What I Think About After the Summer Solstice Tanka
What if I can’t talk
about pink white cosmos pe-
tals round, yellow dot?
My silver bucket planter
overflows–Surprises–everyday.
What if I can’t talk
about pink white cosmos pe-
tals round, yellow dot?
My silver bucket planter
overflows–Surprises–everyday.
An old friend materializes like a forest fairy,
Will I ever stop being afraid of you?
I set a small boundary
and refuse to answer your question.
Your rage bubbles up out of nowhere.
You utter a bitter “fuck”
even though you hate that word.
You interrogate me.
You try to shame me.
I have spent my life
afraid of your anger,
living small
to avoid your wrath.
Many are the times
I have wanted to
kill myself
after a guilt tripping lecture
from you.
You have the power to destroy me
or, even worse,
make me destroy myself.
I used to think I’d be free
after your death.
But the nagging voice in my head
and the constant dread
of everything shattering
without warning,
those are forever.
I keep trying to
stop writing but the poems just
keep wandering in
like little kittens they come
wide-eyed, imprisoning me
This—the longest day of the year—is illusion.
Listen to me: Longevity is a lie.
We have–
only–
now.
The entire planet turns its face,
like a sunflower, like the creeping
vines of buttercups, artic poppies,
ranunculus adoneus
to a sun that is unwavering–
relentless–in its fiery
affection,
meanwhile,
we are wilting, melting,
wasting
away to
nothing.
If Three A.M. is the hour
of writers, painters,
poets, musicians,
silence seekers,
overthinkers,
creatives,
then light comes,
only, in our
darkness.
can that be said of a poem as well
on a day when too many demands and all those things that could go wrong
go wrong do you sit down and write the poem that speaks about anger frustration
tears welling up behind eyelids throat clenched holding back the SO DONE
oh wow!
I just rememebered! I am alive!
These simple silly ‘first world’ problems no problem at all!
rescope the lens through which your gaze has narrowed pan out and see the picture that is so broad so rich so much more right and real at the end of the day
100% of every life ends
so
oh wow! I grin I giggle I slap myself on the back with the tomfoolery of it all
write the poem about revelation
speak of things that can change in a heartbeat
get on with living in this body
in this space called home
on this planet that offers up its bounty to the likes of us
me
with so much grit and tenacity
all of a sudden feel the weights drop
let fingers trip over keyboard
I get to we get to you get to so there
a poem about good news
when all there was just a moment ago
armageddon
My early morning
cough echoes through
our home like a
warning call.
You say the ruckus
don’t bother you none.
Neither does my
moanin’ and groanin’
or my raccoon eyes
or my haystack hair
or my last night’s
dinner breath.
Your earnestness is
an exercise in the
patience I lack.
Your lovin’ is
spackle in the
holes in my wall.
Your forfeiture of
anger and aggravation
in the face of my
reckless mouth
startles the worst parts
of me into submission.
I wish I could say I wouldn’t,
but I’ll always be a
red hot, fists flyin’
son of a bitch.
Thank God it
don’t bother you none.
The season of my life when carpool lines and spirit cards
Mommy Mommy Mommy interjects overfilled calendar
bedtime stories and kisses my Participation Trophy
