The Writing Beetle.

  Not even snowflakes in a snow globe fall so slowly upwards  when turned on its side.  Spiraling Prismatically  Upwards  Undersides of wings remain outstretched The seagulls glide the currents of the ocean breeze Holding steady positions as they glide  On unseen currents  Like a mobile for a child  Like a miniature milky way  Swirling up on currents unseen.  Running beneath the towering galaxy of birds The wind smooths out the sea,  Like a baker rolling out dough,  The excess of his loaf pushing up the shore.  Boats far enough out to look like  Children’s toys scattered Left behind after a long bath  In dropped anchor awe Of the Spanish coastline  Where the sun reaches long Spilling like melted butter From the baker's brush.  Eventually the breeze peeters out,  And the birds settle upon the ocean. “One more dance,” I whisper to the birds.  Willing them off their aquatic laurels  But then...

  (why do) I hate watching other people on their phones.  Their scrolling, swiping, chuckling,  Over a small screen angers me.  I’m annoyed by their engagement In ways that I’m not annoyed by   A stranger reading a book at the cafe,  Someone strolling with headphones,  Watching someone's face light up when they  Answer the phone and hear  A friends voice,  The smile on someone's face when they open the kitchen oven,  And the scent of their baked good wafts through the room.  Other people sit around,  Scrolling through glimpses into  Other people’s lives,  Sometimes laughing to the point of tears,  Over other people’s performances,  And curated lives.  Asking me to come “look at this” Spamming me with links  Like inside joke love bombs  Of the sweetest intent,  To indicate to me,  That they saw something  I too would laugh at And what a special thing it is To know what ...

  I was walking in the field,  Head down into the wind,  Hands driving deep into my coat pockets,  Beginning to walk up the hill,   Back home,  The constant January wind tiring me,  When I heard overhead,  The familiar squawk of geese,  Like the bridge of a song  I’ve heard endlessly  The seasonal passage of birds,  But then, the honks  Became a cacophony,  Peering up, from under my hat,  I saw the two distinct Vs heading north Collapse,  Melting into a momentary puddle of birds,  Before finding formation again,   A single bird taking the point dragging the lines back to formation  leading the flocks south,  Away from the incoming storm,  Away from the northern cold  Barrelling through the field. But why were they flying North in the first place?  Where are they going now?  How does that internal clarion call of nature work?  Harkening you to faroff plac...

People waiting on a crowded subway platform,  The train approaching,  To go cups and small bouquets of flowers Huddle in crossed arms Lined up at the platform edge,  The after lunch rush,  The approaching car thundering into place,  Demanding a pause in its audience’s lunch catch up In the moments of pause -  The doors open -  She says -  “I thought of you”   You pause -  [Mind the gap] “In pottery class,” she says-  “My teacher, She reminded me of you” [Mind the gap]  “Oh?”  Next stop.  “Yeah, she just had something about her.”  I smile to myself.  It’s the most delightful feeling  To know  You’ve been thought of. 

  There she is -  The girl that didn’t jump  On the passing opportunity  As it swung by  Amidst the cliche music  Her cinematic  Blossoming  Never happened.  Is she still the “before” then?  If there’s still no “after”?  Where’s the alchemy of change?  And why do we only care about caterpillars because of butterflies?  What if there’s no transformation?  What if I'm always stuck?  Then?  There?