Experimental Poetry.

Hebrews 11: 6

without faith        i am                     impossible                      God believes in me        He comes

to me knowing     i am                     not diligent     still          he may seek me             I believe      He exists              i  hold      on        i am                  a             mustard seed                                             

                                                                                                                                         grow me.

When I started writing poetry, I thought there was only one way to make your point clear: use exuberant language and write down in stanzas. And then, I started reading all these famous poets and realized I was "old school." Everything else I've written that is not in some sort of form seems very forced. I feel that I am trying to become mainstream, become acceptable to I don't know who because my work has to be accessible. So things like the above poem come out. I am not even sure I can call that a poem. But I write it because i tell myself "someone somewhere will get away with this and so maybe I can." But it is no fun, what has become of my art. Because I want a good career, I also write what I think others want to read. This is how I would write this poem in form:

Hebrews 11: 6

God must believe in me 

because without faith, I am 

impossible. He comes 

to me knowing my diligence

sits weak on my thighs,

still heavy as the 3 month 

baby I am yet to bear. 

I may seek him, desperate, 

when I believe he exists

and hold on to the mustard 

seeds he planted deep in my spirit.

He prays each day bowing his head,

whispering, grow, grow grow. 

Black Swan's Song

we some beautiful things in flight
not for escape, just to lift plumage high
make plumage flag
wave and whip loud in air
charge thunder to break
we not competing in ponds
we and our stomachs not renting water
we in deep existence
we resisting extinction

The Woman at Central Park

I told her I stole the glasses from my mother

who she commended to have great taste

and then she said no one in her family lived to be 90.

It could be worse

I told her,

she was blessed

to see the lake from her window,

to live on 72nd street since the age of 17.

I wanted to ask what led her feet here,

if the woman sitting next to her,

entreated by a phone, the same one

who complained this 90 year-old nagged

in abundance was her daughter-in-law.

Instead she asked                     what do you do

for a living?

I told her I was a poet.

The lake doesn’t make me any younger,

your balance sways when you get older.

I agreed. She asked if I would return

the glasses. I told her I would.

You're a good child she said,

pulling her cart full of tangerines away.