Blue

We escaped to sea

as twenty-somethings with

the city still buzzing in our bones.

We rushed away with our breath

still trailing like smoke from trucks,

our eyes like the crowded blushing

of sidewalk gardens, our ears deaf

to the thunder of the stars.

We watched the sea

as twenty-somethings

bathing in the luxury of a clean,

leather chair and a mouth stained 

with coffee.

We watched the waves rise and pull, 

rise and pull,

with softening faces

 that could still forget

 sighing paychecks, bruised shoes,

 and sleepless nights.

Faces that remembered the ache

to run barefoot on a steaming

summer day, fearless of splinters.

Oh, to fall

fast, hard, fully

in wild summer sweat

into cold, hazy, blue --

pulling and kicking our tired bodies

through heavy water

that smells of stars.

Oh, to swim, then,

with backs as strong as boardwalks,

and eyes as free as sailboats.

What Syria Taught Me

 You will likely skim this, if you’re like me. We’ve been trained for this. I am the product of a new generation— a generation constantly dissecting and absorbing information faster than a mouse click. The lives of my peers and community flash throughout my day like headlines. Our society is like bees, constantly swarming over new information. Our sound is the roar of a hive. Give us everything all at once, fast, and honey-sweet.

This is why words like civil war and refugee camp mean everything and nothing to me. I find myself overwhelmed by news reports. How do I swim through a daily tsunami of global tragedies? How can I comprehend the struggles in Iran, Russia, or Syria?

Some people find it easy to detach themselves emotionally, but I’ve always been the sensitive type. One photo, and I can hear the wail of a baby, trace the mud caked on my shoes, and feel the dull gnawing of hunger.

But these stories also mean nothing to me. The shear volume of information we interact with on a daily basis makes it impossible to give each story a rightful listen. So the hive buzzes on. I swarm, I skim, I reduce, I forget.

Skimming builds a rather convenient wall for me: the kind where I can quietly displace my feelings of helplessness, guilt, and confusion. So I carry on in my secure, somewhat tidy life.

Then I met Dania.

It all started after hearing a speaker from World Relief share at my church. He challenged us to pray for a country every day for a month. “It will change your life,” he said, with glowing confidence. He even presented the funny notion that grief is productive. Productive? So I decided to give it a try.

I chose Syria, simply because it was in the news a lot. I couldn’t even locate it on a map. I decided to pray through art, focusing on a couple photographs or headlines. That’s when I met Dania.

Dania was eleven years old when a shrapnel exploded in her street. Seeing the peaceful expression on her face shook me. War had become so normal that she wouldn’t cry. I became acquainted with her as my pencil traced the subtle lines of her face, and felt the weight of grief in her brother’s hands as he held her head up. I prayed and I grieved.

 And something else happened. I began to plead and hope for people in a country I had never met. I wanted to understand more about the God I believe in. I began to read scripture in a specific way, not in a vague desire for social justice.

"No, this is the kind of fasting I want: free those who are imprisoned, lighten the burden of those who work for you. Let the oppressed go free, and remove the chains that bind people." Isaiah 58:6
 

Then I began project number two. Below is the progression:

Day Three

‘(Ubuntu) It is the essence of being human. It speaks of the fact that my humanity is caught up and is inextricably bound up in yours. I am human because I belong.' -Desmond Tutu

Day 4

"I have cried until tears no longer come; my heart is broken. My spirit is poured out in agony as I see the plight of my people... How can I comfort you? For your wound is as deep as the sea." Lamentations 2:11,13b

Day 8

"You have kept count of my wanderings,
put my tears in your bottle.
Are they not in your book?"
-Psalm 56:8

At the end of the month, I finished “Boy In Ruins, Syria.”

30 days of praying for Syria didn’t change the course of my life. I haven't hopped on a plane and launched a campaign for medical intervention. But it taught me how to grieve global tragedies differently.

I found a calm place in the beehive, a way to humanize information inside the roar. Channeling it through art allowed me to feel, think, and question. The process gave me a shared sense of connection with a people I have never personally known. In a way, their stories became mine.

And really, is my own story so different than theirs? I've been torn by my own metaphorical wars and displacement, been offered healing and love, and continue to grieve the shattered, left over pieces.

Even though Syria has given me more questions than answers, God felt intimately connected with the process, in everything I came to understand and still don’t. Praying for Syria deepened my faith in His presence, even in the difficult things. I celebrated the good too, such as Syrian communities coming together and children being rescued.

