Patricia Carragon is an avid writer of short stories, prose, and poetry. Her first book of poems is Journey to the Center of My Mind (Rogue Scholars Press, 2005), followed by Urban Haiku and More (Fierce Grace Press, 2010). Her latest book is Innocence (Finishing Line Press, 2017). The Cupcake Chronicles is forthcoming from Poets Wear Prada. Her publication credits include Allbook Books, The Avocet, BigCityLit, Bear Creek Haiku, Boog City, CLWN WR, Clockwise Cat, Danse Macabre, Drunk Monkeys, Home Planet News, Inertia, Lips, First Literary Review-East, Levure littéraire, Long Island Quarterly, Mad Hatters’ Review, Maintenant, The Mom Egg, Panoply, poeticdiversity, Tribe Magazine, The Toronto Quarterly, Word Salad, Yellow Chair Review, and others. She is a member of brevitas, a group fiercely dedicated to short poems, and is a member of Pen Women's Literary Workshop and Tamarind. She is one of the Executive Editors for Home Planet News Online. She lives in Southwest Brooklyn.

The Mother Tree

An apple fell
out of conditioned mindset,
rolled not too far
from the mother tree.
She had seeds for new trees
to feed the hungry
and beautify the land.
She had potential for sacrifice—
a treat for a human
or beast.
But inertia was
her final destination.
When the chainsaw
killed the mother tree,
the other apples fell—
rolled toward their sister
in the bulldozed soil.



The Four-Sided Box

My world isn’t round
when it’s a four-sided box
made from cement, glass, and wood.
The ceiling is the sky
that illuminates at my command.
The floor is terra firma
where my feet make contact.
The walls are oceans
where islands emerge in frames.
The plants are forests,
dependent on me for water.
The furniture are hills and mountains,
keepers of my past and present.
The bed is a vast plain
for sleep to find refuge.
The windows and doors are the cosmos
hidden by shades . . . sealed by locks,
ensuring me that I will be safe.



Tree Haiku

arms of trees
              ever so graceful
                           even when still

trees communicate
               in sign language
                           the wind interprets

as notes float
               amid trees, sky, and sun
                           the trumpeter keeps warm
songs of birds
                songs of trains
                           roots of trees sing-along

nighttime silhouettes
                 branches shadow dance
                           behind blinds

like dervishes
                 seedpods glide
                            off trees

Zen on a park bench
                  I am no different than
                            the trees or bushes

newborn maple leaves
                            to touch my window

veins on leaves
                  my tree’s hands
                           touch mine

golden leaves
                  touch the ground
                           autumn grace

red leaves
                  spin around me
                          during meditation