Posts for June 5, 2022 (page 5)

Make sure you eat a good breakfast
Sharpen your pencils before class starts
Keep track of your assignments in your planner
Eat plenty of fruits and veggies 
Raise your hand if you need anything 
You may use one quiet fidget at your desk
Inside voices 
Take turns 
Share
If you hear gunshots get under your desk
The leg of the time-out chair can be wedged into the door to jam it so the shooter can’t get in 
Always run in a zig zag, practice this at recess
Play dead if the shooter enters your classroom
If a classmate is shot, use their blood to make it more realistic 
Keep track of your math assignments, the more you fall behind, the harder it is to catch up
Run if you can
Hide if you have to
Fight if it is your only option
Make sure to write your name on all of your assignments
Stay very, very quiet
Come home alive

A roly-poly runs across
a burning log in our fire pit.

My son tries to save it,

his fingers not quite quick
enough on the scorching log.

The bug darting to its death to evade him.

I sit on on my stump watching as
shadows drape over our yard,

sun sinking behind the hills,

a gasp escapes his lips in the
glimmer of light left just on his face.

It all boils down to the nightie.
To an image seared in my mind,
implanted by your cackle & self-deprecating glee.
Because – I wasn’t there.
Oh, no.
I mean, thank god, I wasn’t there.
That’s a memory for lovers.
But, in my mind,
I
see
you
running.
Bare feet hitting the soft sandy earth.
Legs baby-free in the pitch-black breeze.
Dad running after you, same bare feet, same baby legs.
And the frogs.
Lord in heaven, the frogs!
I can hear their merciless chirping.
The relentless symphony swelling in late night air
as you force the crescendo,
each frog exiting.
<thump thump thump> of your feet.
From pond – to the woods.
From pond – to the woods.
And, clear as a bell, your laughter rings.
One frog at a time.
In nothing but a nightie.
And, oh how you loved him!    

In memory of Kathryn Withenbury

I followed the winding thread of sleep,
waded through the inky depths of hazy fatigue,
never finding its fabled end.
The foggy black of my lidded eyes
never dissolved to reveal my untamed dreams.

Perhaps the unspoken poetry 
tapping its beak against my caged skull
kept me awake,
pacing my wandering mind,
waiting to unfurl its word-scrawled wings
and soar into the boundless page.

Like covers me with deep brown emeralds
and ties down my leaves
to wait for a new spring 

My bright yellow flowers 
bruised brown by rain
rot in the rusty ground

Rubber bands anchor my throat
and stifle my doomed soul
to germinate a nice clean dead
for a new spring’s lusty garden

shove soap down my throat to teach me a lesson
like you used to do with your fingers 
when i was your good girl

That first morning,
She put on her blue linen dress,
The one with the big pockets,
And she walked,
Picking up shells.

Occasionally, glancing back
To the hotel
Where the brand new husband
She did not love
Slept snoring.

She promised herself,
When her pockets were full,
She’d return.
And she did.

Each day,
She walked.
Each day,
She picked up fewer shells
Along the way,
Giving herself permission
To cover more sand,
Leaving the hotel and husband,
Further in the distance.

On the final day
Of her honeymoon, 
She did not pocket
A single carapace.
She simply walked.
Walked,
Until the hotel and husband
Were out of sight,
Out of mind,
Out of heart.

She walked,
Until the island ended.
And kept walking,
Down the shore,
Past the waves,
And straight into the ocean.

To feel 6 years old again,

Swimming under the pontoon

Like we’re spies planning a sneak attack

Wrapped in a towel at sunset

Exhausted but knowing I just had the best day ever,

No priorities, no worries

Promising friends, cold drinks

Snack foods and bare skin

The hot sun and waving at passing boats