My sonshine.

I wrote this during my pregnancy. 

 I lay awake letting out a happy sigh,
My eyes closed treasuring every kick.
Hoping you'll have your father's eyes,
And that the year's won't pass too quick.

Hopes and dreams flood my mind,
I cannot wait to watch you play,
I will raise you to be strong and kind,
You'll be my sunshine when skies are gray.

My baby bloom sprouting new life,
It will be a relief to hold you close.
Made with love by husband and wife,
Who will always love you most.

Whatever life passage you roam,
I'll forever be your biggest fan.
I promise to always be your home,
Even when you're a man.

Soon your Daddy will cut your chord,
Our eyes will rise to see our son.
The most perfect gift from our Lord,
Our perfectly beautiful little one.

You've already brought such joy,
My sweet and darling baby boy.

Grandma's Girl.

Something that I wrote a few years back. I miss her.



Through sliding glass doors I enter a familiar lobby, and turning the corner I'm met with a sea of silver people. I smile as I pass their kind eyes, I know them all by name, by voice, by spirit. They don't know me, but they will, until I'm forgotten once again. Joe tells me about his fishing trip, and from what I can tell it was forty years ago, but to him it was yesterday afternoon. I compliment Joanne's baby doll, she beams with pride, because in her mind that bit of plastic and cloth is her son, the love of her life. Bessy's eyes light up when I pick up some stray puzzle pieces that escaped her shaking hands. I'm making small talk when suddenly, a raven haired beauty among a white forest catches my eye. That's her, that's my Grandmother. She is looking around her. Desperately searching for something, anything familiar. She doesn't know where she is. It's all I have not to sprint to her, but today I see no tears, so I walk. Her eyes look up at me, eyes that are my own, and there it is, the same sweet smile that has healed my heart countless times, as perfect as its ever been. I wheel her back to her room. I listen as she tells me stories of when she was a little girl, stories I've heard over and over again, stories that make me feel safe. Sometimes she gets scared, she knows she has seven children, but she doesn't know they're all grown up. She cries in desperation, thinking her babies are home alone. I sing for her, she strokes my hair and tells me what a good girl I am. I often catch her staring at me through those giant round glasses with the biggest sparkle in her eye, it's then I'm reassured she knows me, knows I am hers. I flash back to many years ago when she first started losing her memory, when she knew what was happening. She was scared, and always so ashamed and apologetic when she forgot something. She was afraid to forget, not fear for herself, but because it would hurt her loved ones to witness that kind of change. See, Grandma is one of those women who always puts the people she loves first. I tell her I don't mind if she forgets my favorite color, or even what year it is, but I can't help but plead that she always remember me. She promised me that, a promise I wanted to believe, but realistically could not. I should have known better than to ask for such a favor, but I also should have known better than to lose faith. Her voice interrupts my flashback, "Jessy you're beautiful", I let out a sigh of relief, she still knows me, I've never heard such beauty in my name as when its out of her mouth, out of her memory. I smile and say right back, "I get it from my Grandma" She laughs, and agrees. I stand up briskly and tell her I have to use the bathroom. As soon as my face is out of her sight I lose it. Tears stream down my face with a silence that crushes the heart. I breath deep, wipe the mascara trails off my blushed cheeks and walk back to her. My Mother is curling her hair, I see a Mother's love radiate between them. In her forties, but she's still Grandma's baby girl. I sit on the bed and play around with the blankets, quietly savoring the moment, being in the presence of the two most important women of my life. Hours seem like minutes passing by and soon it's time for the nurses to put Grandma to bed. I watch as a dedicated daughter tucks her Mother in, just as years ago her Mother did for her. A beautiful sad cycle. I tell my Grandma how much I love her, I always hear it back. Then my Mom and I sit next to the bed, Grandma doesn't want us to leave, so we wait in the dim light of her favorite angel lamp until she is asleep. I lean over and kiss her goodnight. Making my own promise, that I'll be back again tomorrow.

Venus de Milo.

I once saw the world in a statue. 

She stood before me porcelain and pure. I let my fingers dance along her weathered body. The marble was cold but whispered promises of a fire within. Time had stolen bits and pieces of her, as time so often does, yet here she stood, beautifully broken. I smiled to myself, though her arms were gone she still held so much. She represented such an exquisite irony. Though we leave much of ourselves behind as we grow, in the end, it is what makes us whole. 