The month ended with my conviction that I don't want my faith in Jesus to be another form of consumerism. I want to disregard apathy for ears that listen, hands that embrace, and feet that walk alongside others. The mess, the ugly, the beautiful, the hope. All of it.

Now, the roar of the beehive doesn’t overwhelm me.

These tragedies provide more opportunities than before. This is only the beginning of something better.

Rome Poem

-A poem by my wonderful study abroad friend, Melissa Croce, who articulated Rome in a way I've been without words for since that summer two years ago.

When I bring you to Rome, it's how I teach you about me.
Like the city, I let you see me in parts and pieces.
Like a ruin, you uncover me.

You discover:
Cobblestones, jagged like my nails, on which my off-kilter gait balances.
Wide bridges where I split eggs and watched their yokes sizzle into the cracks.
Dusty, narrow alleyways where I learned how to be alone.
A sun-lit kitchen where I discovered the joy of cooking with others.
The names of my future daughters, Cecilia and Lucia, blindness and light, two sides of the same coin.
The grave of an English poet, where I learned how to stop fearing death.
The cool basement of a white church where I found faith.

When I bring you to Rome, it's how I trust you with me.
Like a lover, Rome ruins me for others.
Like a savior, you resurrect me.

Together:
I feed you honey gelato, forgetting my own, dark chocolate rum sliding down my fingers.
You buy me a single sunflower tucked into an empty olive oil bottle.
We make a spolia wall out of pottery pieces, pistachio shells, fingerprints on Prosperina's hips, ruins.
I hold your hand when you trip over cobblestones.
You sing to me in the grotto of a villa as water echoes around us.
We find new bridges to cross.

When I bring you to Rome, it's how I tell you I love you.

Kites

*written for my beautiful Seattle community & all those affected by the recent SPU tragedy. Also written for the metaphorical cities we live in, the ones where we've experienced loss and forgotten how to be children.

~

Our city sleeps,

but I awake to the remembering

of a rhythm

my feet still know.

They lead me, stumbling out

into the grey light.

The cars and rooftops sleep

in a dusty glow.

It is easy now, sinking back

into my child feet, these feet

that skipped around broken glass

bottles like they were a sprinkling

of treasure, the music of pirates.

I follow my child feet back

through the alleys lit

with flower baskets,

to the corner where we sucked chocolate

off our fingers in the sizzling heat,

to the hill where our kites rose

before their tails snagged

on tree branches.

Those kite tails,

where we tied our prayers and poems,

watching them flutter like wind chimes,

a sailboat parade

rising into the bluest sea.

But our city has forgotten

the nonsense of kites.

And my shadow feet remember now

the roar of new flags in our streets,

like the growling of pirates,

who never sprinkle treasure

or believe in nonsensical things.

But their flags stoop over now

like old men,

their promises but a chasing

of wind.

It is best now, to sleep.

So I sit below the hill,

sifting dirt between my hands.

Your footsteps come so softly,

I don’t turn until you bend beside me.

You sift the dirt in slow rhythm.

I sneak glances at you.

You still look as young as you used to,

sucking chocolate off your fingers

and tying kite strings.

And then you bend to smooth the soil.

Slowly, firmly, together,

we plant one tiny mustard seed.

At the Louvre

 

2nd draft, discovered from 2012

The steady glow of morning

softens the sea of wood floors,

and all the portraits become strikingly clear

vessels in time.

I am a gaunt faced man who forgot

to shave his whiskers this morning.

Instead I woke up feeling hungry

and decided to go to the museum.

My legs propel me to my favorite spot:

Lisa, how she never changes.

But today, her sails are loose

in an ill-directed wind.

Beside her, a new portrait awaits:

a woman with two noses.

Lisa sniffles:

“Tell me, how ever do you sneeze?”

“Sneeze?”

“Yes, of course, sneeze! You couldn’t

fit your noses into a handkerchief

at my dinner party!

And for all your curves,

you couldn’t even seduce a rat.”

At this point, I try to interrupt Lisa

to remind her she hasn’t had her coffee yet.

It’s a cruel thing, Lisa, picking on

other portrait’s noses.

Lisa does not hear.

“Did you know that when Time

takes his evening stroll, he bends to dip

his hat at me?

“I have sprinkled seeds of poetry

in the hearts of thieves and kings.

Men have moaned in blood bath

over the curve of my lips.

Have you watched Napoleon weep

over his Josephine’s womb?

His King Louis XIV bent

in the shadow of your sails?

Do travelers mingle your name

with escargot and rare wine?

