i. in new york: you are born small. which is a given, but you are unhealthily smaller than most. the doctors fear for you, and tell this to your mother. they are scared you will not survive, but like the headstrong little pest you’ve always been, you grow.

ii. and you grow with the sun in your palms and your temples, and it shows in the way the sun kisses your skin. you love to run: mom says you couldn’t get enough of it. you are deathly shy, but every friend you’ve had ended up clinging to you, like the way a flower wraps itself protectively so it can face the sky. you like dinosaurs a lot, too—can recite part of an encyclopedia about the herbivores.

iii. and you get older, and your mom gets sick. breast cancer doesn’t mean much to a kid as young as you, you just know that mom is fragile and your triceratops plushie shouldn’t be thrown around lest it hit her and hurt her. but mom watched power rangers in the hospital with you, and she gets better, so you think everything is alright.

iv. in texas, you go to a baptist elementary school, and just as usual, you make friends that dote on you and tell you that you smell good. and you love them, but you also notice that their skin is pale, that their hair is golden. and you think your eyes are a tad bit funny. and one day, you pray to stop looking like yourself, and to look a whole lot more like them.

v. you are still very, very fast. you’re the fastest kid in the grade, actually. and your teachers have begun talking about how whip-smart you are. your pre-k teacher sends you to go read a book to the first graders, and you stumble over words, but it was whatever, because you loved the story, anyway. your mom is very, very happy with how the teachers talk about you.

vi. and you outgrow that school, and the teachers know it too. your mom moves you in the fifth grade to a charter school that’s known for making kids cry with how challenging it was. even today, you still go there, and you must agree, but you do your best to shine. and you think you do. (you want to go to an ivy-league, so.)

vii. you stop hating the way your hair was ink-black and your skin a light brown. you like the word “asian” instead of cringing at it. you realize how cruel people are, and now you have words for it: racist, misogynist, islamophobic. now that you can articulate this, you are so, so angry that more people don’t talk about these things. you probably started becoming an activist that day.

viii. you write stories with plot holes so huge they could fit how big your laughter is. you write poems that rhyme in awkward ways. you write, quite a bit, and you think it is your voice. and it’s because of this that you’re able to list these things:

ix. you love your friends. you love telling them that you love them. when one of them texts you that they are unimaginably sad, you feel the pain like it is your own. and you think they care for you in different ways, but it is love all the same. and you love your friends you think your love may be too much.

x. you adore people. you’ve said this before, but someone else’s pain is your own. you are in love with so many parts of life that the parts that are ugly make you so angry. which is funny, because it leads to you getting even more angry when you fight random people on the internet about this.

xi. (and you write, not just for your own enjoyment or release or expression, but because some of the less fortunate do not have the opportunity that you do to fearlessly speak out against the things you don’t believe in and for the things that you do.)

xii. you like taking walks in your neighborhood while listening to music. you hit tables and cling to people when you laugh. you have that awful sense of humor, the devilish, cheeky brat kind, because you love aggravating your dearest friends until they laugh at you or start hitting you. you are learning ukelele because you want to write the people you love the songs you think they deserve. you like fashion: pretty outfits, pretty things. you like soccer, and being a striker, and nailing balls into the goal from the midfield line. you learn things so, so fast because you can’t stand not being good at them. you still have stuffed animals on your bed.

xiii. you still run fast. not physically, sometimes, though—getting more competitive in soccer meant that you met people much faster than you. but no, you’re fast in other ways, and sometimes, you’re afraid nobody will catch up with you. and you’ll be running alone.

xiv. and the sun wanes away, sometimes. dips beneath the horizon so low and so long that you think you’ll never feel it again. but you find people, like you always do. and they cling to you like flowers, and despite not knowing their faces or voices for a long while, you love them all the same.

xv. and you love them, and you thank them, for loving you, mostly, but also for existing. for writing things that made you happy, or made you feel like you could slow down, sometimes. for reminding you that the world is still worth loving. and that you are, too. it just needs to learn to spin as fast as you run. but anyways, you love them, and that’s that.

xvi. and you turn sixteen years old, and you are scared of growing older, but it’s been a long time coming. a sweet, sweet sixteen. and you will run fast, still, whatever that may mean. so you promise to grow with the sun in your palms.

but for now, you’d just like to enjoy your birthday.

bow your head/

shelter/

in the rain/

i love you.

She lies in calmness,

but her lair claims many souls.

The sea has no friends.

dusk swept through like a

constellation-clad cloak of

ebony satin

________

#haiku #challenge #poetry

゜ ✽ ♦ ❅

゜ ✽

゜ ⋆ ⋆ ⋆ ✽ ✹

❅ ✹ I have not loved or been loved yet

❃ ✧ But deep inside, behind my broken heart ⋆ ✹

Something screams at me

✹ ⋆ You will not die alone ✧

✽ ⋆ ⋆ ✽ ❅

✧ ✧

⋆

✹ ❃ ⋆ ✹ ❅ ゜ ゜

✽

゜ ✽ ♦ ❅ ✧ ♦

Wɜrdz spɛld kəˈrɛkt ˈvɜrsəs

fəˈnɛtɪkˈspɛlɪŋ

alternately titled fun with

phonics ˈɔltərnətli ˈtaɪtəld fʌn wɪð ˈfɑnɪks

analogous when like first learning

how to spell American English words

Əˈnæləgəs wɛn laɪk fɜrst

ˈlɜrnɪŋ haʊ tu spɛl əˈmɛrəkən ˈɪŋglɪʃ wɜrdz

I thought to feign not

knowing how to spell American English words

Aɪ θɔt tu feɪn nɑt ˈnoʊɪŋ

haʊ tu spɛl əˈmɛrəkən ˈɪŋglɪʃ wɜrdz

and quickly realized the daunting task,

Ænd ˈkwɪkli ˈriəˌlaɪzd ðə ˈdɔntɪŋ tæsk,

thus sought magnanimity, gratuity, courtesy...