Grandma's Girl.

I wrote this poem for a poetry competition a couple months before my Grandma passed away. I found out recently that I won the competition and the poem is going to be published. 

Poem for Iris.

No warm memories left to reflect on,

Long locked away with a forgotten key. 

I hold your hand and sing your favorite song,

In hopes you'll remember me. 

Ninety-two years seems quick when measured by life,

A tear falling as I whisper, "how unfair,"

To not remember when you were pronounced man and wife,

Or the seven beautiful babies you bared. 

The stories you'd tell under the shade of a tree, 

Wide eyed grandchildren hanging on every word. 

I promise to carry those memories with me,

And tell my children the same tales that I heard. 

I remember that all would yield to your word,

Your advice stood above the rest. 

I'll keep with me always the lessons I learned, because after all grandmas know best. 

I'll love you through each new chapter of this life,

And though I've grown too big for your lap,

I desperately wish through my sadness and strife, that just for a moment we could go back. 

Back to money snuck into chubby little hands,

To hugs and kisses over skinned knees. 

Back to when you were my biggest fan, and you still remembered me. 

So many warm memories left to reflect on, 

Your little pal I'll always be. 

I hold your hand and sing your favorite song, and you start to sing it back to me. 

Some thoughts on life.

We are all born lucky, lucky to have been born. There are fifty-million sperm released in every ejaculation, which means each of us had a 1/50,000,000 chance of being born. We also have to take into account our parents 1/50,000,00 chance of being born, and also the chance that they found eachother because only together can they make you. We could follow these averages and percentages all the way back to the beginning of time and our chance of exsisting would be 0.1% out of a number that would go on for pages, each of us just being born as who we are is an amazing miracle. We all have already won the life lottery, but why? Why are we here, and why are we who we are? What is the great reason? I don't know why we are all here, but we are and maybe that is purpose enough. We may never really see life for what it is, we may never fill in the colors of the big picture, but we can still give it meaning. Give your own life meaning. You can't truely live until you find something you would die for. Make the world a better place, even if it is just a small bit of the world. Find your own lifes purpose, not the purpose of life in general. If we were meant to know what life was all about we'd be born with that knowledge, but we're not. So to find the meaning of life, give life meaning.

Created Equal.

I believe that all men are created equal, but, I don’t believe that all men stay equal. I hear so many people talking about how no one person is better than any other person, and I couldn't disagree more. Yes, God created us all equally, but then we were born and life happened. Some of us chose to be better people, to excel in kindness and love, while others turned dark, and sometimes even evil. I’m sorry, but I just don’t see people who rape, torture, and murder in the same category as people who try to lead honest lives. We are all capable of growing into better people, everyone has character defects, but acknowledging them and trying to better yourself really means something. I think people who lead not so great lives fall back on, "all men were created equal" as a crutch, a way to almost justify the bad person they are. However the fact is that YES, some people are "better" than other people, get over it. If you don't like it, start changing into who you want to be. It’s like a race, sure we all have the same starting line, but throughout the race some runners get ahead, others fall behind, and there are winners.

Feet on the ground, Head in the sky, Fire in my heart.

I click across paths of pavement, every step another second on the clock. Ghosts of people glide by, I feel like I'm in the middle of a wasteland. The sounds of screeching tires and insincere how are you's flood into my ears until I'm quite certain they'll fall off, the worst part being I'd welcome such a loss. It's funny how alone a person can feel in a hive of hundreds. Hours pass, though they feel like days, and finally I find I've wandered into nature. I lay down and hold my breath until my flesh sinks down into the earth. I run my hands through the blades of grass like they were a lost lover's hair. I open my eyes and let the view wash over me like a wave over sandy footprints. Looking up towards the sky I realize I've never seen such a devouring contrast. The dark steady trees against the fleeting blue sky. Odd how together I feel with everyone in the world when I'm in a place they haven't yet touched. Whispers ride in upon a warm wind, teasing my ears with wishes and hopes. I feel safe. For a moment I know exactly who I am, and I promise myself that I will keep my feet on the ground, rooted into the soil of my past. I will keep my head in the sky, flying on the wings of my future. Lastly, I promise to keep a fire within my heart that burns so fiercely it will always remind me to seize the present day.

