Orientation
parents carry gift bags into the dining hall
and discuss enhanced menu options
while their children play games at campus sites
in my alcove I ponder ways my students can translate
their cultural capital into an honest paycheck
parents carry gift bags into the dining hall
and discuss enhanced menu options
while their children play games at campus sites
in my alcove I ponder ways my students can translate
their cultural capital into an honest paycheck
Sometimes I’m surprised at how soft my skin is
running my fingers across gray puffs under my eyes
Feeling against my chest, my heart thumping
too fast for my small figure because of my addiction
to caffeine. My jeans don’t really fall the
baggy way they should around my thighs i
filled with sugar. My hands brush against
raised skin, scars from times I bled.
I thank this loving machine that never gave up on me, even with
the amount of times I kicked it to the curb.
I watched the paraplegic move on so easily
morphing into the lion so seamlessly,
Idk what the meaning of these black and white dreams may be
in Japanese with subtitles placed underneath the speaker conveniently
in iambic pentameter with the syllables highlighted and spread out evenly
words with same pronunciation but different meanings and spellings shown frequently juxtaposed with both images so obscenely
and me dreaming I’m someone else watching me recently
My 11 year old is angry
They have a righteous anger that
Spits and weeps accusations
As it simmers beneath the surface.
Why wasn’t God there to save them
Or to change him?
All the times they prayed for help
When Daddy became demon?
My 11 year old is angry with God —
Prematurely and unnecessarily subjected
To lack of morality and consistent lapses in compassion
From those they need to trust most
Their tear-stained anger refuses communion
And occasionally eschews communities
Of people that speak too much of God’s love and power.
I mute my own tears and clenched teeth
In order to whisper that God is who
Whispered to them, giving them strength to stand up for truth and protection,
Provided and strengthened those of us who would become their safety net.
And also that I know it’s sometimes impossible to understand
How an all-knowing, all-powerful, all-loving God.
Doesn’t rescue a sincere supplicant from pain.
My 16 year old is angry
They have a righteous anger that
Spews at the news of liberties twisted
As despair simmers beneath the surface.
Why isn’t God there to save them
From proxies who won’t approximate care?
All the times they pray for respect
To grow fully into their own skin?
My 16 year old is angry with God
Prematurely and unnecessarily subjected
To false morality and consistent lapses in compassion
From those who wield power to erase their safety.
Their self-advocating anger refuses to be eschewed
And occasionally confronts communities
Of people who imply a certain smallness to God’s love and power.
It ties knots in my stomach
fuels the fire of my own belly anger
Against those who would
Repeatedly suggest that what’s true is wrong if it discomforts an adult,
That God is disappointed and angry
when one of His precious ones wrestles out from under
the bushel that was thrown carelessly over their light.
My child is angry
And has every right to be.
I can’t imagine that God is angry with them.
And I can’t imagine that God isn’t angry WITH them.
she needs a full sixty minutes
but only begins to relax
and let go after forty
her mind holds her back–
refusing to let go–
the harder she tries,
the further away it is
she is always lady-like
and proper,
even lying naked,
trying to be receptive
the session feels like
hard work for a time,
but i won’t give up–
i will keep rubbing
Miss Cleé Doris
until she yields up
all her pent up tension
then, she will dress
and return to her
daily routine, the
tension increasing
day by day
until her next appointment.
This is a penguin. He stands atop a graveyard of bones.
It’s pleasing to attach to the black. To the white,
a relief. This penguin wears a mask to hide his shame.
In the air, a piercing chill. Nothing can be forgiven in an
icebox of memory. His father and his father’s father
at his feet. The composition descending into blame.
In the notes it says: write about the dead bird.
The point of a beak buried in an attic mattress.
Feathers still, oiled. Like a painting of the same.
Hard little lines of truth form here, from which
a penguin would dare not stray. The metal supports
of a deranged umbrella. This penguin knows the game.
Now the dead bird begins his speech, entrenched
in coat and matching tie, as shadows pool on
fact-drawn maps and swiftly stake their claim.
This penguin is the dead bird now. He’s swallowed
whole his attaché, looking down the loaded barrel of
who is right as our lives spin backwards in the drain.
(after William Steig’s Spiteful little man | About People, 1939)
Summer’s morning heat comes sneaking
through the screen, kicking the AC on.
I move toward the pane while my
young cat, previously disinterested
in wind and sun and birds and bugs,
comes running too late at the sound
of a closing window. Sometimes
I think he is mostly human,
especially when he wants something
only because he can’t have it.
I found nirvana on the air conditioned
pickle ball courts along with a woman
playing with a portable oxygen tank
and a finger oxygen meter. Same church
where I saw a comfort dog in a stroller
wheeled into Sunday morning worship.
You can choose a Sunday School class
on “Creating with Color,” or take
a Zoom class with the minister
on the work of C.S. Lewis, or join
a book group where you’re divided
into groups of 6 in separate rooms
for better discussions. There are options
for Zumba, yoga, volleyball, grief counseling,
couples counseling and tango lessons.
It’s a place of meeting the human condition
where it is.
