She smiles at the mirror today
Swinging her purple dress in sway
A whisper she sounds,
"Though I'm plump and round,
New eras call for, 'Hip hip hooray!' "
Not the charming lane
nor the cozy log cabin
Not the warmth of the hearth
nor its crackling fire
Not the rifles by the door
nor waters lapping at the shore
Not the frolic of the meadow
nor the mysterious forest
No, by none of these am I called
~ growing up with a chip installed
I used to dream of a distant future,
A path in which once walked before
by those who carry our existence and rest in the struggle which once was.
I heard the stories of some boys ,
Distant but not so distant ,
Optimistic yet not cowardice,
Their sacrifice a priceless , priceless debt
I can recall my grandfather mentioning
The war and his late father's stories .
Lancaster tail gunner ,
He was 17 .
Today as I march on the parade square
In loose - fitting ATC wedgewoods .
I no longer dream of that distant future
But a path that I can forge.
She carved in my bones
Before I could comprehend
My body was a temple
But she never mentioned
How it was crafted from stolen stone —
Every wall lined with ancient scripture
Shame plastered over the cracks
Commandments hung like blackout curtains
Every hymn was a rallying cry:
Kneel, obey, don’t you dare question
Go on and bury that doubt
But
Did she count on my defiance
I was labeled a vessel--
But never the storm
Her god demanded sacrifice
So she chiseled away my essence
To fit her fragile frame
My hips; forbidden gateways,
My tongue: an unholy scroll of secrets
If this is a temple
Then set it on fire
Let the flames scream louder than my demons
My body is a temple —
But it belongs to me
And I refuse to apologize again
Had $20 in my pocket.
I remember it being a good day.
The world seemed so grand.
Wordku: 5-7-5 words
AP: 1st place 2025
Growing up to fast,
Coming of age.
Both about maturity but different
One witnessed something they were not supposed to see, while the other saw when ready
One forced to be a man, the other gradually becoming a man
One having a parent who would mentally abuse, while the other has two amazing parents
One having to work hard just to get a tiny bit of affection or recognition, while the other does not need to try
Growing up to quickly and Coming of age both involve maturity and growing up but are they really the same?
Conservatives’ banning’s apropos of nothing
At twelve when he delt with this
shouldn't have to jump through hoops
should’ve been able to explore when a teen
But because of many conservative groups
The Ire excessive was the coming of age
Juvenile mistakes made in adult years
Denied the ability to pick up social skills
Sexual assault and sexual awaking
considered pornographic
Q**r’s often live a second adolescents
This is a guide for the coming of age allies
States have taken off the shelves
Intersectional as his life
Chapters are a collection, four acts
referred to as “parts” in this guide
self-contained essay’s
The memoir progresses through Johnson’s life
Two letters appear alongside
the chapters for mother and brother
Conditioned to think what’s the truth
Indoctrinated in us
Stop crying, racialized
School bullies
The flee market incident
Institutionalized violence
Family structure marginalized
Community –college fraternity
And black joy
Tells the truth
A black and q***r boy’s experience
Gender identity
Toxic masculinity
Brotherhood
Do you remember like I do,
the way we’d jump with giddy—
Or how we’d grit our teeth,
waiting for something to happen?
Your feeling,
A pulse that nipped the green off my leaves,
like I was holding something in my mouth,
something I couldn’t swallow.
A space between urge & action.
A pause before the pull,
where everything hangs,
and nothing falls.
A candle-age dream,
showing me how to walk.
A guardian spirit,
with the grace to talk.
Fishing for a whale,
to break the tide.
Pockets full of change from the wrong time—
I should trade them like marbles,
so that in hopscotch,
I only worry about tripping.
She'll be the queen of my decrepit ridgeline,
Her crown, heavy with my wasted want.
Never knows best, a fault of design.
Her tensions a dagger, a cunning divine,
A soul-bleeder, god as a vaunt.
She'll be the queen of my decrepit ridgeline.
