I used to only write haiku because their rhythm and formulaic nature made me feel safe. Then I started getting a bit preachy on Facebook and some people said they liked my prose and now I can’t stop writing poems like this one:
Why My Room’s the Best Room
There’s a long desk in my room.
Sitting there makes me feel serious.
There is also a light switch in my room
which is reachable from under my bed covers.
The floor of my room is always impeccably clean since that time
I spent December 31 preparing for the fresh start of 2014.
When I think about it I wish I had cleaned with more mindfulness
but now I feel the shiny surface when I walk and my bare feet smile.
There is nothing but furniture and yoga stuff
on the old wooden floor of my room.
I wonder how many grounding exercises
these old trees have seen in their years.
My window faces East and so does my altar.
As I write this I am watching the clouds turn pink against the blue sky
which the rain has been hiding for three days now.
When I sleep in my room, my toes are due South of my head.
When it rains outside of my room I turn off my music,
because the gutters and drains make little songs
using the dance of water droplets
to inspire their lyrics and rhythm.
Every morning I stand on my East-facing yoga mat
and salute the Spaniards below, going to work or swinging on swings.
In my room I have plain white walls that I sometimes touch
just to feel their solid, cool stability.
But my room is the best room because I share one of those walls
with an old deaf woman named Mercedes who likes her radio loud,
and because I have a light bulb that blinks after it’s been switched off,
and because I have the ability to hear loud farts through the ceiling at night.
Where do you feel most at home? Is it geographical or created by other beings? Is it enclosed or without walls? Is it defined by space and time?