Mastered

 The tassel swings, the robe is pressed,

A journey etched upon my chest.
Not just the books, the tests, the grind—
But every doubt I left behind.

Late nights stacked high like unread tomes,
A borrowed desk, a mind far from home.
Coffee-stained dreams, imposter fears,
Threaded through these learning years.

I questioned can I?, answered yes,
Though some days felt like wilderness.
But here I stand, both scarred and proud,
My name called out above the crowd.

This paper—more than ink and seal—
It holds the sweat I couldn’t feel
When buried deep in work and will,
And holding on by sheerest skill.

It’s for the ones who came before,
Who opened books, and not just doors.
And for the future paths I’ll pave,
Armed now with all the strength I gave.

A master’s not an end, but key—
To deeper growth, to setting free
The voice I honed in every class—
The self I built to boldly pass.

So let the tassels turn with grace,
And time carve lines upon this face.
I earned this day—no luck, no guess—
I am the work that led to yes.

Summer Spins in Central Park

 We met where morning kissed the green,

And city sounds grew soft, serene.
The air was bright, the sky was clear—
A perfect day to linger here.

We rented bikes near Sheep Meadow,
Laughed as we raced through sun and shadow.
The breeze was warm, the path was wide,
Our joy too big for walls to hide.

We paused for snacks at vendor stands—
Hot pretzels, ice cream, sticky hands.
A juggler tossed a daring show,
While bubbles floated high and slow.

At Bethesda, the fountain sang,
And children through its arches rang.
A couple danced to a jazz quartet,
Their feet in rhythm, faces set.

We sprawled beneath a climbing tree,
Shared silly jokes and sipped iced tea.
The grass still damp from morning’s dew—
We let the world slip out of view.

By rowboat, later, drifting free,
We watched the turtles lazily.
A duck parade came paddling by,
While sun poured gold across the sky.

And when the twilight brushed the lake,
The lamplights blinked themselves awake.
We sighed, the way good moments end—
Full-hearted, sun-touched, hand in hand.

The Wounded Healer

 They walk with limps you cannot see,

And hide their scars in empathy.
They’ve weathered storms you’ll never name,
And still they kneel beside your flame.

Their hands may tremble, hearts may ache,
Yet still they soothe what others break.
For pain has carved in them a space
Where others find a resting place.

They do not flinch at cries or tears,
They’ve made a home of shattered years.
They’ve bled, they’ve bowed, they’ve begged the night,
And now they lend you borrowed light.

They won’t pretend to have the cure,
But they will sit, and they’ll endure.
Not fixing just the sacred art
Of holding you when things fall apart.

For those who’ve lived the ache you bear
Will never ask you not to care.
They’ll let you feel, they’ll let you be,
And love you in your agony.

So trust the voice that's soft but sure,
The one who knows what you endure,
For sometimes only hearts that break
Can feel the weight another takes.

The Last Rounds

 I press the chart against my chest,

A shield of ink and numbers dressed—
Vitals fading, breath grown thin,
A war still waged beneath the skin.

She smiles, though pain has worn her frame,
And softly calls me by my name.
Her voice, a thread, so frail, so bare,
Still fills the silence of the air.

We’ve danced this dance for months on end—
White coats, sharp light, a hand to lend.
I’ve watched her laugh, I’ve watched her cry,
Held space when she would ask me why.

Chemo came like storms and steel,
But never stole the way she'd feel.
She loved the orchids by the door,
She asked about my kids, my sore.

It’s strange how close the dying come—
To what it means to just be one.
A single soul, no mask, no game,
Just breath and time and fading flame.

And now, I stand beside her bed,
My stethoscope, my leaden tread.
The monitors blink soft and slow,
The body's fight preparing to go.

I smooth her gown, adjust the light,
Whisper, you are safe tonight.
The morphine hums, her fingers still,
And time itself bends to her will.

No trumpet sounds, no mighty end—
Just quiet, like the breath of wind.
A peace that falls, both sharp and sweet—
A patient gone. My heart, incomplete.

We learn to care, to cure, to try—
But never quite to say goodbye.

Science Haiku

Truth hides in the void
We ask, test, and measure stars.
Wonder wears a lab.

The Adventures of a Traveling Soul

 Beneath the hush of dawn’s first sigh,

A soul took wing to kiss the sky.
No roots to bind, no name to claim,
It wandered far through wind and flame.

It danced with stars in desert night,
And whispered truths to peaks of white.
In every town and silent glen,
It lived a thousand lives—and then,

It traced the rivers, wild and wide,
Where fishermen and secrets hide.
It bowed to temples old with grace,
And wore each moment like a face.

It rode on songs in foreign tongues,
And wept where lullabies were sung.
It drank the joy of village wine,
And knelt before the sacred shrine.

It slept in fields where poppies grow,
And chased the footprints lost in snow.
It kissed the dusk on oceans’ foam,
And called each sunrise “I am home.”

Though never still, it carried deep
A quiet fire it could not keep—
A yearning not for where or when,
But just to move, and be, again.

For some are born with hearts unchained,
By border, name, or love retained.
They travel not to run, but find—
The world’s reflection in their mind.

