I take you
And place you in a book of verses
For when it is November, its fog
Catching up with the tendrils of my mind
I will come to this poem
And you will fall into my lap
Stiff for being forgotten
Longing to be touched
For the words have dried you up too
I will pick you up with fingers like feathers
And there will be an explosion
Of orange peels, fluorescent
Of cola popsicles, glistening
Of turquoise water, chlorinated
Of yellow curtains, stirring
Of golden wrists, damp, pulsating
Of indigo shirts, crumpled, shed
You'll fall against me
As if your memories were ironed out too
And I will put you back
Knowing this for sure:
You will bloom
A shade shy of crimson
Again, next year
-Niya
The kindergarten class is learning patterns through rhythm
Clap Pat Clap Pat Clap Pat
ABABABAB
Charlie goes a bit rogue
Clapping when he has to pat
And bobbing his head
when he has to clap.
The class catches on. “You are always trouble, Charlie”, the teacher yells.
In the ensuing chaos of not knowing
when to clap and when to pat,
The children discover their teacher has the superpower
Of seeing patterns
Where there isn’t one.
i've spent a lot of hours
trying to connect the dots
on old patterned floors
of middle-class homes
the kind you can't articulate
to another person
unless they had
the exact same vision
i wonder what fun games
kids are playing these days
on clean marble tiles
i just haven't taken the time
to pay attention in a while
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