Welcome to The Kitchen Sink!

Hi there. This blog is devoted to all manner of creative writing and is (ideally) updated several times each month.

I invite each of you to provide investigations and analyses; poetry and prose; reviews of film, literature, and music. Submit your own dramatic writing, introspective writing, unique and original writing. Submit your own thoughts regarding your politics and passions, hobbies and recommendations.

I invite your comments or criticism; your suggestions and feedback, at any time. Simply e-mail me or insert your desired copy as a comment, with a small note to say so. Please include your own ‘byline’ information, copyright information and/or author’s note so you can be credited for your own work.

More voices mean more variety. Let’s fill this Kitchen Sink with all the beauty and originality it can handle.

Sincerely, Chris Hibbard chris.hibbard@alumni.uleth.ca

ON THE OTHER SIDE OF MIDNIGHT

A poem for Marina
By C.E. Hibbard
December 2nd 2016

On the other side of midnight
I dream about your face
About all the times that we’ve made love
and the many meals we’ve made
I believe you are the one thing
That can free this tender heart
On the other side of midnight
Is the perfect time to start

On the other side of midnight
Your voice invades my dreams
Whispering words of love and trust
It’s even better than it seems
I’ll be a proper man for you
I’ll try to stand up true
On the other side of midnight
I can’t stop lovin’ you

On the other side of midnight
I feel your skin beneath my palm
Like alabaster moonlight
Velvet-lined and warm
Won’t you be my soul mate
Won’t you be my queen
On the other side of midnight
You’ll see what I mean

On the other side of midnight
I’ll sing sweet songs to you
I’ll hold you close and keep you safe
And my thoughts will remain true
You can dance and swing
You can pluck your strings
On the other side of midnight
You can wear my diamond ring

Hooligans Vol. XIII

A children’s poem
for Norah and Rowan
by C.E. Hibbard

It had been several weeks since our hooligan heroes
had raced off on their newest wild tale
With school and work and skating and chores
their lives had grown pretty boring and stale

So when they encountered a mysterious man
who offered them magical powers
It didn’t take long for Norah and Rowan to say yes –
just seconds in fact, not hours

Norah said “Please, Mr. Magical Man,
I’d like to move things with my thoughts!”
Rowan said “That sounds like a whole lotta fun –
but I’d rather control fire – cuz it’s hot!”

“Your wishes are granted,” the strange man told hem,
“but be careful with your new powers!
For telekinesis and pyrokinesis
are certainly not like taking a shower!”

Young Rowan went first to practice his gift
he pointed his finger and ‘BANG’
As he thought about lighting an oak tree on fire
red flames leapt from his hand!

Then Norah shouted, “My turn! My turn!”
and she closed her eyes real tight
As she thought about moving the car down the street
it started to flash its headlights!

And now that they knew that their wishes came true
they began to practice a lot
Norah flipped cars, moved people and dogs
and even levitated herself on the spot!

Meanwhile Rowan was running around
lighting fires up and down the street
He’d snap his fingers and things would ignite
bursting into flames his internal heat!

Eventually our hooligan heroes
Began to work as a pair
Norah would make nearby objects fly
and Rowan would torch them in the air

It wasn’t long though before they realized
Maybe they had lost some control
Their street was now smoking and ruined
their powers had taken a toll

Sirens rang out and fire trucks rolled
to this emergency of psychic proportions
The neighborhood children were crying and sad
with their parents mad about the commotion

The hooligans now had decisions to make –
should they stay and get busted by the police?
Should they run away and hide somewhere?
How could they ever regain the peace?

Rowan said, “I wish I’d never gotten my power”
and Norah agreed, “Me too.”
“We should have been more careful,” they both said
“If only we’d known what our powers could do.”

Then Norah closed her eyes and she thought
Rowan closed his own and he wished
And Norah flipped all the cars back over
and Rowan’s fires were extinguished

Finally, when they’d righted their wrongs,
and things were mostly back to noraml
The magical man appeared once again from thin air
and asked, “Same powers, same time, tomorrow?”

“No thank you,” Rowan politely replied.
“I think we learned a valuable fact.”
“That’s right,” Norah said. “Those powers were bad.
Tomorrow I think we’ll just wish we were cats!”

