this poem sounds like
it was written in a hurry
and there’s no room to dig for
all the thoughts you’ve buried
the hopes you’ve pushed down
the dreams deferred
the thoughts that stay trapped
when you can’t find words
have patience and faith
it will eventually end
writer’s block is temporary
you will be all right
Again
It [language] is the most compulsively collective, genetically programmed, species-specific, and autonomic of all the things we do, and we are infallible at it.–Lewis Thomas, Lives of a Cell
Bees trend in titles
drift from pages of bestsellers–
shuttling messages to the dead
vibrating in veins like magic–
we hum with them
collectively aware
of their importance to survival
we feign to preserve them
as kitsch we cricut on shirts
camouflaging our own fragility–
even the dumb
too distracted to collect words
like grass catches dew
can wear a bee on their chest
Sometimes bounty is forgotten.
The way words seep and escape
in a haze, our mundane self
is stripped, carrying the weight
of the unknown, or of another time.
Our vital being, like foam nutrients
of our hearts, flows downstream,
thoughts obscure from what’s real.
Lift your boots over the steep places.
Bathe your mind in rich, thick loam
and pungent weeds. Gaze at the leafless
Ohia, barren bark, yet standing tall,
still rooted.
one of the reasons
I love you
is how you apologized
to a dying plant
fifty percent off
at Lowe’s
like a rescue pet
that we couldn’t
take home
a slipstream of thoughts caught
with me in my car
passing two major accidents
a rainstorm
and a drop of thirty degrees
semi’s “super seal doors” simply state
open & close together
I jot a scatter of notes for another day
We combed through flowers
You wanted to surprise me
With a new one or two
I made my way to the clearance section
Hopeful I can take them home
Give them a name
Breathe new life into them
So they won’t return to
The Death Valley from
Which I tried to save them
I apologized to the others
I had to leave behind
An ode the withering others
Probably begging me with
Their droopy photoreceptors
“I’ll get you next time, if you’re still here “
I whisper to them all
Petting their leaves
As I head for home
With their perennial siblings instead.
Driving home feeling full,
Hopeful… yet slightly..guilty
For leaving the others behind
Only a true flower lovers heart
Will understand the weight
that guilt can carry.
I had a dream today
About you
Surprised?
Me too
I haven’t thought
About you
In years
I was at a surprise party
For someone
I don’t know who
And then you walked in
With your familiar
But subtle swagger
We exchanged pleasantries
And I wondered why
You were there
Just as I opened my mouth
To ask
I woke up
And now here you are
Odd, isn’t it?
What do you think
It means?
And as you open your mouth
To answer
I woke up again
This is a hymn of praise.
a pool of sunlight shining on our round table-
my grandparents used it for at least sixty-four years
clear water in the glass vase of grocery store flowers
this handsome stray back from the deep forest again, ready for breakfast-
his tail matted with burrs
tiny wild strawberries-
jewels in moss against the Christ statue
his prayer garden- tended once or twice a year-
it’s better forgotten and doesn’t neglect itself
quiet of this day reaching forward into evening-
today I am loved but not needed
floors cleaned, bread sliced-
my only work is to notice and to notice and to notice
Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.
