The Words We Never Made

Human lips never learned to form
the word. We taught ourselves speech,
and breathing and kissing, maybe not
in that order, and we learned to hold
things close to chest, like each other.

We made a lot of words, many of them
from only four letters, but not that word.
It simply never occurred to us to name
that feeling; it was a feeling. You feel
those, you don't need to isolate them

unless you are trying to control things
better left unnamed. A word that anchors
things into a static shape, time, place;
binds feet, clips wings, calls things bad.
So much unhappiness in just a sound.

Whatever the world was, this time is
different and we never made that word;
instead talk of praise, as in praise songs,
praise letters, and those three little words,
I praise you. We never made the other

word, so its four-letter mirror reflection
was never made either. We substituted
praise for one idea, and never worded
the other, period. Our language works
better with Love and Hate  unnamed.

30/30 Revision #1 Prayer for Impostor Syndrome

It's the learned language of the abused, "Congratulations!
...you fooled them again, you fraud." after anything good.
How I can be sure the only thing close to commendable
is my illusionary juggling skills, keeping so many pieces
of utter shit I call "anything" from falling to full failure.

I am the things that lie to me the most, more than mirrors
and the way they hiss...hideous; more than happenstance;
even when I win I am positive I'm not worthy of Good
Things. I feel the need for caveat as much as confession,
I can never apologize for myself enough to be forgiven.

Here is to the wounded, here is to survivors, to those of us
weeping over broken mirrors, a finger's edge from falling.
Here is to the ugly ducklings, and swans of every possible
feather; flaws that blossom as sidewalk flowers, and weeds
that are amazing for the way they feed us medicinal gifts.

Here is to the lonely, may you be met. To the broken,
may you see  through that illusion. To the isolated, you live
in a time of instant message, you don't have to be alone.
To anyone who never before dared whisper "I am beautiful"
to reflections until they used a mirror they built themselves.

Deconstruction Ex Machina

...an erasure poem of a writing prompt by Marty McConnell

As always, this writing prompt is intended to be
a jumping off-point, so go where the impulse
takes you. Consider something inanimate,
from memory. Write down four characteristics
of a sentence that begins "Whoever made you..."
that includes a sentence that starts with "Why...?"
What does a specific part of this object reflect
or not reflect? Name this object of that name.
How does the Maker write a sentence
in which the object speaks to the Maker?
Where does the Maker go? Write a sentence
in which the Maker
is no longer

here.

St. Patrick's Day Haiku

substitute pagans
for "snakes" and switch genocide
for the "drove out" part

[No Translation]

If I had to be honest, I have never fallen
in love, so much as falling near longing.
The longing is to be a part of something
bigger than me, but that bigger thing is
the fear I don't belong anywhere. I can't

remember what it was like to be held
as a child. I don't mean the memories
are lost; I mean that I was never held
as a child. This was loneliness learned
before language. This is an emptiness

that never knew its own name, a pain
I don't know how to talk about. Alone
is the only thing that feels at all organic;
everything else is just throwing names
at feelings for which there are no words

One Leap Balances the Other

The way clocks are digital:
automatic updates advance
the numbers used to measure
the time. One minute it is this
time, the next? We are moved
an hour, one way or the other.
We spring ahead, we fall back.

There was no 2 am last night.
1:59 to 3:01 in a lone jump
without moving. I have heard
the origins stories, I assume
each forward/back balances
the scales and so everything
survives long enough, twice

a year. But of that lost hour,
who knows? No one speaks
of it for more than a few days.
It is forgotten but not gone,
an hour of the 13th floor; of
missing time pieces; we talk
around it, like it's really gone.

Haiku 3/8/17

if you slice the sky
in two, you get the whole sky;
you can't slice the sky