“But you, poor blazing masquerade,

are a rowboat in an ocean’s tide.”

And then the youth replies:

“I smack gum,

smoke jazz, and

sizzle

like graffiti

on summer- washed walls.

Oh, I throw!

my anchor into the stars

and sail

round heaven just for fun.

I am the symphony

of a hurricane!

           

my back a cello,

            my eyes,

trumpet blasts.

My laugh!

like bike bells

in a parade.

How I love

            to march,

                        march,

                                    march.

Oh Lisa, a sailor is better

with two noses,

and the masses will decide

my success.”

           

The people file in,

and the morning’s charm is broken.

I check my pocket watch.

It is a good hour for French toast.

Hush

Discovered from around 2012. Enjoy!

Hush.

 The lake bathed

           In  the  shadows  of

                                                                   fall and the     yawning of

                                                                   morning.              

        Beside

         the

         board

                                                                       walk

                                                                          murky

                waters

                freckled

      by water

              skaters murmur

            while the reeds rise,

     fall, a frog rustles, thrums,

                                                           a bird chimes, and squirrels stir

                                                        in  hurried duet  to pluck an acorn

   from its nest. The score grows, and the

      trees, dressed in gold, enclose the dark waters

            with their brightening limbs, while the fog lifts in

slow dance, steaming into sun-breath. Now they descend,

            a flock of white, billowing sails, strong and wide, upon the dark,

the waters held by light. The light a silver, golden glimmer. Gliding on, on, on.

Once & Still Roman

(draft 2)

If one could have a love affair with a city,

I might be tempted

to take Rome in,

undercover,

just for a day.

Rome would smoke his cigar

and tell me about the panini

and bus protests, the heat, and how at night

the Colosseum still fills with its ghosts.

Then Rome would sing

me a song I heard once in a

ristorante by a man wiping

display windows,

whose deep voice sauntered

for the sake of singing,

or for the afternoon break,

or for living itself.

Rome, you re-arranged me,

I would say after his song

simmered to a whisper.

Then he would lean back in his chair

and take a long, slow puff of his cigar.

Go on.

Well, I don’t quite know how to

put myself back together again,

Before I met you, I didn’t understand that

every city has a birth,

a life,

a death.

First, I measured in you in mornings:

the beggar on the bridge,

the dogs at the water spigot,

the quilt-patch buildings, and the stiches

of street lines.

And in Roman nights:

the old man with the thick arms

of an ex-convict,  

who sold tender, silk bags

of lavender for 3€ each, 2 for 5€.

And below my window,

the women in stiletto,

the clatter of dishes, a river of voices,

and bell-chimes of laughter

as I chased sleep.

Then I learned to measure you in vino rosso years,

in hundreds, even thousands (as well as any American can).

vino rosso, meaning: the perfect blend

of bitter and seduction,

in which the glass is never emptied,

in which I implored of saints and of billboards,

of ruins and of vespas.

In which I watched your thousand deaths

and rebirths with aching fingers,

the words in my journal crumbling and moaning

like a drunkard trying to paint

an angel.

I also measured you in vino bianco days:

delicate, siesta days,

when my eyes felt heavy with sleep,

and I sat in the balcony to watch

our neighbor’s clothesline flicker

in the warm breeze,

and my American home was just a yawn

and a cat’s stroll away.

Rome, you seduced me with your white wine

days. You re-arranged me

while he waited.

The way he and I talked,

words full as a plate of pasta,

but the slightest—

was it hesitation?

lingered in my mouth,

impossible to trace, as if stained on my fork

before the meal arrived.

We spoke of the lover’s locks

clasped to the Ponte Milvio bridge.

But I never leaned to drown

a key in those brown, eternal waters.

Maybe then I knew

our kisses were collecting dust.

Every city has

a birth,

a life,

a death.

So goes the saying.

And I see you, Rome,

in my city and in myself.

I still cross sidewalks illegally,

and if given the option,

I’ll take my coffee strong in a

small, porcelain tea cup.

And I see your bridges

and crumbling pillars in my

poems.

Sometimes, I wonder,

what will happen with them?

Will they become their own Forum?
Will tourists of some kind

sweep in and purge,

pointing with cameras

and sticky fingers,

or will these written memories

be tucked away

like the sacred dead under church

floors, in cemeteries

below

cemeteries?

Every city has a birth,

a life,

a death.

Rome teaches this most.

Here, we like our hours

clean, and sharpened to the minute.

But

for all our archiving,

at the end of the day

our clock hands

still twist toward Roman dust.