does it still count
i need this.
let me count the ways.
i collect compliments like acorns.
i can’t find them when i need them.
i need this.
let me count the ways.
i collect compliments like acorns.
i can’t find them when i need them.
II.
III.
IV.
“The wave returns to the ocean, where it came from and where it’s supposed to be.” – Chidi Anagonye, The Good Place
The waves, like us, are wanderlust.
See the glimmer in their crest? They yearn
for places they’ve never seen.
Restless, they ricochet
between shores, thrashing against Malibu
sands, tickling bare feet along Japanese coastlines,
carrying mackerel to Cape penguins, and lifting surfers
toward equatorial sun. Wherever they go, the waves
ferry souvenirs from their travels, carrying silt
and seashells and messages from far away.
It seems they could go on like this forever…
Yet the world is only so vast, and someday
they’ve seen it all, so when their voyage
is through, where do they rest? On and on they flow,
soaring across saltwater expanse, rolling ever onward
’til they reach world’s end and spill over Earth’s edge
into oceans of endless sky.
Soon all that’s left of the waves are the sunlight sparkles
that shine like stardust, lighting
our dark nights to guide us toward
places we’ve never seen.
Sometimes, often really,
I can’t remember not being
a mother. Who was I?
I know I had similar views
of the world, what matters,
what I wanted to be.
Compared to being a mother,
my dreams were small,
somewhat shallow.
My world expanded four
times its original size.
My vision, all my senses
intensified with each
daughter who came
through me.
I am more because you
created me, the one
you call mother.
KW
6/27/24
Can I ask you this: Imagine you
are not you now,
but instead you bloom
like algae
in the cool flow
of a gentle river. Its steady current
ovals and ebbs, snakes
through the limestone and silica
like it has for
so long.
In this ephemera, you feel
sun,
its true bronze-gold
sweetness: the fresh
river air like a forgotten
memory–
let it encapsulate you
and ride this river,
be algae,
home as far as some distant ocean
home itself
of many rivers,
where you live as far away as this feeling.
Let me me ask
and take you there.
I heard this man
We’ll throw those stones when we get to it…
Pelting like rain coinciding with gentle ceiling fan hum.
The ache of October rattling deep with each spasm.
Mercy is not in a mercenary’s vocabulary.
Throbbing is greater than or equal to the rotting of teeth.
Brilliance as a result of intensity
In the hurt where chemistry doesn’t add up,
The missed numbers will haunt someone.
Gentle quartets play chronic
Devotees, even when it kills them
The marrow dripping out their bones
and onto the dark oak bookcase.
The scalp is where the value is held
the identifier.
Old ads posted when the plains were still great
So naturally that is the start of the suffering.
It’s the bitter taste
that lies on the surface
of the unknowns that
wrestle behind fear
It’s the truth that waits
while you try to sleep
when you need morning to come
its the vision that you created
on a timeline that’ll never change
as long as you’re not happy
allowing joy to be stolen
by make believe grief
it’s that old bad so-called friend
that you can’t quiet close the door on
no matter how hard you try
for me to watch and to listen
to any of it tonight
would’ve been to
abandon myself
completely
I can no longer afford
to beg for love
from thieves
White fan flowing air
a grey cat meows in my ear
you giggle and laugh
soft lamp light over me
a quilt pulled up to my chest
tomorrow comes soon
we sit with our phones
weaving our wonder and love
audible with taps
grey cat makes biscuits
and you ask is it her love
the black cat now joins
all four of us here
meows, purrs, taps, giggles and laughs
it is all our love
