPC #17)

New Year's Poetry Challenge, Prompt #17
Attached is a photo. Write a poem.

For centuries
they have tamed us
bridled our voices
fenced our passions
They aimed to capture
Wild Woman

She awakens
takes back claim
that belongs
to no man
Wild Woman
set free