The Safest City in Texas

I entered the base only
three days ago.
The airport shuttle
and barbed wire fence
made me feel
like a prisoner;
although I wasn’t.
I was entering on my own
accord,
more like a patient
checking their self into therapy.

All around me
Military squadrons marched
to the beat of a silent drum
like trained animals
in a circus show,
each group following
the instructions of their master.
They’re not rewarded
with food
but rather a short trip
to the BX
or a fifteen minute
phone call to a loved one.

I often wonder if
I could handle this lifestyle
of restriction and hard beds
made perfectly at 4 AM.
My bed isn’t made and
I could never brave
the yelling.

But the tears you see now
are not of torment
as I watch the barbed wire
and Military police fade
into the distance.
I’m going to miss that cage
I was trapped in
for those three days.
The comfort of being able
to walk around without fear inside
this small town and
knowing my new
Airman will be safe
during my absence.

I’m only a regular
civilian though and so I must
return to the life I know
filled with unknown
threats where I count
on those caged animals
to protect me.

Work in Progress

I sit at my desk
tracing the fabricated wood grain
with my finger tip
while my computer sits open
with Notepad waiting,
longing for me to spill
my soul onto it.
I take a deep breath
and my fingers take their
familiar places on the keyboard.
As I press the keys down quickly
it sounds as though rain is
tapping at my window.
The light from my desk lamp
creates a glare on the screen
that makes it hard for me
to see what I’m typing.
But I know where my fingers
are landing and when I need
to hit backspace.
A letter, word,
paragraph at most.

If only life’s little mistakes
were so easy to fix.
Cut here and paste there.
Proofread and edit before completion.
Then I might feel more accomplished,
like a better person whose
only flaws are spending
too much money and
taking too many vacations.
But what makes a person without flaws?
Even the best art pieces
contain a few small imperfections.
Perfection to me
is mediocre for most.
And so I continue to type
as the light illuminating the screen
begins to strain my eyes.
I’ve come to realize
the joy in writing is not in the outcome
but the process in which you get there;
just as in life.

Paradise Found

In a world consumed by technology
I find it nice to escape
to my personal paradise.

I lay my blanket down
next to the water and watch
the world pass by.

The minnows create ripples
as they bite at bugs on the surface.
Butterflies chase each other
like children on a playground.
The squirrels jump
from branch to branch
and it’s the only noise
that disrupts the natural silence.

I spot a caterpillar
who has wandered onto my blanket.
He inches along back into
the world he is used to.
A world of forests made of
grass and leaves.
He struggles to get over
twigs that block his path.

Watching him,
I think about my own life.
What seems like a major problem
is really only a road block.
A small detour
and I’m on my way again.

As afternoon turns to evening
and the sun begins to set,
the cool breeze reminds me
that I need to get back
to the city.
To return to the world
full of cell phones and computers
which surround my daily life.

What makes a poet?

They told me I couldn't write

that my words mean nothing.

But I gravitate to my pen anyway.

I have to put my thoughts on paper

whether or not I'm understood.

I don't write for me.

it's you that makes me write.

Your pain and fear,

the way she tears you down

and I only seem to add fuel to the fire.

I pull you one way

while she stretches you the other.

I can't come between this bond

and it rips at my core.

Why would I write this?

Poems are supposed to be

precise, not vague.

Where's the story line

and iambic pentameter?

Maybe I'm no poet after all.

Wordle Picture

So I made this today in class to reflect on the poem Apology Note. I think it looks pretty cool actually!