Once

Once I cried from my powder blue room

my wails rising from my crib

like awful birds- beaks targeting ears

at which to peck.

 

Once I reached inside myself

and found the nerve to kick off the training wheels

and form my own path, unencumbered.

 

Once I found myself in a four square court

and the ball bounced between me

and people who introduced themselves

as they held that yellow rubber sphere.

 

Once I looked at the monochrome clock

that crouched, always in the same place,

on the mocha-brown walls of a building

that always smelled of new shoes and Lysol.

 

Once I found myself in a room-

painted a darker blue, the same

room where that doll-sized impression of myself

used its voice to rouse people from slumber.

Now I can use my voice to do the same,

but in spite of everything,

I take my own initiative

and set forth, out of the crib, onto the street, into the halls

on my own.

The Actor

The crowds

have only been my friends

when I am not myself,

when I am not under scrutiny.

When I slip into a costume,

a caricature,

I’m not me. Crowds laugh and applaud

and the blood rushes to my head

because if the thrill!

I’m making people happy! I

am astounding them!

Then I step

out of the light,

take off the skin

of someone else,

take off the mask

and step into myself.

I’m ignored.

It’s all improvisation from here

(something I’ve never been

very good at).

The fact remains that, in order

to please a crowd,

I can’t be

myself.

“Try Me”

Look at the toy on display.

Printed on its hand is a small button

that says “try me”.

“Try me”, isn’t that

a lovely phrase?

Many have tried this toy out-

have pressed the button

and seen it jolt to life like a heart,

whirring and singing,

its cheeks glowing red.

Go ahead! Try it!

Try it! as so many have before.

They love it, but buy the ones

on shelves, the ones in boxes.

So many have tried this toy,

drained its battery song

by song.

The crimson in its cheeks

is dimming, its life

is fading.

Its electric energy is being used up.

Soon it will be thrown away,

singing and glowing no more,

dead.

Radiance in January

Windless stillness,

silence.

Sunlight slices through

dense clumps of silver.

Light perforated

only by gray, almost transparent

shadows- long and thin

shadows of trees.

The earth is wearing out its

white play-clothes.

They have gravel stains,

dirt stains,

and the beating heart

of its grasses is turning

as it enters REM sleep.

Earth is dreaming of when

she will burst from the womb,

naked and beautiful,

and will grow its emerald hair

long.

And will decorate itself in jewels of color-

blossoms

and leaves.

Songwriters

With every fiber, I move,

shuffling feelings as an orchestra

moves through concert pieces;

each page is different,

danger is splashed in each note,

the words are red with risk.

You, however, stay rooted

playing the same tunes,

singing the same lyrics,

in different arrangements,

with different moods

because taking risks

puts you out of your comfort zone.

What kind of musician are you

if you find that even your own feet

grow tired of dancing

to the same- your same old tunes?