Hooligans Vol. XII

A children’s poem for Norah & Rowan
by C.E. Hibbard

 

It’s been a long time since we last heard word
from our bold hooligan pair
They’re taller now and smarter now
and they both have longer hair

But their spirit remains unbroken, unchained
and there’s so much left to explore
So the hooligan heroes, Norah and Rowan
prepared for a new detour

Rowan packed a light sabre, Norah packed her pens
and they bid their fair mother goodbye
“We’ll see you soon, Mama Bear,” they said,
“so there’s no need to cry.”

And off they went, on bicycles both
with their destination unknown
A real adventure is as much about getting there
as it is about where you’re going

First they followed the Watermelon Road
paved with juice and sticky seeds
Until they reached Celery Street –
who knows where that road leads

Eventually they found a sign –
it read Raspberry Boulevard
They kept on riding, both excited and frightened
As they had not yet gone too far

They crossed Carrot Lane and Mushroom Ave.
passed Cucumber Park and The Peanut Store
They went further and further, into sights and smells
they’d never seen nor smelt before

And then it was, that the Hooligan team
found a bottle that had washed up on the beach
They examined the bottle and imagined where its journey began
before it floated within their reach

“Maybe it floated all the way from Egypt,” Norah said,
“past crocodiles in the Nile!”
“No way!” Replied Rowan, “I bet you it started at the North Pole,
and it floated south for 10,000 miles!”

Norah picked up the bottle to throw it back in the sea
but she saw to her surprise
That this ordinary bottle contained a message –
a paper note tucked deep inside

“Read it to me! Tell me what it says!, urged Rowan
“I betcha it’s a treasure map!”
She unrolled a tiny school covered in small letters
written in a familiar hand

As she read it she said, “I don’t get it,I just don’t understand.”
“What’s it say silly, tell me!” said Rowan all a-tither
“It’s a note from mom,” Norah replied
“It says we’re late for dinner!”

Anonymous

 

 

A Buddhist Poem
by Anonymous
(reportedly written by a 14th century samurai)
Posted June 2016

I have no parents:
I make the heavens and earth my parents.
I have no home:
I make awareness my home.
I have no life or death:
I make the tides of breathing my life and death.
I have no divined power:
I make honesty my divine power.
I have no means:
I make understanding my means.
I have no magic secrets:
I make character my magic secret.
I have no body:
I make endurance my body.
I have no eye:
I make the flash of lightning my eyes.
I have no ears:
I make sensibility my ears.
I have no limbs:
I make promptness my limbs.
I have no strategy:
I make “unshadowed by thought” my strategy.
I have no designs:
I make “seizing opportunity by the forelock” my design.
I have no miracles:
I make right-action my miracles.
I have no principles:
I make adaptability to all circumstances my principles.
I have no tactics:
I make emptiness and fullness my tactics.
I have not talents:
I make ready with my talent.
I have no friends:
I make my mind my friend.
I have no enemy:
I make carelessness my enemy.
I have no armor:
I make benevolence and righteousness my armor.
I have not castle:
I make immovable-mind my castle.
I have no sword:
I make absence of self my sword.

The Wild Rose

A poem
by Marina Eileen Horsman
(Dedicated to Lindsey)
June 2016

Like the Wild Rose
she waits for someone to see her beauty
to drink in her intoxicating scent
to dispel the ghosts that haunt them and protect then from harm
she waits with vitality in her veins
courage in her spirit
and the strength of a thousand warriors
she grows in harsh conditions only to be admired by those who cannot cultivate her
for she is free from the white mans ways
she sees what no one else can
she hears the cry of the orca and the sound of the waves in the seashells
she watches over the gifts of the spirits
and when someone finally stops to admire her strength, beauty and healing power, she must not be tamed for she is a survivor,
the Wild Rose

Manifesto: The Mad Farmer Liberation Front

A poem

by Wendell Berry (1991)

Republished without permission

March 4, 2016

Love the quick profit, the annual raise,
vacation with pay. Want more
of everything ready-made. Be afraid
to know your neighbors and to die.
And you will have a window in your head.
Not even your future will be a mystery
any more. Your mind will be punched in a card
and shut away in a little drawer.
When they want you to buy something
they will call you. When they want you
to die for profit they will let you know.

So, friends, every day do something
that won’t compute. Love the Lord.
Love the world. Work for nothing.
Take all that you have and be poor.
Love someone who does not deserve it.
Denounce the government and embrace
the flag. Hope to live in that free
republic for which it stands.
Give your approval to all you cannot
understand. Praise ignorance, for what man
has not encountered he has not destroyed.

