Posts for June 9, 2025 (page 5)

I want to be a mother, I think.
I have picked out names
like Frances
and Arlo
and Indiana
and June.
I want to be a mother, but I think
my wants have been stolen.
I yell names into the wind
to remind myself of
my could’ve beens.

I’ll end up a martyr instead.
I have picked out names
like Hind
and Trayvon
and Anadith
and Ronnie.
I’ll yell their names into the wind
to remind myself that
I will bring no more children into this fight
and I will bow for no kings
that allowed the taking of
their should’ve beens.

Vacuuming the furnace—
Likely no one’s favorite
Chore, but at least
You know why
it needs to be done.

i am afraid to cut off sentences

and the tails of my yarn

as it feels like a killing, not just an ending;

Two old boys lit out to the lake
with pontoon hearts and a shared
chum bucket–two rods between them
on a little boat that listed left
then right. Each took an oar 
and paddled til their tendons ached
too much to fish–the sun threatening
high overhead–an inevitable 
burn.

They took turns blaming each other
when, let’s face it, they were both in control
of the direction the water took them. 

How many beers they guzzled before
the fall. And true, there were moments 
where one or the other stopped moving 
the boat at all. Who could blame the water
for moving its way south, like water does.

What can be saved from this listing ship?
Not much. Two old and bald-headed sinners
who’d been here before. The poles
and their hooks.

In a spite, one dumped the chum
into the lake just to watch the other’s eyes
bulge. He threw out the oars, too–left them
stranded–as he waved his buzzed hands
at the shore and the other dozed–
as he always seemed to–as if

it were all some foolish allegory
and not their lives, 
as if it were a simple
fishing trip. 

The orange day lilies
lining creek banks
will never know how much

I love them

or how I look to them for hope.
The way those bulbs washed
downstream and rooted

somewhere unprecedented,

so blooms emerge from
old tires, steep, rocky
juts in the bends, and are

dotted as far as I can see

in the twists and turns
where water rages after rains,
holding on tight.

I want to be like them.

Defiant and bright.
A beacon for anyone
who cares to notice.

Corroded dreams taste
of tungsten and ash.
Not broken, just burnt
by the heat and friction
of mundane details.
Each striking score
of match-flame bears names
like compounded interest
or power-of-attorney
or Jardiance.  

Most adult butterflies only live 2 weeks—
sculpted wings soft laughter at our cares.

Listen close, dear child tonight
This truth is meant for you
My voice will guide you in love and light
The prayer I cried came true

The world for me was without sound
The struggle tore me apart
All of that was turned around
By the rhythm of your beating heart

I dreamed you’d grow with steady feet,
With kindness in your stride,
That even strangers you would meet
Would feel God’s love inside.

As you learned to walk and talk
I watched with clarity
You light up rooms where hope was blocked,
Showing what love should be.

You help without a second thought,
You fight through every storm
The love you spread cannot be taught
God took His time and shaped your form.

Now you shine just like a star
With every swing of the bat
I bask in awe of who you are
I couldn’t be prouder of that.

Even other parents stop and say,
“There’s something about that boy.”
They see the light you give away,
The source behind your joy.

My son, if this is just the start,
What beauty lies ahead?
Your journey has touched so many hearts,
With every word you’ve said.

So I’ll keep praying as you grow,
it’s the truest place to start.
With every breath, I hope you know
My whole world lives inside your heart.

For years,

Like someone seeking answers,
you leaned in from the downpour
to utter just one question:
Did you drive here? You asked me.

(From the hotel, I assumed.)
No, I walked, I laughed, nervous.
I can’t forget your pained face.

Marvel—
At the Irony Man, Tony Snark.

A body of armor, a mind of wit—
He is sure to deliver a bit and a quip.

With missiles of mockery and lasers of jest,
He tackles the earnest with humor at best.

Sincerity is the enemy, a horrendous beast!
Defeated by sarcasm straight from his fist.

Thank you, Irony Man, for saving the day!
The plague of authenticity is kept away.