Tag: poetry

Wire Mom

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I read about that study
where baby monkeys
were taken from their mothers

In isolation, they could pick
a wire mom or a cloth mom

It didn’t matter which had a bottle of milk
The babies chose the cloth mom

They picked comfort and affection over food
They ran to the cloth mother when they were scared
They stayed calm when frightened
Because they had a cloth mom

If the babies only had a wire mom
They paced around their cage
And hurt themselves

I had a wire mom
She was coarse and rigid
She would lash out and prick me
I didn’t feel safe
Even if I didn’t realize it at the time

It hurt

Now I’m a wire man
Cold, detached, pessimistic
My wire mom taught me how to hurt people
How to puncture and skewer

I think about those baby monkeys
Taken from their mothers
And the fear and loneliness they felt
They wanted warmth and comfort and safety
All things a wire mother can’t provide

Now I’m a wire man but I can choose to wear cloth
Over the wires
I’m not helpless like those poor baby monkeys

They only cage I have
Is the one I built for myself

The Time Machine

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I stepped into a time machine six years ago

and now here I am.

I have little gray hairs in my beard.


The thing about time machines

is that you can’t see them.

They are kind of like holes and you should avoid holes if possible.

They are another way to get stuck.


The thing about time machines

is that you only realize you’ve been in a time machine

when you come out the other side.


Time machines make you think about what is a life

and how should a life be spent.

Is time spent in a time machine worth it?

You can learn a lot in a time machine, but you forget.


I stepped into a time machine six years ago

and a package just arrived with a note.

“Read these to remember,” it said.


Inside I find seven black notebooks

written in my handwriting when I was in the machine.

Notebooks filled with wisdom and sorrow

and proof. Proof that I lived.

Proof that time machines are real

and that time spent

in a time machine

is worth it.

Prickly

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I used to come here when I was young

About a year-and-a-half ago

I had just quit my career and would sit on these rocks and listen to a podcast about depression

I felt like the broken glass next to the prickly desert cacti matched my demeanor

cacti

Now I’ve stumbled upon this little alcove and I remember what I was feeling back then

I was so lost and confused and angry

That hasn’t changed

But now I’m more comfortable with chaos and uncertainty

The seven seas don’t scare me as this boat continues to drift unmoored

Yet returning here, I feel older and I feel more disconnected

I feel more strongly than ever that I don’t understand anyone and that no one understands me

Putting the broken glass back together would be impossible

close

The Rain

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I wanted to kiss you in that rain

 

You said the weather is angry and you like it

As you pulled up your hoodie in the desert

Wet, dark hair sticking to your forehead

Above your eyes that can’t be summed up in one word

You said they are green but that discredits their mystery

 

I never thought the weather was angry

It felt like passion to me but

Maybe anger and passion come from the same source

 

Either way

I don’t mind waiting for the rain to clear

I’m used to waiting and

The weather is changing and

At least now I know how the rain

Makes you more beautiful

Fragments

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I want to say thank you to something

but I don’t know what to call it.

 

Show me the fragments of knowledge

shared across cultures, countries, continents

through the ages the languages the world religions.

 

It can’t be some grand conspiracy

too many coincidences.

 

Each seeing, feeling the same concepts

writing the same thoughts in poetry.

 

It makes me believe

there is something.

 

When the missionaries in Utah asked

if I believe in God,

I told them I didn’t

understand the question.

 

There’s something I want to thank but

I don’t know what to call it.