Ask the questions that have no answers.
Invest in the millennium. Plant sequoias.
Say that your main crop is the forest
that you did not plant,
that you will not live to harvest.
Say that the leaves are harvested
when they have rotted into the mold.
Call that profit. Prophesy such returns.

Put your faith in the two inches of humus
that will build under the trees
every thousand years.
Listen to carrion – put your ear
close, and hear the faint chattering
of the songs that are to come.
Expect the end of the world. Laugh.
Laughter is immeasurable. Be joyful
though you have considered all the facts.
So long as women do not go cheap
for power, please women more than men.
Ask yourself: Will this satisfy
a woman satisfied to bear a child?
Will this disturb the sleep
of a woman near to giving birth?

Go with your love to the fields.
Lie down in the shade. Rest your head
in her lap. Swear allegiance
to what is nighest your thoughts.
As soon as the generals and the politicos
can predict the motions of your mind,
lose it. Leave it as a sign
to mark the false trail, the way
you didn’t go. Be like the fox
who makes more tracks than necessary,
some in the wrong direction.
Practice resurrection.

The Other World

A poem

by Harriet Beecher Stowe (1867)

Republished without permission

March 4, 2016

 

It lies around us like a cloud,
A world we do not see;
Yet the sweet closing of an eye
May bring us there to be.

Its gentle breezes fan our cheek;
Amid our worldly cares,
Its gentle voices whisper love,
And mingle with our prayers.

Sweet hearts around us throb and beat,
Sweet helping hands are stirred,
And palpitates the veil between
With breathings almost heard.

The silence, awful, sweet, and calm,
They have no power to break;
For mortal words are not for them
To utter or partake.

So thin, so soft, so sweet, they glide,
So near to press they seem,
They lull us gently to our rest,
They melt into our dream.

And in the hush of rest they bring
‘Tis easy now to see
How lovely and how sweet a pass
The hour of death may be; –

To close the eye, and close the ear,
Wrapped in a trance of bliss,
And, gently drawn in loving arms,
To swoon to that – from this, –

Scarce knowing if we wake or sleep,
Scarce asking where we are,
To feel all evil sink away,
All sorrow and all care.

Sweet souls around us! watch us still;
Press nearer to our side;
Into our thoughts, into our prayers,
With gentle helpings glide.

Let death between us be as naught,
A dried and vanished stream;
Your joy be the reality,
Our suffering life the dream.

You Chose

A poem
by Shannon L. Alder
Republished without permission
February 2, 2016

You chose to give away your love.
You chose to have a broken heart.
You chose to give up.
You chose to hang on.

You chose to react.
You chose to feel insecure.
You chose to feel anger.
You chose to fight back.
You chose to have hope.

You chose to be naïve.
You chose to ignore your intuition.
You chose to ignore advice.
You chose to look the other way.
You chose to not listen.
You chose to be stuck in the past.

You chose your perspective.
You chose to blame.
You chose to be right.
You chose your pride.
You chose your games.

You chose your ego.
You chose your paranoia.
You chose to compete.
You chose your enemies.
You chose your consequences.

You chose.
You chose.
You chose.
You chose.

However, you are not alone.
Generations of people in your family have chosen.
People around the world have chosen.
We all have chosen at one time in our lives.
We stand behind you now screaming:

Choose to let go.
Choose dignity.
Choose to forgive yourself.
Choose to forgive others.
Choose to see your value.
Choose to show the world you’re not a victim.
Choose to make us proud.

 

Missing You

A poem by Colleen Fitzsimmons
for Shadow
Published without permission Jan. 26, 2016

I stood by Your bed last night, I came to have a peep.
I could see that You were crying, You found it hard to sleep.
I whined to You softly as You brushed away a tear,
“It’s Me, I haven’t left You, I’m well, I’m fine, I’m here.”

I was close to You at breakfast, I watched You pour the tea,
You were thinking of the many times Your hands reached down to Me.
I was with You at the shops today, Your arms were getting sore.
I longed to take Your parcels, I wish I could do more.

I was with You at my grave today, You tend it with such care.
I want to re-assure You, that I’m not lying there.
I walked with You towards the house, as You fumbled for Your key.
I gently put my paw on You, I smiled and said “It’s Me.”

