Self Portrait of the Artist

I scratch primitive lines in the dirt.

I’m a painter of cave paintings.

I yell into the canyon and listen for the echo.

I throw color on canvas and shapes appear.

I compose symphonies in multitude. 

I am Da Vinci and Van Gogh,

Opening my soul to reveal the starry night inside. 

I am Shakespeare and Austen,

My words timeless, immortal.

I thrust myself into the universe

And hope that,

In the end,

It means something.

who is without sin

Just think
of all
the bridges, temples, towers, cities,
entire civilizations, really,
I could have built
with the stones
that I cast first.

The Things I Never Knew

I wish I could fill a bucket, drop by drop, of the things I never knew. I’d put inside all the things I was allowed to grow up without understanding, all the comfortable innocence I was afforded. 

That some are willing to spend so much energy on hate. 

That my journey was easier, by far, because of my skin color, where I was born, and how much money my parents made. 

That, even today, things I didn’t earn, things I consider rights, you have to fight for. 

That my gain has often been at your expense.

That your skin, your language, your religion, or who you love makes you a target for vicious words from politicians or fists or rocks or bullets. 

That this anger and fear, directed at you, doesn’t surprise you as it does me, because you’ve known it was there all along.

That the masses of people cheering to “Make America Great Again” sounds threatening to you, reminiscent of a time when your oppression was more blatant.

That not knowing has made me complicit. 

I wish I could fill a bucket, drop by drop, of the things I never knew.

I’d clean it, purify it. I’d wash away the guilt and turn it into something else, something usable. Let it wash over me, baptize me. 

And then, maybe, your daughter and my daughter can fill their buckets with something beautiful instead.