Category: Poetry

Hummingbirds

For my mother.  Breathe, little hummingbird, She said As she whisked her wings and Showed me how to fly.

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The Journey

A week or so ago I received an email with the following poem. I asked the poet if he would allow me to feature it on the Hydrogen Jukebox because I think that it is brilliant. Brilliant and in alignment with the purpose of the Hydrogen Jukebox .  I hope you enjoy this as much as I did.

Pining for Adventure Girl

She takes a shower every day and cuts her hair five times a year but secretly she longs to be adventure girl; swinging from the trees and bathing like a monarch half-naked crazed and dreadlocked living with the birds and sister to the wind.

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Permission

You want to do what? Have you saved enough? Are you old enough? Who will you trust? But aren’t you scared? How will you fare? Are you really prepared? Haven’t you heard? Those lines are blurred, you can’t be a bird, you can be cured. I don’t think I would I don’t think you should you’re not prepared you’re not a bird you’re not … Read More Permission

Fancy People Feet

She had fancy people feet, and I’m not talking about the shoes. The breath she was breathing was the wind And her exhalations were danger and Sophistication Rolled into a pancake. She seemed to Know herself; seen by the way she Held her handbag so tight against Her white billowy blouse As if the world were to end soon but Her wet wipes would … Read More Fancy People Feet

Dear Universe, May I Never Find Myself

Dear Universe, may I never find myself. May I lose myself forever in these reckless rumbling fascinations With those around me and the Friday traditions And a different kind of breakfast and More weather than I know how to talk about. I don’t recall the endings to great adventures— Like A Tale of Two Cities or The Matrix— For the discovering is what interests … Read More Dear Universe, May I Never Find Myself

Swinging on a Tree Branch, Writing You a Letter

  I’ve got nothing to do but spin For you, explain this life Journey I’m thumbing through. They take my pen I’ll scratch in the dust On the buildings and car windows If I really must. If they take my food And fork and spoon—well I fuel this fire With wood, not food. With authentic giggles and hand-washed Laundry and the line at the … Read More Swinging on a Tree Branch, Writing You a Letter

Tennyson’s The Poet

I fell in love with the poetry of Alfred Lord Tennyson while teaching the Victorian Era to my British Literature kiddos last semester. I think I got…way too into Tennyson. Almost all of the lessons included some shout-out to Tennyson or his style or his voice. Because he’s a painter, right? He doesn’t tell you what to feel. He doesn’t tell you what you will experience. … Read More Tennyson’s The Poet

Introvert

It seems some days I have few needs; A shower and a snack. Accompanied with a bottle of water— Haven’t had much of that. It seems some days I long for— Yes all I long to manage— The wafting smell of lavender soap And a stomach of bananas. Once my needs are managed And my mind is set at peace, I turn off all … Read More Introvert

Afternoon Rain

This is my favorite kind of world— The kind of world where I don’t have anywhere to be But under this firm clay tile Listening to the thick drops of rain Plummet down upon the earth. This world I’m under is cool and delicious And smells like a candlelit dinner after a lonely afternoon. I could stay here for years just humming And letting … Read More Afternoon Rain

Identity

  I’ll show you my tattoos if you show me yours And teach me with what you’ve branded yourself. Endure my questions on what makes you essential For of you, my friend, I believe the world. Let’s you and I put socks on our feet And gloves on our hands And launch ourselves away— Away from the ideals of a nation Which no longer … Read More Identity

The Boy Made of Silk and Fire

You couldn’t tell, From the way he pushed his eyes down From the way he bruised his heels on the rocks From the way he flinched at her call, But that boy was brave. Brave to the core, Brave at a hotter temperature than most– Brave to the point of bursting And brave to the edge of silence. He knew–he thought he know–his braveness … Read More The Boy Made of Silk and Fire