True Happiness

True happiness does not gloat.
It has neither envy or greed.
True happiness uplifts everyone around.
It wants nothing more than for all to feel content.
True happiness is a conscious effort.
It takes simple acts of kindness to understand the place for sadness.
True happiness is voracious in consuming small hatreds.
It alters the self-loathing we all feel at times, teaching positive vibrations.
True happiness is not obtained by wants or needs.
It can be attained by consistently making considerate motions.
True happiness is not affected by circumstance.
It is meant to be lived as a lifestyle, to be believed in and embraced.
True happiness is not just another out of reach concept.
It is not easy, but it can be accomplished.



I am convinced I know nothing
when asked for specifics.
I appreciate vague ideas I can misconstrue,
so that I might get ahead in a conversation
I have decided is uncomfortable.
I am wary of subjects I am familiar with.
Undue questions are deceiving.
As if my abilities to attend to small details
were an indication of intelligence,
or a supposed lack thereof.
I get no reference to this, that, or the other
despite entertaining ideas I have never care for.


Unconditionally distraught by inconsistent evidence
brought on by unfocused determinations,
each leading away from the other.
No boundaries to limit new horizons
discovered by the light of the moon
on a night it nearly lost itself
eclipsed by the eternal sun.
There is commitment in adventure
a contract built between the known
giving leeway to the unknown.
Exploration of perspectives
leads to eventual new perceptions
maturing into an inexplicable sense of self.

Locked Houses

I never had a key for a locked house,
until I learned to change door knobs myself.
There were broken handles, bent hinges, and holes,
but bungee cords secured insides at night–
unless sneaking hands wouldn’t cease.
Twenty years later, I still fear the dark,
I cannot sleep with doors unlocked,
I run away from the lights I turn off,
a creak in the hall wakes me,
as late-night knocks on windows will break me.


I have been hiding from writing–
Despite all my longing
To hold pen against paper again
For I cannot escape her,
With no room to breathe,
Weighed down by the sea of her tears–
Hot and salt-crusted;
From years of disillusioned stumbling.
My foundation has crumbled away
As my words have fallen flat
And I am struck motionless–
Fear in headlights approaching too quickly.
She has found me
I cannot escape.

One Morning

A single clear trumpet sounds
prominently over
The bass of a bull frog chorus.
Waylaid against a hurried fog,
A blurry-eyed dawn is late today
To paint with her pale pink blush.
She moves quickly into early blue
As bright clouds settle in to stay,
Chilling the beginnings of morning.
Suddenly, she is nervous
Moving without rhythm
Unfocused and discouraged.
Light blue skies changed
To gloomy and overcast
Chasing her with demons.
Hummingbird heartbeats
Beat breathlessly against
The failure of her movement.
She is disillusioned
Trapped behind the skies
For the sake of one decision.

Frank O’Hara’s Tribute

Someday I’ll Love Anjelica Chevi-Savannah English in abundance,
Similarly abundant to the amount of letters
Made into the name that was placed upon me.
Eight, five, eight, seven.
Twenty-eight, or nine, characters,
if you count the hyphen.
I like to talk about the space it fills
A place holder not needed to begin with.
There is no need for a second middle name,
Other than to give a girl with no options an option
To be more than what her parents put on her,
By bringing her into a world– unwanted.
Even in the process of baking this bun in her oven,
With a batch of hash in the roller–
High on the idea of not being sober,
In the momentary transition from daughter to, oh wait,
She was already a mother who made this mistake.
Lost one child to a better parent because of her failures,
So she ran away to a small valley
Where her own parents could not find her
Or this particular granddaughter.
Named first for a truck with three on the tree,
A Chevy step-side painted that light blue of baby’s
Maybe that’s where the hyphen came from,
A further tribute to her favorite truck.
The ‘i’ at the end came from a movie–
A leading Swiss chick with a name
that probably sounds a lot cooler than mine.
My birth certificate was sent back seven times
For spelling errors, can you imagine?
Anjelica couldn’t be Angie with a ‘g’
Because Morticia impacted my mother enough
That my formal name is even spelled oddly.
I only knew I had a first name when I was in trouble
And only if that trouble was big,
In all capitals because how else would you know I’m yelling?
Someone once asked me:
“How weird is it for you to say your last name all the time?”
Saying my last name isn’t weird at all,
Having to spell “English” for people is fairly disconcerting though.
My third name has an unknown origin
I’m sure some far-off family member knows something,
But I don’t know where they would be;
I ran away to a valley
Where my family cannot find me
Excepting the brother that my mother lost
Before I could come home.