Posts for June 22, 2024 (page 9)

Random Tuesday
partially sunny
62 degrees
no particular plans,

but I wear the red dress,

the red dress that reveals
the red dress that doesn’t apologize
the red dress that magics my gray eyes to blue.

I wear the red dress shopping;
I buy avocados
and guess a stranger’s zodiac sign.

I wear the red dress hiking;
I wander the woods
and find a rock shaped like Kentucky.

I wear the red dress to a biker bar;
I order their best bourbon,
and kiss a much younger man
whose name I do not ask.

When I come home,
I don’t dare take it off.

I wear the red dress
as I make guacamole.

I wear the red dress
as I call my best friend.

I wear the red dress
as I dance alone, barefoot,
to “Just Like Heaven”
by The Cure.

Later, I wear the red dress
out into the night
to howl at the moon
and frighten my neighbors.

I only slip it off
and onto the hanger
so it will not wrinkle
as I sleep.

Again, tomorrow, I will
wear the red dress.

 words wing their way around the room.                  

    so graceful.  prophetic.  elegant in their honesty.

poems and stories touch paintings                  

    sculptures, photographs–our souls.

voices and vision joined tonight.  This We Believe                  

    names the art installation.  surrounds us.  

I believe the words lift us above Kentucky farms,                   

    to the center of mental illness, next to a child’s  fear.  

we laugh at a comedy script                   
    
    shiver hearing voices in a cemetery.  

five writers offer us their gifts.                                   

    we leave believing.                                        

Ask the Creative Unknown how it calls you. 

After getting an urgent phone call
jumping in my car and rushing to 
pick my son up and get him to 
the ER, I am waiting again

He is hurting badly, 
and my mama’s heart
is breaking for him, yet,
I am waiting again

After many tests and 
very compassionate
treatment and a psych eval,
I am waiting again

Waiting for the hospital 
to release him to go home,
he is physically feeling better,
yet, I am waiting again

Waiting for something that I
can’t force, although, I have
tried before, it doesn’t work
and here I am waiting again

A kind hospital employee pulled 
me aside and compassionately
told me that this is not my choice, 
it is only his, and I am waiting again

Waiting for him to be ready to 
change his life for the better
and leave the alcohol and drugs behind
but I AM waiting again

Waiting for what could be a tragic
phone call or home visit telling
me that it is too late, I am left
Waiting again

I know in my heart and mind
that only he can make this choice
and while I understand this, 
I am waiting again

Living my life knowing that
a part of me is in such dire
circumstances and danger, leaves me
Waiting again

This is not what I was hoping for 
my child’s future and it 
brings me so much pain to be
Waiting again

Waiting and praying and just
being here when he needs me,
each time being crushed
when I am left waiting again

The terrarium sits on the windowsill, a miniature jungle trapped in glass. Lush green grasses unfurl delicate fronds, their edges catching the sunlight like emerald lace. Chia carpets the base, a secret world hidden amongst the smooth pebbles.

With empathy

we begin to understand

the urgency for change

that charity begets kindness

With gratitude

and heightened awareness

redemption is possible

atonement necessary

With regret we acknowledge guilt

for all in proximity

and challenge

our belief system.

A collaborative poem from workshop on privilege

“it’s you and me against the world love,
I got your back”.

It’s funny,
how you made me,
your world.

being green 
I watch the moon 
blooming

sparkles
rising bewitched 
life is short 

They hammer nails in my head
and say: You’re having a vacation.  

The sooner I learn not to complain,
the sooner I arrive at my destination.

Toddler rests on daddy’s shoulder,
turns his head to view me
as a curiosity. They sit
and wait to be called in.
A sudden whiff of stale cigar
and the room fills with shadow
of a man large enough for two
chairs. He comes forward
with a trembling phone discussing 
cement, his hands are surprisingly 
soft and he ends his conversation
with details of his defective ticker.

In and out we come and go
for the pills
that will extend something
in the body politic of our lives.
The toddler toddles,
the cementer dawdles at the magazine 
rack full of old Golf Digests,
draws out The Winners Issue