Stuck

It's not done yet, and I'm not saying that just so you won't be as hard on me. I want it to be more structured, and I feel like the middle of the poem lapses into prose. But somehow I can't make it do what I want. It might just need more time (in fact, I've already edited a few lines and reposted a couple times in the few minutes since I first posted this), but nonetheless, any suggestions? In 8th grade my teacher told me that if you write a poem that doesn't rhyme you shouldn't allow one or two stray rhymes within it. I've broken that rule, and I allow some approximate rhymes as well. Do you think I should change that? Critique desired and appreciated.


MKish Thoughts

If we move,
I know what will happen.
If we move,
I'll love the green.
Coming to beauty
Is like coming home again.
Coming home
Though I've never been.

I've felt it before
Oaxaca, Venice, Salem;
And revulsion
In flying to smog.
But I know you, California,
I know your secrets,
You'll always be home to me.

I'm not fond of pop weather,
Sun and crowds,
No rainy days.
But I know you, California,
I know your secrets,
You'll always be home to me.

Who knows your weather
Better than I?
I'm Calicentric
I know your seasons --
Different, but there.
I see you.
Not some escape from cold and snow,
But your own,
With passive-aggressiveness to share.
People think your lack of tantrums
Mean you're good.
They don't know you.
I see and understand your sulks.
Drought fire flood
Cold nights, cold rain,
Should I hate you
They'll remain home.

I'd miss lavender trees,
Eucalyptus, beautiful camphor,
And the little desert weeds.
I wish I could go
And take you with me
Among those strange deciduous forests.

Wilmington was my home,
La Mirada, Whittier now.
I drove down the 405 to Long Beach
More times than I can count.
I know Cypress, Huntington Beach,
And, of course, LAX.

California, I don't know all your streets
But the stories, the memories,
Span hundreds of miles.
I've run your parks and beaches,
Hiked your mountains, hills.

Graffiti, gangs, unsafe streets,
Lock your doors (not just at night).
The childish ways of the small town crowd
Appeal, frighten and amuse.

California, you're my home
Not safe or nice
But known.