Tag Archives: e-poetry

E – Final Presentation Poem

When I write I

Recreate the stars

Giving them a rhythm

Absent in the real world

Life doesn’t flow but story flows.


Still, the starts they are

And here in this tiny world,

Though I create it,

I am not God but bard,

For stars would obey God

Instead of

Demanding better music.

To the outside,

Writing is awkward. Attempting to build

A house, a home, a cottage

Out of marshmallows and toothpicks.

Language is clumsy, fragile

One wrong letter shattering

The entire structure


Harder still when something


These stars and hand I was dealt

Are similar to others

Who have been cast out

Thrown to the wolves, to be

Devoured by hate and pain and



I have toothpicks and marshmallows

Shallow platitudes and reassurances.

Yet my toothpick house

Draws people to admire

Such a foolish work.

Look closer I say

See these wolves

And my people left

To be devoured?

They look. How courageous, they say

About my toothpick house.

What a marvel, a wonder a show.

Steam flows out of my ears.

Running from the wolves

Is not a show, is not courage.

I am not superior to those who died

For lacking my head start of skin color

And not being able to run faster.


Building a toothpick hut of

Letters and hope and


Might be foolish, stupid courage

But I am not a soldier

I know not how to fight

So this is how I do battle, because

What I know is toothpicks

And marshmallows

And persistence beyond what is healthy.

I will build a spectacle

To draw in those that know not what they do

Attempting to get them to change.


So you have your people

Left out in the cold.

Foolish courage borne of desperation.

Find your toothpicks and marshmallows

What story would you tell?

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E – Week 8 Poetry


I write well.

This comes as something of a surprise

Because I feel out of practice

And I so seldom write what I like to read.


But somehow I manage to capture

People, struggle, emotion and

Put them to a page.

With my words I can give people feelings,

Teach them about the world.

Even as this power bemuses me.


There are worse super heroes to be

Worse powers to try to wrangle, or I

Tell myself that when

I never can wash of the ink from my hands

The people in my life are tired of hearing about

Whatever I’ve written

Or when my characters decide they don’t like my plot.

I wouldn’t trade it even still,

This magical power of words.

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E – Week 7 Poetry

If the pen is mightier than the sword

Why do I feel so helpless?

But my words are not alone

I am fighting the words of others

The writs and laws of culture


“You’re worth it,” I whisper

As thousands of words of hate

And scorn, and jeer, and shame

Say just the opposite.


Culture is harsh to those

Who are different

Different isn’t pretty after all

It is scary to think

That society is nothing but illusions

There are always exceptions


But those on the fringe know better

Find themselves in small pockets of love

Build fortresses out of


Guard them with love and compassion

Seek out those who have no one else

And envelop them in love and care


Words are mighty. Mightier

Than we like to admit.

But how mighty

Against other words?


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E – Week 6 Poetry

I pray while I write

Or maybe writing is a prayer.

I have hope for these words

That they will make a difference

I pray they will move a nation

Move people, move hearts, move mountains

Language my lever, feelings my fulcrum.


Even when I am drowning in ink

When everything I love is covered

With black splotches and smears

I pray with my words

A prayer for change.


When I want to stop

When my hand cramps

My head feels fogged

And out of words.

I think of my people

And the culture that stands

Between them and who they are.

Ghosts on my shoulder

Adding weight to my prayers

Cheering me on, cheering me on

To walk naked through

A field of critics.

Everything that I am

Ashamed of

Afraid of

Proud of

Laid out in my personal story.


It isn’t personal any more.

All of it is out there

Paid for with

Inkstains and

Bleary eyes and

A tired mind.

This story belongs now

To the people

And this is why I pray.


I pray while I write

So my private story

Will become something to inspire

Sweating my heart

Into the words.


Into the ink.

Move I whisper over

The still infantile words.

Move the world

With the power I am giving you.

Go forth little one.

Make change in all you do.

And this is how I pray.

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E – Week 5 Poetry

Transition looks like courage

(or stupidity, but aren’t

those often the same)

To people on the outside.

But is a drowning man courageous

For trying to swim?

It’s not the noble courage

That leads trans* people to survive

But humble desperation.

We live the way we do

Because it is either live

As we are

Or die

As we are not.

(which is admittedly ignoble,

but does that make the opposite noble?)

Our lives aren’t really tragedies,

Because they are ours.

This is the way we survive

Nothing glorious or courageous

About it really.