So if you meet one on the way,
Who smiles like dawn and fades like day—
Know you have met, in part or whole,
The echo of a traveling soul.

Across the Tidal Basin

From marble dome where Jefferson stands,
I watch the White House from these lands
Its distant frame, so small, so still,
Yet heavy with the nation’s will.

Reflected soft in water’s face,
A house of power, poised with grace.
Between us lies a tranquil gleam,
And all the space for thought and dream.

Jefferson, in bronze repose,
Reads words he once to paper chose
“All men are equal,” carved and true,
Yet shadowed by what he once knew.

The cherry trees bow in the breeze,
Their petals drifting with such ease.
But history does not fall light
It lingers long, it questions right.

I gaze across and feel the span
Of hope, of struggle, wrought by man.
The White House glows in daylight’s hush,
A beacon, and a binding hush.

What freedom means, what justice weighs,
We measure still through modern days.
From monument to mansion’s light,
A nation stares into its fight.

Yet here, between the past and now,
I breathe, reflect, and make a vow:
To bridge this water not with stone,
But acts that prove we’ve truly grown.

The Heart Between the Columns

Between the pillars white and grand,
Where statues rise and dreamers stand,
The National Mall unfolds its grace—
A nation's soul, a sacred space.

It stretches wide from dome to stone,
Where freedom finds its echo grown.
The Capitol watches, proud and high,
While Lincoln gazes toward the sky.

The cherry blossoms softly sigh
As seasons pass, and people try
To grasp the weight of all they've seen—
The marches, tears, the might, the mean.

Here King once spoke beneath the sun,
A dream declared, a hope begun.
His voice still hums through every breeze,
A balm among the willow trees.

The granite names, the soldiers' walls,
Reflect the cost when duty calls.
Their silence thunders louder still
Than all the laws on Capitol Hill.

Tourists wander, children play,
On paths where history does not stray.
It lives in stone, in air, in ground—
A quiet pulse, forever found.

For in this stretch of open land,
Lie all the truths we misunderstand—
Not monuments, but what they mean:
The work, the loss, the yet unseen.

So walk it slow, with reverent feet—
Where past and present softly meet.
The Mall does more than merely sprawl;
It holds the heartbeat of us all.

Arlington Sleeps

Upon the hill where silence grows,
Where marble lines in stillness close,
A thousand names the earth has kept
Here, Arlington, the brave have slept.

Beneath the oaks, beneath the stone,
Lie those who faced the fight alone,
And those in ranks, in skies, in seas,
Now cradled by eternity’s breeze.

The bugle weeps at close of day,
A final hymn where heroes lay.
Each grave a story, cut too short,
Each flag a silent last report.

No anthem swells, no crowds remain,
Just whispers in the falling rain.
Yet here, the nation bows its head
To walk among the honored dead.

Not just for glory, medals, fame
But duty carried without name.
A nurse, a son, a friend once near,
Now part of sacred silence here.

And still, the rows reach toward the blue,
A solemn march forever true.
They ask no praise, no grand display
Just memory that does not stray.

So may we tread with humbled pace
Upon this ground, this hallowed place.
For freedom blooms where sorrow lies
And peace is bought where valor dies.

What These Chains Have Known

(From the perspective of slave)

They call it war—this clash of states,
But long before, I knew its weight.
Not blue or gray, but black and bound,
My body sold, my soul unfound.

No flag I raised, no drum I beat,
Just fields that burned beneath my feet.
They fought for land, for pride, for law—
I fought for breath, for worth, for awe.

The whip knew me by name each day,
And still I worked, with no repay.
I bore their sons, I bore their scorn,
I wept for children never born.

They spoke of rights, of liberty,
While tightening iron over me.
They built their wealth upon my skin,
Then asked what crime lay deep within.

I heard the cannons from the trees,
And dared to think they might mean me.
Could blood undo what greed had done?
Could war restore the stolen sun?

When soldiers came, they looked away,
As if my life could wait a day.
Freedom was inked in mighty halls,
But not within these cabin walls.

Still, I have hope—a stubborn seed—
That truth will rise from every need.
That those who walked with backs bent low
Might stand, might speak, might one day know—

That we were never less than man,
Not beast, not tool, not lesser than.
And though the war may end with peace,
Only justice brings release.

A Dream That Marched

He walked with thunder in his tread,
A preacher’s voice, a dreamer’s thread.
In every step, a nation's plea—
To break the chains, to set hearts free.

Born not to silence, but to say
That love must light the darker way,
He stood where hatred drew its line
And answered rage with faith divine.

A dream he held—not gold, nor fame,
But that each soul be called by name.
Not colored first, but human whole,
A justice rooted in the soul.

In Selma’s dust, in Birmingham’s cell,
He bore the weight, he knew it well.
He met the night with steady flame
And never once forgot the name—

The name of peace, the name of grace,
The power of truth in a broken place.
He taught us still how courage sings
With empty hands, yet mighty wings.

Though bullets sought to end his climb,
They could not kill what stands through time.
His dream still walks in every street
Where voices rise and brave hearts meet.

So let us walk, and let us be
The dream he saw, the world made free.
Not just in speech, but in our stride—
With justice marching by our side.