The Cheshire Cat Moon

The Cheshire Cat moon
Is smiling for his birthday.

His pearly teeth
Shine for a young man
Standing on the edge
Of the nest
With a big mama bird's foot
Simultaneously shoving him out
And pulling him in
(from what I can tell).

The Cheshire Cat moon
Is ready to disappear.
But can I manage to pluck
His wicked grin
and save it for the day
When he needs a pick-me-up?

Cheshire cat smiles
Echo feminine wiles
To dry up the tears
In time for birthday cheers.

In my Grandmother's House

There are two pictures
In my Grandmother's house
That will never grow old.

As the seven around them
Year by year
Show the ticking of the clock
They two remain,
Torn away
At the fragile ages
Of three and eighteen.

There are two pictures
In my Grandmother's house
That will never show time.

As the seven other grandkids
Grow and change,
Push and pull,
The two stay the same,
Ripped from their family
Who never said goodbye.

There are two pictures
In my Grandmother's house
That will never grow old.

I'm watching my wonderful boyfriend
Mess with my laptop.

He's adorable,
But would contend I am more so.
He should be a Finnigean,
And will win this argument.

I don't know this language of computers
So it's a godsend
That he does.

And slowly,
the laptop gains a life.

Thanksgiving

Mmmm
Food.
Ah, thankfulness.

I am ever so grateful
To family
For making me who I am
And most importantly,
For cooking the best
Food ever!

And, I guess,
For loving me.
But you can do that with food.

(Stuffing's my favorite part.
What's yours?)

Prep

I'm hurrying to finish a paper,
To finish it well too.
And study for two tests,
Make that three,
And also to clean.
Because Thanksgiving is coming
And so is family.
So it's time to prep
And stop
Being distracted by the wonders
Of Facebook and poetry.
Also fanfiction.
And reading.
And friends.
And oh dear
I need to stop listing.

New friends

One must forget differences
One must ignore problems.
After all,
That's the only way
To make new friends.

Inkblots

The rain calls to my soul,
My heart,
And I almost reach
For my notebook and pencil.

But I only accept
Inkblots and teardrops
On my poems.

It's raining at Tinturn Abbey
(Or Abaty Tyndyrn)
I have a daisy in two hands
(Thanks be
For friends who bring umbrellas).
And I marvel,
As poets before me,
Of the affect of nature
On the mind.

We both feel the secrets
The stones hold dear.

A downpour does not feel sorrow
Like these sad drops.

Missing chairs and long-gone tables
And these halls will ring no longer.