You looked so very tired, and sank into a chair.
I tried so hard to let You know, that I was standing there.
It’s possible for Me to be so near You everyday.
To say to You with certainty, “I never went away.”
You sat there very quietly, then smiled, I think You knew…
In the stillness of that evening, I was very close to You.

The day is over now … I smile and watch You yawning
and say “Good-night, God bless, I’ll see You in the morning.”
And when the time is right for You to cross the brief divide,
I’ll rush across to greet You and We’ll stand, side by side.
I have so many things to show You, there is so much for You to see.
Be patient, live Your journey out…then come home to be with Me.

The Sky Children

Song lyrics
Composed by Kaleidoscope (UK)
From the album Tangerine Dream (1967)

A million white flowers in a field in the sky
Seemed to spell out a greeting as the children flew by
A guard in a chariot of silver and gold
Gave the children all tickets, then the story he told
Of a time in the future that was sunshine and flowers
And the children grew sleepy in the sky’s white towers
They dreamed of the story that the guard had displayed
They saw all the wonders, tiny minds were amazed
They saw candy forests and dragons that breathed fire
On all that was evil in the misty mire

They came to the village where the turtles in caves
Made pies for the people and the lemonade
The people lived out by the sea and each day
The seagulls would wake them as they passed on their way
The people were kindly, they would sing to the sky
And each bright new morning, the sun shone from their eyes
The children passed over and all the people could see
As they dived from the sky to the treacle sea
They bathed on the white sand, minutes turned into hours
And the children all giggled and gave each other flowers

The King from his castle came down to the sea
And he spoke to the children so patiently
He gave them small presents and bid them farewell
And the children unwrapped them, tiny silver bells
Their tinkling floated across the island with ease
And it came back toward them on the perfume breeze
They smiled at the tinkling, they gazed at the sun
And they smiled at each other, pretty little ones
A beautiful white horse came down to the sea
And the children all climbed up as he knelt on one knee

The Wall

A poem by Chris Hibbard
for Mary Jane
January 15, 2016

Sometimes I like to build a wall
Brick upon brick
Stone upon stone
I hide behind it when you call

It’s not a wall to keep you out
Kiss to kiss
Miss to miss
It’s not you which my wall’s about

It’s more like a wall to keep me in
Hour by hour
Shower by shower
More like it keeps it all within

The wall is hard to understand
Day after day
Way after way
This wall within which lives a man

Living In The Eye Of The Storm

A poem by Chris Hibbard
for Mary Jane
December 17. 2015

Sometimes I feel lost in a sea of forget
Black tides wash over me
Splashing my face and soul
Riptides tear away at my memories
Leaving but small fragments scattered
Unrecognized, uncategorized
Yet my arms reach out to find rescue
My heart is unwilling to drown
Your shore is so close to my salvation
Though waves continue to push me
Further away and farther down
Yes I refuse to give up this life we have made
I will persevere through the storm and the rain
The sun will continue to shine behind daytime darkness
And my devotion to hope will deny the currents
I will struggle to stay above water
As the powers of the abyss pull me down
Staying true to my heart
I will fight to remember
Recalling memories of our paradise
Living in the eye of the storm

Love & Patience

A poem by Angela Ladouceur
Republished without permission
December 17, 2015

Be strong my friend.
I am with you in heart and soul.
The pain the endure,
will fade away with time.

Be patient and try to understand
that the heartache you feel today,
is life’s lesson for tomorrow.

Be inspirational and a giver of energy.
Bring happiness to all who come within your reach,
for they will explode into smiles,
and their veins will flow with happiness.

Be true to yourself.
With a great abundance of self assurance,
Your path will find less obstacles.
And the light will shine brighter in the end.

Be forgiving of others,
for they know not what they do.
It is in forgiving others,
that we find that fighting tool,
that will shatter the tongue of anyone.

With our heart cleansed with love and forgiveness,
you become the reality for someone else’s dream,
and their nighmares become forgotten thoughts.

The Rain

A poem by Travis Beam
Reprinted without Permission
December 17, 2015

Listen to the rain and you will hear me there
Listen to the rain and you will find me there

Walk out in the rain and you will find my drenched body
Walk out in the rain and find me wanting you

Kneel beside me in the rain and you will see my love for you
Kneel beside me in the rain and you will experience my love

Run away from me in the rain and you will hear me follow
Run away from me in the rain and you will feel me catch you

Fall down with me in the rain and you will feel my lips
Fall down with me in the rain and you will feel my hips

Roll around with me in the rain and you will be engulfed
Roll around with me in the rain and you will beg for more

You are me in the rain and I, in turn, am you.

