My mind is like-
Checkerboards.
With organic patterns scattered in each square.
A mind’s eye.
A shaky eye which burns holes.
Heavy breathing sometimes.
But not scary.
Just letting the world become an outline of itself.
Seeing more.
Trying an imagination method.
That isn't like they taught us in school.
Bursts of effort.
Reflected by careful line drawings.
And also scribbles.
Letting the juice of a bicycle create splotches.
Spinning squares can unshape themselves.
And become the vivid version of what a simple shape can be.
I can see faces.
And make the eyes bold and sharp.
Whoosh-
Or not.
I can toss paint at a wall in my mind.
And laugh because I can let the colors bleed and twist into nothing.
My mind has-
Nothing to clean up.
Just take the mess.
And settle it down with deep breathing.
My mind is:
VIVID
My mind is also:
BLANK
And there might be more
I have three pairs of patterned socks,
With colors and designs
That vary in each duo
Set on horizontal lines.
From triangles to hearts and dots
To checkerboards, as well
As numbers and some words,
But what they say I cannot tell.
Today I noticed, far too late,
My socks are not the same.
Of course, right from the dryer,
Matching pairs had been my aim.
Yet somehow I messed up
And now my outfit is complete
With mismatched socks, although they still
Feel cozy on my feet.
mixed fruit in a can
empty tin cans of fresh beef
wrapper of old cheese
broken hot wheel toys
glued together checkerboards
mixed in meatloaf
My home city happened so imperceptibly like eye strain;
starting with those clouds promising or threatening rain,
came the dusty dirt roads lined by blazing bougainvillea
and, chasing its shadow, my corolla grumbled like a gorilla.
The quaint cottages dotting and jolting up the countryside
ushered in the subdivisions, giant checkerboards miles wide;
these gave way to homesick parks and street-smart streets,
and here it is, my home city, its prodigal son it warmly greets !