Google search (phonetic transcription of words) to assist me

Ðʌs sɔt magnanimity, grəˈtuɪti,ˈkɜrtəsi..

gugəl sɜrʧ (fəˈnɛtɪk ˌtrænˈskrɪpʃən ʌv

wɜrdz) tu əˈsɪst mi

Words spelled correct versus phonetic spelling

(the latter appended after poem concludes).

Thus now begins feeble attempt

to render rhyme for no reason

appended with phonetic translation

mainly as playful tease zen

synonymous imagining teaching

said exercise to eager children

reminding readers that young

and restless with spotty attention

hear spoken word while in utero,

post natal, subsequently when

he/she parrots parent(s) and/or

guardian, a more deliberate yen

arises to acquire greater cognition,

intuition, question (quest ja hen)

quickly devolving into faux ken

barbed riotous laughter analogous

trying wits of patient comedian/

comedienne resorting quite often

to repetition, remonstration,

reiteration... which frustration

might necessitate taking ten,

or so minutes of intermission

mindful mentor praises pen

ultimate verbal adroit ability

earning healthy treat for recitation,

perhaps recipient exceptionally

eager to advance passing golden

milestone able, ready, and will len

to tackle writing correct spelling,

whence learning to hold pen(cil)

(without being vain) begin men

till process, which next step den

allows, enables and provides sen

sit heave hands on guidance

helping preschooler - all liven

and well with enthusiasm clutch

writing implement fingers open

before gently grasping above ren

during kudos with an amen.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

wɜrdz spɛld kəˈrɛkt ˈvɜrsəs fəˈnɛtɪk ˈspɛlɪŋ

Ðʌs naʊ bɪˈgɪnz ˈfibəl

əˈtɛmpt

tu ˈrɛndər raɪm fɔr noʊ ˈrizən

əˈpɛndɪd

wɪð fəˈnɛtɪk trænˈzleɪʃən

ˈmeɪnli æz ˈpleɪfəl

tiz zɛn

səˈnɑnəməs ɪˈmæʤənɪŋ ˈtiʧɪŋ

sɛd ˈ

ɛksərˌsaɪz tu ˈigər ˈʧɪldrən

riˈmaɪndɪŋ

ˈridərz ðæt jʌŋ

ænd ˈrɛstləs wɪð ˈspɑti

əˈtɛnʃən

hir ˈspoʊkən wɜrd waɪl ɪn ˈjutəroʊ,

poʊst

ˈneɪtəl, ˈsʌbsəkwəntli wɛn

hi/ʃi ˈpɛrəts

ˈpɛrənt(ɛs) ænd/ɔr

ˈgɑrdiən, ə mɔr dɪˈlɪb(ə)rət

jɛn

əˈraɪzəz tu əˈkwaɪər ˈgreɪtər

kɑgˈnɪʃən,

ˌɪntuˈɪʃən, ˈkwɛsʧən (kwɛst jɑ

hɛn)

ˈkwɪkli dɪˈvɑlvɪŋ ˈɪntu fɔks kɛn

bɑrbd

ˈraɪətəs ˈlæftər əˈnæləgəs

ˈtraɪɪŋ wɪts ʌv

ˈpeɪʃənt kəˈmidiən/

kəˌmidiˈɛn rɪˈzɔrtɪŋ kwaɪt

ˈɔfən

tu ˌrɛpəˈtɪʃən, remonstration,

riˌɪtəˈreɪʃən...

wɪʧ frəˈstreɪʃən

maɪt nəˈsɛsəˌteɪt ˈteɪkɪŋ

tɛn,

ɔr soʊ ˈmɪnəts ʌv ˌɪntərˈmɪʃən

ˈmaɪndfəl

ˈmɛnˌtɔr ˈpreɪzəz pɛn

ˈʌltəmət ˈvɜrbəl əˈdrɔɪt

əˈbɪləti

ˈɜrnɪŋ ˈhɛlθi trit fɔr

ˌrɛsəˈteɪʃən,

pərˈhæps rəˈsɪpiənt

ɪkˈsɛpʃənəli

ˈigər tu ədˈvæns ˈpæsɪŋ

ˈgoʊldən

ˈmaɪlˌstoʊn ˈeɪbəl, ˈrɛdi, ænd wɪl

lɛn

tu ˈtækəl ˈraɪtɪŋ kəˈrɛkt ˈspɛlɪŋ,

wɛns

ˈlɜrnɪŋ tu hoʊld pɛn(cil)

(wɪˈθaʊt ˈbiɪŋ veɪn)

bɪˈgɪn mɛn

tɪl ˈprɑˌsɛs, wɪʧ nɛkst stɛp

dɛn

əˈlaʊz, ɛˈneɪbəlz ænd prəˈvaɪdz sɛn

sɪt hiv hændz ɑn ˈgaɪdəns

ˈhɛlpɪŋ ˈpriˌskulər

- ɔl ˈlaɪvən

ænd wɛl wɪð ɪnˈθuziˌæzəm

klʌʧ

ˈraɪtɪŋ ˈɪmpləmənt ˈfɪŋgərz ˈoʊpən

bɪˈfɔr

ˈʤɛntli ˈgræspɪŋ əˈbʌv rɛn

ˈdʊrɪŋ ˈkudoʊs wɪð

ən eɪˈmɛn.