The power is out.
A match is struck; a candle is lit.
Out of slumber yawns a little flame.
Let us sit in a circle,
and hear from old Nanny,
tales passed on by the elders,
who crouched around the first fire.
She speaks of a clay prince,
brought to life by a magic spell,
to slay a giant demon,
who lived in a kingdom far away.
The wall is an empty canvas.
It is my world to make.
They call me a little boy,
but I am a tall giant on the shadow wall.
Give me the salt and pepper mill,
they are spires to the castle I build
The power is back,
but don’t turn on the light,
My evil kingdom isn’t finished;
and the clay prince is on his way.
I waited, waited too long,
for the perfect person to come along.
I lost many springs,
and many a dreary winter
I woke up on the first day of a new summer,
and there you were,
hiding in the mirror all along
The Bluest Eye
If I could have anything,
anything at all,
I’d like to have blue eyes;
bluest of them all.
I saw you on the bus,
smiling at the world outside
You were halfway in your waltz with life,
but adored it with the eyes of a child.
They give cruel names to your stripes:
spider veins and crow’s feet.
I fell in love with those slivers of life.
You were a watercolor painting,
stuck in the math textbook of my life.