Posts for 2020 (page 219)

She hated the way her voice sounded
asking for another cheese sandwich
at the soup kitchen 
her accent leaking information
she’d rather keep to herself
her pants cheap and stretched
small gold hoop in her nose
a community service to no one.
She had a PhD in Robotics            
played bass in an angel band           
had a horse and two dogs           
yet there was blackness inside            
every elevator going up and down            
her breast pocket, her pants pocket           
So what if she wanted to sleep in her car           
So what if more than one closet            
was one closet too many           
And the fog of a backyard spooked her            
more than a parking lot sunrise
what happened in the past &
what happens next 
was nobody’s business but her own 

To participate but not break
Terms of Use of Posting and Commenting
I’ll simply point to the first
female African-American poet to be published
and her lines
To The Rev. Dr. Thomas Amory
Thank you, Phillis Wheatley

Black squares flood social media feeds,
People with influence dedicate their platform to the cause,
White people vow to make space for melenated voices.
Around the country tear gas spews into streets,
Cops in riot gear secure zip ties around shaking wrists, 
Black bodies make their way to the morgue.
I can’t help but wonder which will stop first.

Oh object of my long held affection
The very sight of you has so often
     brought a smile to my face
         or a tear to my eye
You are a reminder of what was
        or still is
Although there is no life or breath in you
You stir life within me
A thought – a moment – a precious memory
And a feeling of joy is kindled in my heart
But you – you remain the same – you are a 
                            Thing
I have heard that it is not you that I seek  
It is the feeling that you evoke
    that causes me to rejoice in you
    and regard you with such great esteem
Your value is in the eye and heart of the beholder
                 It’s true –  you are a thing
But when it’s time for me to tell you goodbye 
     Time to let you go
I will say thank you 
Thank you for the moments and memories
    thank you for the gifts of joy you have given me
When it’s time .  .  .
          When it’s time .  .  .
                     But not today

Thinking of the word “enough.”

The waterfall’s voice carries so well here.

On a clear day, you can see down into the valley.

The koi will come to the surface if you feed them.

Come, look.

If you are still, the butterfly might land on you.

The grasses wave with the ripples of sunlight.

Can you feel the wind carrying you?

Before the fences, the sky seemed so much larger.

Come back.

Saturday’s crowds swirl noisily, tasks to be done, lists to be completed. They break around each other like self-considered waves and rocks. The street vendor’s cart announces sherbets, pictures of satisfied faces making the exchange clear. An older couple approaches, the man ordering for both while her hand waits, raised like a well-mannered but eager child’s on a market trip. The couple walks on, she with an arm through his, savoring the routine, repeated moment with teeth and tongues. Familiarity breeds contentment: Two cones, two scoops each, bright lemon and lime paired and glistening.

I sat at the top of a mountain looking outward toward the horizon,
Grey clouds were gathering in the distance,
A storm was brewing,
The storm was too far away to be concerned with,
So I went about my business as normal,
I looked out again after days have past,
The storm was growing nearer and larger by the day,
Still too far to worry about,
I continued about my usual day,
Time past and i forgot about the storm,
Figured it would pass over affecting nothing,
I was wrong,
The day the storm hit my life on that mountain was over,
As I was knocked from the summit into the deepest valley

Sometimes
coming together is
so harsh and quick
your life crumbles
under the force of it.
And you sift through
the broken pieces,
the sharp shards
under your feet,
until you finally find
the unbreakable,
crystalline center
of you.

I awakened this morning and
typed out my dream before
I had a chance to forget but
my glasses were nowhere nearby so
I can barely make out the words. 

I remember waves clawing
at the living room floor from
the outside in, dissolving
whatever silty sandy tile it was
made of, so that there was 
a little less room to stand 
moment by moment,
with each pulse of tide.

Growing life to love is one of my favorites.

I like watching them grow,
then to harvest,
then to eat.

Gardens are beautiful though they are not
as beautiful as my darling
puppy. Wicket is his name.

I planted him in
Ohio and brought him back
to Kentucky. He still grows on and on
even if he is far away from his home.

He does not ever reject a treat or snuggles.
But he does not like water (on him not in him). 
He has an adorable bark. I wrote this poem when he was beside me, wet.

He is my special plant. 
I call it “Wicket Caramel Fluff Ball.”
I pick him every day.

He would fall asleep in my lap
then I would put him in his crate
then I would go to bed and the fun
of the day would fall to the silent night.