Slow Dance

A poem
by David L. Weatherford
Copyright 1991
Republished here without permission

Have you ever watched kids on a merry-go-round?
Or listened to the rain slapping on the ground?
Ever followed a butterfly’s erratic flight?
Or gazed at the sun into the fading night?

You better slow down.
Don’t dance so fast.
Time is short.
The music won’t last.

Do you run through each day on the fly?
When you ask, “How are you?” Do you hear the reply?
When the day is done, do you lie in your bed,
with the next hundred chores running through your head?

You’d better slow down
Don’t dance so fast.
Time is short
The music won’t last.

Ever told your child, We’ll do it tomorrow?
And in your haste, Not see his sorrow?
Ever lost touch, let a good friendship die
Cause you never had time to call and say,’Hi’

You’d better slow down.
Don’t dance so fast.
Time is short.
The music won’t last..

When you run so fast to get somewhere,
You miss half the fun of getting there.
When you worry and hurry through your day,
It is like an unopened gift…. thrown away.

Life is not a race.
Do take it slower
Hear the music
Before the song is over.

North To November

A poem
for Mary Jane
By Chris Hibbard
November 11, 2015

Gonna make it to the journey’s end
And we’ll go at our own speed
One way or another – just you and me

Gonna go North to November
And we’ll do it our own style
One way or another – it may take us a while

Gonna see another sunrise
And we’ll hold on to it tight
One way or another – we’ll hold on to that light

Gonna push North to November
And we’ll do it properly
One way or another – just you wait and see

Gonna walk another metre
Yes we’ll drive another night
One way or another – we’re gonna do it right

Gonna push North to November
and we’ll do it as only we can
Gonna make it to the journey’s end
Leave our mark upon the land

Jigsaw Life

A reflection
by Chris Hibbard
inspired by Mary Jane
November 4, 2015

Life is like a jigsaw puzzle.

At first we see a beautiful image, and it is all we can do to keep from tearing the lid off of the box.
But once the box has been opened, we realize exactly how many pieces this puzzle contains.

Thousands of pieces – each of them are nearly identical, but every one is unique.
So we begin our lives, shuffling through the pieces, looking for where the hard edges are, for once we have determined the shape and size of the puzzle, the frame can begin to be filled.

In the beginning you make a plan, like setting out for a long journey. Some people sort the pieces into colors, and others into shapes. But no matter your method or your skill level, the puzzle gets put together one piece at a time. There are no true shortcuts to a jigsaw puzzle.

Some pieces fall into place effortlessly. Some require a few extra taps to ensure that they stay put. Some feel like they fit – but it is only later that you see they were wrong.

We learn quickly that we cannot jam the pieces together where they do not belong.
The puzzle is intimidating. One piece connects with another, yet there are hundreds more just waiting to be tried.

Sometime we spend so many hours on the puzzle trying to make each piece fit that we want to just give up, break it all apart and shove it back in its box.

But we don’t. Because we know that what we are building is a masterpiece. It doesn’t even matter if it’s an easy fifty-piece puzzle or a much more complicated 5,000 piece monster – we are aiming to complete the picture, even if we may be unsure of what the final picture will be.

So we spend our time poking and prodding, spinning our pieces around, examining the photo on the box, looking for what piece goes where. Sometimes we start with one small section and then just give up, moving on to another section without even appreciating the work we just did.

Sometimes we lose patience. We wonder why we worked so hard just to find that one perfect piece, when we could have been elsewhere, looking at a whole new section. Yet the truth is that the pieces were all there to begin with. They were there all along. We just didn’t notice them because our minds were pre-occupied.

Other times it is a frustrating challenge. Sometimes you reach a point where all the pieces look the same; sections of sky, of desert, of ocean, fur and feather.
Sometimes the puzzle process is thoroughly enjoyable and relaxing. Always it is time-consuming and requires patience.

Sometimes it seems that you’ve been looking at the same pieces over and over again, and they will never fit. Until just as you’re ready to give up, suddenly it appears, it fits into place, and the rest begin to follow.

