Grave Digger

I have a rude habit

Of digging graves of foes

And tumbling in myself

Sprinkling the loose dirt on my legs

In defeat

Sometimes I dig this grave

And offer new light

Laying my past to rest

I plant a seed

To flourish and blossom

Over what was long dead to me

Wha...

My brother is what you call

A selective listener

Constantly glued to the computer screen

As if it was a necessary element to his existence

Eat

Sleep

Breathe

Computer

“WHA…” he shrieks

Whipping his head around

To see if his name was mentioned

Unaware of the intensity of his voice

Usually

It was nothing concerning him

But it wouldn’t matter anyway

For his attention slips

Before you can give

An answer

The Storm Drain

So much depends

Upon

A small storm

Drain

Flooded with street

Rivers

Beside the crumbling

Curb

Treasure

Spine of the book turns bowed

Where the readers cherish and savor

Spine of the book stays rigid

Where the readers ridicule and debase

Thoughts for Mom on her Birthday

On a typical day

Happiness is over looked

It’s just something

That you’re bound to see again

Nothing to dwell on

But sometimes

We barely realize what things

Actually do make us

Genuinely

Happy

Like cracking an egg

With perfect precision

Or jumping off those last

Few steps in the morning

Stepping on crunchy leaves

Knocking something over

And then catching it “like a ninja”

I love knowing the right spot to scratch

On my dog to make him dance

The smell of fresh bread

Or hitting that snooze button

Even though you know you shouldn’t

The delicate craft of eating the last bite on a Popsicle

And eating the last bit

From the bottom of the chip bag

I love lying in bed and listening to the rainfall

Or helping a worm cross the street

And what if this is happiness

A slow distribution

Of these tiny acts

And maybe now you’ll stop

And be happy

And catch up on your list

Of small

Beautiful

Moments

Happy Birthday, Mom

              Love, Alex