The arson of anger will never confine,
For the plaid that’s been woven, I a gaunt
Never knows best, a fault of design.
I check the guest list for a name I can’t find,
A ghost of a promise, a lingering taunt.
She'll be the queen of my decrepit ridgeline.
I hate sour drinks, but I chug it all in time—
A golden apple; a jaunt.
Never knows best, a fault in design.
As the season passes, with its cruel incline,
I swallow one more time; her shadows daunt.
She'll be the queen of my decrepit ridgeline,
But never knows best, a faulty design.
Roads long squandered,
Routes trained to memory.
a crack in the long unyielding concrete
unremarkable.
Then, a wildflower
A peculiar pink.
Leather, nostalgia.
Cinnamon, mellow.
Stop dead in my tracks,
Wistful, yearn.
Many a while did I dream of creation
After all, what does it take?
Soil, water, an undefeated soul.
Many a while did I long for something that called me God.
Many a while did I pick up a pen,
Dropped it back down.
Afraid of laughter no one laughed,
Fearing fingers yet unpointed.
What does it mean to begin?
What does it take to begin?
Paper, ink, a sliver of hope.
Do I have what it takes to begin?
Now every new page,
A breath of awakening
In a book awaiting it's soul.
A step, far from empty pages.
Albeit one, this stride
holds strength of lifetimes far spent.
And as I sit, winds of change,
Of beginning, blowing through my hair finally let down.
A start.
Breaking apart the shackle that is anticipation.
Everything goes, and so will this fear.
And as my soul, my blood, my sweat, my tears, I wring into form,
Perhaps,
I have what it takes to begin.
They say the journey to adulthood is supposed to be a slow coming of age process that allows the time to contemplate what role we’ll play in our future. We check off all the options. Burn out some brain cells in college or maybe find that ‘special someone’ and take a few years to plan a life. One sunny day in May of 1975, a recruiter asked “Why Not?” I replied, “Might as well.” Two days later some drill sergeant in a Smokey the Bear hat was screaming his bad breath into my face. Growing up only took 48 hours.
You will never know
Til you spread your wings and try—
Sweet taste of freedom
a tender voice recites, muse’s lyrics flow
non-believers have poisoned Earth Mother's waterways
She unleashes winds blown hotter and dryer
perennial white blossoms swoon midst zephyrs
dangle from sterling chaste trees
twisted maple bark echo braids sacred hair unscathed
gold filters branches
thousand-year rooted Algonquin memories
elders and granddaughters amble amongst crackling twigs
streams pristine align to augur a promising path
within a bison pelt tepee awaits the knowledge keepers embrace
fire and smoke dense and opaque
evoking a bittersweet melancholy
broadleaves tremble breathe and sway
hymn chants of traditional wisdom expel
severed is the braid as is the child from the woman
her nascent efflorescence
transition is significant as we are wedded
and bound to nature’s perennial sentient
let the path before us grow wider and brighter for future generations
Dangerous Fools and Evil Idiots
They agree to disagree
Always spitefully fastidious
About each other’s pedigree
Always at the war, that goes
With no hope to prove who’s right
There’s no right, because it flows
Through their fingers to the light
Of forgotten source they knew
In the times of childhood years
When the mornings looked brand new
And they lived knowing no fears.
unleashed
I may waiver
satin spoils
are new to me
yield,
your monotone salute
suckling praised
a freedom from fur
the hunt is mine
devoutly
As the weather chooses its flavour for the hour,
Stubble-ended wood shaves itself on the layers of unseen ground.
Synthetic puke seeps through pores seeking to devour
Every tiny, curled hair floating in the murk around and around.
Pool party skies reside a millimeter higher than the tallest fingertip:
Leftovers infect this mass of last meals passed on.
A spindle of cloth runs out with time enough to graze my lip
And still no locks of winter-lived years could sink a single talon
Into the darkest dark of fleeting moments taken from a fork.
Shall this be all that has come from years after that first unscrewed cork?
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