Sometimes other people want to help with the jigsaw puzzle. They mean well, and since there is no real competition, it feels a bit like bonding – all working towards the same goal. Through puzzles, we learn what works best for me and what works best for you, and where our strengths and weaknesses are. We learn how we organize our thoughts and how we work best – together and alone. Sometimes the puzzle seems easier with only one set of eyes, and only one set of hands, yet for some couples, the last piece may often not even be pressed down unless both puzzle makers are present to witness.

Unlike life however, with a jigsaw puzzle we are convinced that we will always know what it will look like by the end. In life, we’re not so sure. We think we know where all the corners are, and where all the edges will be – but in life, and in love as well, there are no set boundaries. New pieces get added to the mix while others disappear. Sometimes we don’t even want to look at the puzzle anymore. Yet the puzzle keeps growing. Piece by piece by piece. And when, after what feels like forever, the pieces start to fall into place more easily, the last hundred pieces seem quite simple compared to the first.

Yet the lessons learned from puzzle making stay with us either way. Sometimes in life we complete our puzzle and we let it sit. We glue or it or frame it or cover it with glass, to be admired and envied. Sometimes we are afraid to break the puzzle apart again, back into its original pieces, back into the box. Yet even when we do, the puzzle is still complete. It is just complete in its most basic components.

For sometimes in life and in love, a piece goes missing. Stuck to an elbow, to a shoe, to a stain on the floor. Disappointment is sure to be the outcome, for the puzzle will never be 100%. But even so, the project was never a failure. It was simply a 999 piece puzzle, rather than 1000.

This is because a puzzle is all about success, completion, satisfaction and patience. There is no such thing as a puzzle that was a ‘waste of time’. They require attention to detail, intelligence, coordination, and focus. So even if one piece is missing, a true puzzle is more about the process than it is about the inevitable outcome. By the time we are ready to put our life puzzle into the box, we understand that we may never know the finished picture.

But we should know by then that the painstaking, tedious, time consuming journey that was required to make it – was really the most beautiful part of all.

She Was His Gravity

A poem
by Sarah Harvey
Republished without permission
October 3, 2015

She was not his answer.
Or his escape.
She was not a beautifully decorated distraction.
No—she was his challenge.
His question.
His fire.

A gem—worthy of pure, undivided attention,
A bolt of lighting, baked into a warm chocolate éclair,
A prayer encased in lapis lazuli,
A prickle of static electricity running wildly through the forest air.

Her touch was enough to shatter him, deliciously
And awaken his wildest wishes.
Her gaze was enough to sear into his soul
And make honey drip from his skin, like feathered sunlight.

She took him to the edge of the moon, and he draped rubies in her hair.
When they kissed, the earth shook, and trees bled evergreen secrets into their ears.
No matter how far she wandered
Or where her tangerine-dipped dreams took her—she always returned to him.

Nothing could keep her away from his warm, familiar arms
His fiercely kind eyes
That magical laugh of his that lit up the darkness, like a swarm of giggling fireflies.
She was his world,
And he was her gravity.

Together was their only option—
Their hearts meant to intertwine like two frayed golden threads,
They were a fit—two broken pieces
Sliding together, imperfectly.
There was no denying it
She was his world
And he was her gravity.

Play With Me

A reflection
by Kate Rose
Republished without permission
October 3, 2015

“Life must be lived as Play”. ~ Plato

Make me forget that I am an adult.

I don’t care if I have work in the morning, and children are in bed. Make me laugh so hard my belly hurts; chase me around the house until I can’t breathe anymore, or least until I pretend that I can’t, as I collapse in excitement on the bed waiting for you.

Just make me laugh.

I may have smile lines around my eyes, and bills due in the morning, but that doesn’t mean I have lost the desire to play. My heart is young, and it seems with each year that ticks by on the calendar my soul only grows a bit younger.

I don’t have time for what adults should look or act like; I’m far too busy trying to see how high I can swing, and if I really can touch the sky.

Just make me smile.

The Cosmic Dancer

A poem
by Samantha Reynolds
Republished without permission
11/3/2015

I am not old, she said
I am rare

I am the standing ovation
at the end of the play

I am the retrospective
of my life
as art

I am the hours
connected like dots
into good sense

I am the fullness
of existing

you think I am waiting to die
but I am waiting to be found

I am a treasure
I am a map
these wrinkles are imprints
of my journey

ask me
anything.