Rosa

What complicated delicacy in the rose petal. As pristine, ribbed with fangs which can explain the caution at first encounter. heuristics. only in its afterlife does it become the fragrant silk we expect.

Kimba

Another moment and she may have lost her sight. The blinding ire of a summer sun made her feel dizzy. Polka dotted, spinning spots floated about her head. Twirling as she may to follow them, Kimba wayward stepped into her father's outstretched arms. -Be alert, my darling. - he whispered into her ear. In his grasp, she could be at ease. His gentle clutch to his beloved daughter was a feat for the imposing man: a combination of muscle and grit, battle hardiness and diligence.

Lighthouse

Watching, in the depths of an ebony night sky,
stars long dimmed by the icy shadow of a storm.
Sea swept vessels are stemless petals
settling into the abyss,
crashing waves, whispers
from a forgotten dream.
A half-peaking eye spies
a plucked flower batted about on
the wind and wonders if it is seen.
Whether a spark of wisdom can
be found, alone, in the dark,
or in silence.
Questioning each apparition:
true visions or the games
of a nervous system of ocular-ity
Thinking it would be wonderful
to know when a lone leaf would
set its sail to the bleakest
of shimmering hope.
Knowing that the best dreams
are unexpected.

field

the pretty home, I call my own
sits amidst a meadow of goldenrod
winding rows of gamboge and saffron
where I take my thoughts, black
as coffee, and bury them deep
in the mud of the creek bed.
the serene creek, in which I lay
leads to a river bend and a lake
cerulean and still, though I think I can hear
the movement of a thousand gills
just beneath the surface.
the reddened moon, that lights our field
is neither a harbinger of a healthy crop
or an omen, but a taste of royalty,
on parched lips.

Litter

I fell asleep in your arms
the crystalline form of your face
was a dream of swirling waters
overtaking me.
in your frost blue eyes
i submerged myself
if only to listen to the chimes
of icicles. dancing.
i gasped hurried breaths of your image
in between sanity
and found myself
on the shores again
hands clasped on stone,
but lost anew.
intertwined with the sands and snow
shattered glass:
an effigy of your former perfection
or the pieces of bottles strewn about the coastline,
remnants of 1000 messages that never reached you.
litter.

(thoughts, will continue)

what does the glint in his eyes
tell us about his demeanor?
can we explain anything about his
actions from circumstance
or is all a reflection of character?
we don't know how to explain rationality
other than the fact that we're rational.
it's harder for us to fire a bullet
than for him.
and when we cry, our tears are real
not a ruse to tempt sympathy.

Principal of Wisdom (edited)

Reluctant to indulge my questioning, a small boy sat himself on the leather Ottoman perched in front of my desk. It had been almost a year since the Ottoman had lost its armchair companion. The boy was of slight build, with grainy blonde hair that reminded me of a cheap doll that I'd had as a child. I remember that it, too, kept its hair matted under a straw hat, although it also sported a corncob pipe. The young student did not have any such pipe. From where he sat, what could he see of me? Perhaps he saw me as wise. I'd like to think he did, but couldn't see it myself. Is simply being a principal sufficient enough to command respect? My office was like that of any other principal, books on the shelves, a fake plant, a framed poem on the wall behind me. Stopping by woods on a snowy evening. Fitting now, for the weather we were having.
"You don't have to be nervous, Terry, I just want to talk to you,"
I tried to ease into a conversation with the boy, assuming that he had to be anxious for having been called to my office. From what I could see of him, however, he seemed to not be concerned with my reassurance. Perhaps he was not even aware that anything was wrong. I had to constantly remind myself that even though the students spoke and acted like adults, they were merely mimicking the examples they'd seen at home or in the media. I wondered what young Terry Wise had seen in his home that had led him to attack another child from class. It had been not the physical encounter, but the words Terry had used in insulting a Pakistani student that made me worry about him. Race relations had come a long way in our town the last few decades, so situations like this were rare. In some ways I think that made it harder, at least for me.
"Do you know why I called you in here Terry?", I asked him, seemingly rhetorically. He regarded me as if I were lecturing him on the best way to cook black-eyed peas, with no discernible reaction other than pure disinterest. Nonetheless, I expected a response. It was only natural for an educator to test students at every opportunity, I suppose.
"No."
Terry's response was what I expected to hear; at the age of five students believed they could deny their way to innocence. Pity that some are permitted to grow up without ever learning the alternative. I'd argued before that the breakdown of families was leaving a half-generation unsocialized. Schools could only do so much. Without a strong family structure, how could children be expected to understand respect or love? How could any of us, really? I could feel that my cheeks were a bit warm. I was thinking about something else. Myself. How I, like Terry could not count on the support of a family. How I, like he, saw my actions affected by it. Seeking to stabilize my breath, I took a gulp of air. I imagined myself in the eyes of the young child, did I appear a koi's head on a man's body? Perhaps I did - he had a bit of a grin on his face.
"Do you want to talk about what happened with Janir this morning?"
It was starting to affect me, more than I thought it would, that I could have had a child so small. I thought about my wife, how just a few weeks before she left me we had talked about starting a family. I had never been happier. Now... It was only getting harder. I still remember coming home and seeing the ring on the kitchen table, not noticing everything else that was missing until after a few minutes of foolishly calling for her in the two bedroom house, empty of anyone but me. How many children could we have had? Would I still be at the school? I think my wife was the only person I'd ever told how much I feared getting up every morning and going to work. How every day I figured someone would realize I was a fraud, that I wasn't fit to teach children anything. She would always console me by telling me that I was the biggest and oldest child she'd ever met, so I was a natural for the job. Sometimes, I wondered if she had been serious. Even jokes haunted me.
It was then that I realized the boy was staring at me, expectantly. I'd heard him speak, but hadn't processed what he'd said. Perfect, I thought. Now thinking about my failures were causing me to fail at my job.
"Do you realize that you hurt Janir, Terry?"
He whispered something. I couldn't hear it, but from the look on his face I felt I knew the answer. Such a small child, he had to feel bad. He had to be sorry.
I think I believed him, but wondered how I could even be sure. Often I thought that I needed to be psychic to figure out anything from these kids. At the very least I should have been required to get certified in psychology and counseling. These kids needed personal solutions to their problems and they needed someone who could solve those problems on their feet. They didn't need me, getting ideas from books by people who had probably never really talked to a kid, and who definitely didn't have any. People who are unqualified to help anyone. People like me.
"I can tell you're sorry, Terry", I said, though not sure if it was true, "can you promise not to do it again?"
I remember some author, Richards or Holmstein or something, said that giving kids expectations for emotions, as if they're already being met, would help to create those emotions. It sounded pretty incredible, but I wondered if someone could do it for me. I wanted everyone around me to treat me like I were happy, because then maybe I could effectively fake it. Terry's response to me was apathetic, as if it were the only one possible which it probably was:
"Yes, Mr. Samuels."

I dismissed Terry back to class, likely having done nothing to solve the underlying problem of the bullying in the first place. Not that I had expected to. My ineptitude, that had started with my marriage, seemed to be spreading to all aspects of my life. It took all of my energy to get out of bed in the morning. What incentive did I have any more? Out the window I could see that it was still snowing, filling up the faculty lot with icy hope. Just like any other child, I prayed that tomorrow I could have a snow day. Just one day where everything in my life came to a halt. One day where I could forget my wife. Maybe I could go to the biggest hill in town, the one where one couldn't see the bottom, and go sledding. I wanted to feel the rush of air against my face, pushing out all the pain. Maybe I'd go after school, I was getting tired of waiting. Had to finish the day, though:
"Send the next student in please, Mary."