Posts for June 1, 2021


Storm Warning

Wintry precipitation
Freezing rain –  dropping temperatures
Dripping water forming ice around cold surfaces
      Solid and clear – transparent
Every limb, branch, twig and bud is surrounded
      Encased in ICE –
             and adorned with crystalline icicles that sparkle
             when lit by street lights and sunlight
      Behold the beauty of this winter wonderland!
             Beautiful – but oh, the weight of the beauty        
      Small branches bearing the weight display their
             tapered crystal pendants
      But there is a cost to this frigid beauty
             as the weight of accumujlating ice
                   becomes a burden
Limbs and branches  begin to 
                   Snap  –  break   –    fall
                                landing with a THUD!
        Other limbs bend low – bowing under the weight               
                 until the burden is too great
When bending and bowing were not enough
        The tree is UPROOTED! – It’s foundation is pulled up!
        The extracted rootsystem is EXPOSED for all to see

The sight of the exposed roots caused me to ponder
        how human beings, like trees,
               bend and bow under the weight of icy words
                    until they snap and break under the weight
                        of criticism and unkind words

As for the words of the offender whose icy words are intnetionally
            used to intimidate, offend and belittle others
               do they not accumulate until the frigid weight and
                   beauty of transparancy surround the offender?   
                                 Once uprooted and exposed 
                               icy words melt away forming only
                            crystal pendants that shimmer in the light



I Come Back

to the house we once lived in together.

The sun is descending— flaming ruby
squeezed and pressed
between sapphire-black
nimbostratus and stretch of tidal river

seam of white daylight refracts to walls
stripped of color and breath

except the guest room where my belongings live.

A framed print, like the one my grandfather owned,
hangs on the wall above my father’s chair:

A young woman, head and shoulder bent,
dark hair, thick braided down her back waits
half-ashore in a water-unworthy wooden boat.

She is weary:
from work
from heartache
from hopeful waiting.

I forgot how stark and sterile the house we once lived in is.


warm up: haiku

I’m trying harder 
this time and every day;
forward together



I have become who I am meant to be.

Yet because I am here I am not me.

The weight of thoughts, the gravity with which they flow from my heart, downward to a place at my core that cannot be ignored.

The truth centers, and at the crossroads,

I pray for grace.



You fought to leave that hospital,
but in the last hour you were calm;
you saw something beautiful in the air,
and “stitched” us something in your lap,
handing us the “threads” with a face of wonder.

Once home, we covered you with a pretty quilt,
not one of your own precise creations, but
a treasure won at a church auction.

Multi-patterned blocks with
a single tie each,machine sewn,
thick, colorful, homey. 

Your vision long since faded,
the bright simplicity had spoken to you.

We tried to surround you with peace
as we each held a hand
that could no longer squeeze or sew,
as we sang and cried and smoothed your shroud
as neighbors poured in, and your son wept in the kitchen.

I told myself I would remember
how every square laid together, 
every fold as it covered your small form,
the way your head lay on the pillow.

It has only been two weeks
but I can only recall that there was a blanket
and you, and my sister, and me.


Salted Fish Bones and American Water

Jesus in a runaway shelter 
projecting outward
like everything
(let the mirror express the room)
pooling words, pile by the back door,
Life is full of clues to crosswords
so dance with eels and silver jews.

The neighbors I’m surrounded by are gems,
they are the treasure I seek.
My roommates are a nest of
hidden duck eggs. 
Our house has 7 names: Swan Pond

Velvet Train Ride 
 House of 7 names
   Jaguar Reef 
Jupiter and Jupiter 
                                        Mockingbird Manor

My Darling
His overalls twisted,
the sides are open windows
Stimulus money pours in through the tax returns,
Liberty! Liberty!
at least, for some.

Slippery creek rocks
fallen shrubs, cut grass,
the sky sprinkles us
with crusts of cloud
Everything shimmers like a freshly penned word

There is no greater game than Trust.
There is a no more satiating victory 
than losing one’s self 
to muses.

I’ve heard that having children is an admission of hope
admitting hope is pretty lame these days…
when an artist chooses to reveal their work
an earthquake shakes the earth,
the heavens and stars tremble.

Easy grip the shaggy hair,
the elusive bigfoot 
of your dreams.
Give birth to the egg of ideas
that lay forming there
in the sacred, encircling darkness.
What more seeps in through the sunshine 
or infests your long blanketed sleep
or dances through improvised songs 
one with the birds, the train whistle, the cock’s crowing,
the dawn’s Ultramarine.

Like the fire, we transmute all
through observing our own screen
and noting the shadow’s outline.


You Will Know Her Name

One day, the storm you stirred—

this swelling tempest — will rise

with a fierce wind and a solid purpose-

To remind you of the damage

Caused by your careless breach

into nature’s protected lair.

And when the hail rains down,

And the winds roar—

And the lightening strikes your heart-

You will remember her.

Others will ask, who is this beautiful force?

What shall we call this tragic, yet breathtaking storm?

And you, you will know her name.


As you watch your home –swallowed–

In her mouth, in the abyss of Mother nature’s fury,

Blackened skies will rage—

And the thunder will pound in your chest,

and by the earth shattering vibrations,

you will know that she has returned for you.

You will remember her as she once was,

gentle and kind–

And You will know her name—

the name of this storm

sweeping you away

to the deep, dark, unforgiving sea. 


Puke and pondering

sopping up the liquidy
splooge surrounding my sons
undigested shells with sauce
and scraping half-chewed
blueberries into the bin

got me to wonder

is purging the past
four hundred plus days
wiping clean our filth
waking to start fresh
a tiny smidge possible



you don’t see it much anymore:
fifth in line, waiting to return
a wireless router for my brother

(which took, I might add, asking him
thrice, followed by my mother’s emplore,
his half-hearted excuse to “enjoy the drive,”
asking once more going out the door, an
“are you sure it’s not too much trouble?”, and
an affirmative in the negative)

we wait our turn, to speak, to resolve
the sundry nonissues that brought us in today–
I’ve taken, ironically enough,
to disconnecting from my phone in these moments, a silent,
futile, ignobile, half-hearted rebellion, on my best days–

and it’s here I watch, impatient,
in the mask-filtered distant air an
“are you in line for the digital bill pay?”
-“no, go ahead”
“okay thank you”
-“oh you can do that? how?”
“here let me show you”

human interaction, kindness,
a dance delayed, but not dead yet


june 1 part 3

june 1 part 3


we sit on the couch

watching a movie we’ve all seen before

because there’s comfort in the familiar

and i jokingly tuck them in

under blankets on the couch

and order sunflower milk ice cream

and we do these things because they make us happy.


there’s something about the first day

of a new anything

that makes you want to change.

i’ve always envied the freedom

of a fresh start

but i think that this time,

this summer,

june 1 isn’t about being someone different.

maybe this time

june 1 is just may 32

and the things we love

don’t have to change

when they make us this happy.