Tangled.

Tangled,

By Jessy Iris.

Two people on the same path, 

But heading different directions. 

He longed for home,

She just craved perfection. 

She envied the birds,

And he envied the trees. 

He wanted roots,

She just wanted to leave. 

She came from love,

And she grew up good. 

But that was no surprise,

We all knew she would. 

He had eyes like home,

Ironic as it seemed, 

The only home he knew,

Was kept in his dreams. 

Only God saw it coming,

Their lives started there,

When the young man yelled,

"Rapunzel let down your hair".

Loves a funny thing,

And when it gave it's cue,

Old wishes didn't matter,

And dreams became new. 

Someday Someone.

Tossing and turning, a private ballet of blankets and sheets. My breaths are silent and so is the world. I look at the stars draped over me like a veil and I feel like I'm the only one awake to see them, there's something so peaceful about feeling that alone. My thoughts turn to forever, as thoughts often do. I can almost see his face, almost taste his lips, almost feel what it's like to love a person as I'll someday love him. Is he hidden right beneath my nose, like a four leafed clover among a familiar field of green? Or perhaps he is like those stars hanging above me. Far away, occasionally twinkling me sweet promises of a someday. It's funny how you can miss someone so desperately without knowing who they are. I play make believe movies in my head until I wonder myself into sleep.

Bones.

Bones,
By Jessy Iris.

She walks on a wave of wind
And leaves charm in every step
But behind her perfect curtain
A remote secrets barely kept
Dying to fit a twisted mold
Eating calories she won't keep
She has no hands left to fold
A special brand of weak
Praises foster a porcelain prison
Drunk in a symphony of bones
An audacious madness has arisen
Sinking faster than a stone
Rare to see beyond a lipstick smile
She's still breathing, but has been dead awhile.

My friends Ana and Mia.

AnaMia,
By Jessy Iris.

She wakes up to the noise of her stomach begging, she smiles, the emptiness makes her feel beautiful. Her fingers stroke from her rib cage down to her hips, music to the touch, an orchestra made of bones. She gets out of bed and catches her reflection in the mirror, is she bigger than she was yesterday? Rushing down the stairs her heart beat rapidly increases, it feels like days have passed by the time she steps on the scale. She bites her lip as her weight is calculated, expecting the worst, she's down another two pounds, a wave of relief washes over her, she's allowed to eat today. She puts on her clothes, paints a happy girl on her face with makeup, and brushes her hair, ignoring the increased amount of it left behind in the brush. Throughout the day she sips on coffee and diet drinks, she's a diet coke head. Her head feels funny by the middle of the day, and when she stands up her vision turns to black, this is her sign that it's time to eat. Every bite scars her self esteem, she knows it shows, so she forces herself to keep eating, until she sees the suspicion leave her friend's eyes. At the end of her performance she thinks of an excuse to get to the bathroom, to get to her pretty prison. She sticks her perfectly polished finger down her throat until the sin in her stomach is entirely in the toilet, she's learned to stop when her throat starts to burn, when there's nothing left but stomach acid she can rest. Tears run down her cheeks, her breaths become shallow and she sinks into the bathroom tiles, she's not dead, but she sure feels like it. She no longer craves food, only beauty, just perfection.

America.

America,
By Jessy Iris.

Today I saw a group of flowers growing furiously towards the sunshine. They were each so unique from one another. Some had reds, others yellows or pink, even purple petals graced the group. They contrasted so intensely from the deep green grass around them that one couldn't help but stop to smell the roses. As I sat down beside them to get a closer look I noticed how many different textures there were. These flowers reminded me of my Country, these flowers were America. My Nation is a melting pot, we are made up of different colors and textures. We are made up of different religions, cultures, and races. The American people have different dreams, longings, hopes, different prayers. There are so many differences from American to American, it leads people to doubt our Country, for how can a tower made up of such different shapes and sizes of brick survive time? That's the thing, America isn't like a tower, it's like these flowers. Deeply rooted in rich soil, just as each American is rooted in their ancestors, their cultures, beliefs, and who they are. Like the flowers reaching for the sun, each one of us can reach for the American dream. If we are willing to work hard and persist we can overcome obstacles and reach the sky.

“Give me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses yearning to breathe free"

I am an American, and I am proud to be.