Posts for June 19, 2022 (page 5)

Before she left, I had hoped
she would reach out just one more time
in an attempt at forgiveness and healing
from the cataclysmic way our hearts collided,
a conversation that could only start with her,
else how would I know she was ready?
But when she stayed silent, I knew–prayed–
only an act of God could bring us together again.

Then the tornadoes hit.

Half a year away, she was the only person
who remembered my family out in western Kentucky
and had a mirage of love to break a two year silence.
Warmed, I embraced the opportunity to share
how the tornado aimed at my parents
pulled up at the county line,
simple random chance at play, for sure,
but easily attributed to blessings from God.

So what does true healing and forgiveness look like?

As with all mirages, the hope is sharp but fleeting,
bisecting the belief that I might just be saved
from sins so easily fallen into when rejection
crosses into the realm shattered self-esteem.
It’s wrong to weaponize such worthlessness,
to try to bring another down to my new low,
especially when they might already be there.
She simply dismissed my attempt at more meaningful conversation.

Now how does one know when they’re truly over such tragedies?

Two years I prayed for a chance at redemption.
Two years only delivered more sins. 
There may be something to what God is saying to her,
how showing forgiveness can eliminate the shame of another
but I’ve followed Him into the storm for the final time.
Who is to blame for such a mess of human motivation?
I can’t care. I’ve used too much empathy trying to save
a world nobody seems to want to make any better.

She swears like a sailor
at least in her head.
She can’t cuss in front of the kids.

She always has hand sanitizer,
sunscreen, money, 
and a thousand giftcards in her purse.

She sits and watches the fights go down,
sipping her tea,
silently filming.

Dubbed “the mom friend”
at the ripe age of thirteen
she now knows she’s more of a wine mom.

Not old enough to drink
but old enough to
take care of everyone

and call herself selfish for 
asking to be taken care of.
But at least she knows better now.

Eight thousand voices
united in youthful hymns to
diverse unity.

I’m the captain 
of the silence police. 

It’s a silly job that 
I take quite seriously. 

Not so seriously as to
grow a mustache. 

Just enough to write 
a citation to the dog 

for squirrel barking 
(pretending I know how 

to spell squirrel on my 
oversized, official silence 

police notepad.) And just 
enough to give the preteen 

a warning for the noise
violation coming from 

the speakers in her room.
Excuse me, Miss! You need 

to slow down! Step over 
to the couch with your pillow, 

you need to rest. Trust 
you’ll be well-protected

from any minor 
disturbances. 

I don’t often
Write poetry 
About you

My poems 
Are beautiful
Words
That waltz 
Through my 
Soul

And

You never
Danced 
With me 

Old computer struggles, no longer updates, ransom-hostages files.

It’s Father’s Day,
Mama, it’s you I’m thinking of today.
Sitting here eating fried catfish and fried eggs,

At your table,
Seated in your chair.
Looking out your window,
Memories of you swirl in my head. 

I miss your phone calls.
I miss your inspirational handwritten notes.
I miss your cheerleader spirit of support.

But most of all,
I miss your hugs,
Your smile,
Your voice, and
Your kiss. 

Wow, how the memories of you flood my mind,
Sipping tea from your mug,
Seated in your chair,
At your table,
Looking out your window,
On Father’s Day. 

I Love you, mom.   

Mortise is the compliment
to tenon.  The two form one
of the oldest ways to join wood.

We used to call the mortise
the female part.
How uncouth we carpenters.

Is it acceptable to say,
this day in age, that 
when the tenon’s fit is tight

inside the mortise cheeks,
glue squirts recklessly
as the joint is hammered
home?

A union of tree fibers
fused seamlessly,
and strong.

Dear Alice,

When do you plan to visit me?

Night Vision

My father taught me to see in the dark 
on winter nights, on country roads.
We walked beyond the headlights and the streetlights 
to where the fields slept under an empty sky.
He’d stop, and I would stand with stinging cheeks.
“There, you see?” he’d say.
I looked with my city eyes, and saw nothing.

“There.” He’d point.
I’d follow his finger and stare until shadow
upon shadow took shape and pattern.

“Listen.” 
My eyes would follow a snap, a rustle, 
an icy crunch—I’d spy blackness
moving against mere dark.

“There,” he’d say again, and finally,
I would see.
Streak of deer, drumming woodcock,
lumbering raccoon,
swiftly sliding fox.

“You see?” he’d say, and I did.
I saw that the sleeping fields were full of life.
I  learned that night is never black, never still.
I learned that to see, you must know how to look.

My father taught me to see in the dark.