I read your inner thoughts
and remain unimpressed
like tin under halted hydraulics.
Pure poetry put in play
exists in the shade of flowers—
behind beauty
lies the bed of chaos
like a necrotic dowry.
You, there, in rose-tinted glasses
make narrow passes
on by—
biases as astigmatic
and yet astrophotography
could not scope
the tiny filaments
in desolate abysses
I plant my roots in
Jenny used to take the cows in
to the concrete block milking house,
its whitewashed walls now paneled off.
She took them into her arms there
in the dark. Together, they expressed
a labor I will never know–sometimes
in drowning bands of rain, in frost that cut.
I think of her as I lean over the arm
of my inherited sofa–expressing ill.
So little I have now is my own
except this pain in my leg, my belly:
a poison place I give to you again.
It threatens to crest forth–
bellows out to you, even now.
I don’t remember when she moved in,
and swallowed parts of me,
I won’t ever see again.
She knows me better,
than all the others.
When I fear something,
she shoots at it,
making sure,
I survive another day.
My navy admiral she is,
leading me safely,
through the roughest waters.
Still, I drown.
In the parts of me she slaugthered,
she stole my ability to rest.
I’m not who I used to be anymore,
and I will never return to shore.
Remembering who I was.
The old me is dead.
Fragile labeled boxes,
responsibility labels
on top of alcohol bottles.
We label the material
to take care of it and ourselves,
but we forget to label
the most important thing,
the hearts we wear precariously
on our sleeves.
We do this out of an essential need
to avoid autophobic nightmares
and incur welcoming dreams
of belonging, of acceptance,
of possibilities endless,
of being acknowledged for who we are
but sometimes this ends us up
with ugly scars.
Why are we not born
with cautionary labels
alerting people to treat us
with gentle love and care
instead of shoving and baring
angry teeth, mauling us down
until we are incomplete.
No wonder mothers would leave their daughters
in the woods with wild bears
than leave them with your “tender love and care”
because they would at least take care as they feast
but you mistreat and eat and eat and eat
even when the word “stop” is on repeat.
In the end, bears would not leave anything to clean
they, at least, eat all the flesh
but you leave them an irreparable mess
to pick up the pieces on their own
and find a new place
for their heart to call home.
All my childhood a typed list
of important phone numbers
lived next to the beige phone
attached to the hallway wall.
Friends and neighbors’ names
beside five digit numbers (family nine)
Separate numbers for fire and
ambulance and poison control.
Today’s phone always in reach
lists contacts by name and often image
the algorithm declares importance
with frequency and recency bias
My favorites are Noah…Tod…Mom
and most frequent is Melini Cucina
Fighting for top billing with co-workers.
That sounds about right.
We recently received an alert that our local 9-11 service was down. It was down almost 24 hours. I was not worried as I have a magnet on my refrigerator left over from my reporter days with a direct number for the local police. But I am just a little worried given the state of the world that I do not have the number for poison control.
On days like today,
it doesn’t come easy.
The poetry lodges itself
somewhere inside me
and refuses to come out.
There are emotions
strong and deep
but no words
worthy of them.
There are days that the poetry
flows like water from a tap,
like wine from Jesus’s fingertips,
like lies from a politician’s mouth.
Smooth and quick.
There are days
when I write one line
and the next line comes to me
and the next
and the next
in a flash,
all born from a worthy title.
And then there’s today.
All the fear
and the sadness
and the anxiety
and the joy
and the comedy.
And I can’t capture it all
in just a few stanzas.
There are days I can
write a poem at will
from nothing.
And then there are days
when I have poked the darkness too much,
when I have taken my time machine
too far back into the past.
And nothing can describe that.
Poetry is my friend,
my comfort,
my partner,
my lover.
But she doesn’t always come easy.
every time I brake at stop sign,
smile that I do not listen
to your advice to roll through
because who rolls through
but you, which makes you
exactly who I love, reminding
me of who I once was when
we joined arms freshman year,
lab partners in Biology turned
to life-long friendship and isn’t
it the one who knew you then
knows you best? Does anyone
ever change that much, despite
our best efforts to grow, learn,
shift, mature? It’s true, laughing
together now, evidence some
things never change, even as I
step on the brake.
There are spaces of sorrow only god can touch.
Sister Helen Prejean
After a 10-year hiatus of the death penalty, execution returned to the United States in 1977 when Gary Gilmore died by firing squad in Utah. The Gilmore firing squad consisted of five volunteers. One of these five received a rifle with a blank cartridge; thus, all five members of the volunteer squad returned to their lives guilt free.
Historical forms of execution include crucifixion, drowning, beating to death, impalement, boiling, burning at the stake, hanging, beheading, drawing and quartering, stoning, gassing, the electric chair, and lethal injection.
Today, lethal injection is considered the most humane form of execution. The fatal injection is administered after a sedative and and a paralyzing agent. For ethical reasons, a physican does not participate; however, following medical procedures, the injection site is sterilized.
1589 executions have been carried out in the United States since the moratorium was lifted.
1 of 8 members of death row have been exonerated since 1973, largely because of misidentification or false confession.
Witnesses are notoriously unreliable. False confession is easily coerced.
Even Patrick Sonnier had a mother who loved him.
Empty room
empty desks
empty chairs
empty air
Empty after all this time together
empty after all the questions
empty after all the answers
empty after all the laughter
Empty because it’s time to make room
empty because it’s time for someone else to be here
empty because it’s time to go forward
empty because it’s time whispering messages in bloom
Empty because you filled it all
empty because you built it
empty because you dismantled it
empty because you knew the weight was too much to haul
Grow your own forgiveness garden,
Water it with kindness,
Feed it with love,
Allow courageous holy water tears to flow
sweetly on the earth
Smile in the faces of sun flowers,
Caress the gentle sheep’s ears,
Protect the treasure of integrity with bosoms
of basilica bouquets
Grow your own liberation,
Break free of somber shackles,
Harbor naught treachery and deception,
Wave your flag of caterpillars
Mold your clay of butterflies
Toot your horn of freedom
Shake hands with the roots that ground thy wings
Grow your own forgiveness garden,
Fertilize it with the pain they thought you deserved,
Pick the fruit
Squeeze the flowers
This is a sweet spiritual harvest
Home at last Home at last
in the Garden of Forgiveness
