dots on the ceiling

sun shine through

curtains and the glass.

kitchen coffee brew,

bare toes on the wood,

bare hands on the sheets.

a walk through the neighborhood,

a sky of grey heat.

dinner on the stove

and a nap i’ll soon meet.

awoke to the stars.

in the street,

a passing car.

please remember the words,

the ones in my head.

count the dots on the ceiling,

awake in my bed.

back to that dream,

and those words that seem dead.

count the dots on the ceiling,

awake in my bed.

– js

wool socks

you’re like wool socks in the summer,

while i’m reminded of your laugh.

i know you hate it when i go quiet,

but small talk never really fits me comfortably.

sometimes, i like to think i’m a pine tree

with branches all spread wide.

perhaps birds could find some refuge in me,

and i’d serve as a nice place to hide.

won’t you come and watch the fireworks with us?

i’d really love it if you would.

i think i’ll always wear my wool socks in summer.

you wouldn’t change that if you could.

– js


a subtle breeze carries scents of bonfire and a day’s worth of pollen.

sticky, humid night air clings to the skin,

while sweat beads and runs

like undisturbed rain on a car’s windshield,

before meeting a wiper blade’s touch.

sliding past your hairline.

drip, drip, dropping on your shoulder blades, now along your spine.

the neighborhood kids leave their toys in the street these days.

little forgotten treasures awaiting unexpected discovery.

summertime is here.

this, i know.

i know not from the heat,

nor from the new and freshly blossomed vegetation,

nor from the sun in my windows,

but rather from the sounds

and the sights.

the whirring fan in my bedroom,

the salt of dried sweat in my sheets,

anxious dreams of terror and pain from the night before,

fresh fruit in the fridge,

and clothes on the line.

all of which,

serve as constant reminders

of this seemingly perpetual, empty summertime

– js

mom made waffles

mom made waffles,

and there are birds in the backyard.

i took a walk down the main street

to see the clouds

and the trees

and the trash on the curb.

  i don’t think i’m okay,

but it’s comfortable and real.

sometimes i like to scream

when no one’s around

and all the blinds are down.

nothing is right.

things just may never be,

but mom made waffles,

and there are birds in the backyard

– js