I woke to darkness
thick as doubt—
a silence pierced
by the thunder
pounding in my skull.
Sweat soaked the sheets,
not from heat,
but from the panic
my body whispered
without words.
A pulse behind my eye,
pressure blooming
like something about to burst—
the kind of pain
that makes you count
each breath
just to be sure
it’s still there.
My hands, foreign.
My chest, tight.
A thousand thoughts,
none of them kind.
I lay still,
afraid to move
in case movement
meant goodbye.
But it passed.
Not the worst.
Not that.
Still, it left a bruise
on the edges of my peace—
a discomforting echo
that I am not immune
to the clocks
that stop mid-tick.
I wish God
would only speak through
sunrise or birdsong
instead of fear.
But would I listen
without the ache?
Would I slow down
without the scream?
It’s strange—
how the cold realization
that one day
I won’t wake at all
has sparked a new way
to open my eyes.
I’m not promised forever.
Not on Earth, anyway.
I’m promised a relocation.
That thought alone has
me seeking a new life.
A new beginning.
So I go,
like it might be
the start
instead of the end.
Her tail swishes back-and-forth as she grazes
on dark green spring grass. From time to time,
she sways her long neck from side to side,
sheares off chosen blades. Now she shakes
her head towards the sun, her caramel mane
lifts and falls. She hasn’t heard about the heat
advisory. Nor of any news. She soaks in the elements
day by day. Instinct leads her to graze in sun,
to move to shade, to stand under the roof of her barn.
To drink her fifteen gallons a day and lick her salt block.
She sees me next time she lifts her head—
gallops up and neighs, nuzzles me,
though I am the one who keeps her corralled.
Yet, she seems so much freer than me.
One Hundred court stenographers,
each trained by
the same online course,
(recorded in a basement in Lincoln, Nebraska)
race to input
the full lyrics of
“Ice, Ice, Baby”
in an attempt
to crown a valedictorian.
One hundred clear glass spheres
(not a cateye among them)
stampede,
God’s marble collection
clattering from leather pouch
into Waterford crystal,
cheap plastic irises
stabilized
by righteous souls.
One Hundred ordinary gray mice
learn ballet
(lacking the rhythm
necessary for tap)
and congregate on a June afternoon
to recite
on the corrugated roof
of a Little League dugout.
One particularly observant mockingbird,
hearing the three hundred,
calls back, reproducing
the sound of raindrops
wetting the shingles above
my attic bedroom.
despite disappointment
dilly dallying
and otherwise minor distress
caused, of course, by others
and plan my overcoming
It was like her mind was preoccupied,
with fantasies of a fairytale world,
beyond everyone’s understanding but hers.
Why do some girls never realize,
you can only be a princess in your dreams?
It’s time to wake up sleeping beauty,
and notice how the makeup made you ugly while you slept.
Mascara dripping from your teary eyes,
and yesterday’s lipstick smudged over your face.
You’re nothing but a cheap streetwalker.
Learn your history,
know your past,
listen to the names,
make them last.
Recognize your home place,
smell the earth that raised you.
Feel the touch of familiar skull,
hold the hands that made you.
Visit as an immigrant
learning a new culture.
Let the voices sink into your soul,
resonating throughout your nature.
Invest your heart in forgiving
lives and times that came before.
Aknowledge the mistakes and glories
without keeping score.
All that you are is a rich combination
of these names etched in stone,
all the love you can give and
the seeds that you’ve sown.
6/22/25
KW
Social media’s pointing fingers again
and the echo chambers are rumblin’.
People who live in worlds
shrinking within Reddit
are frothing at the mouth
with logical fallacies
and fabricated sources
that they’re still convinced
destroy your argument
no matter how many times
someone has to realitysplain them.
The same blender
of ad hominem labels
and strawmen goons
go to war on the battlegrounds
of buzzwords and bigotry
while ‘Fake News’ flies
every which way, both as
cries against disagreeable truth
and actual misinformation,
not to mention the trolls
getting their jollies
yoinking on your foibles
to keep the follies falling.
Not me, though,
not anymore.
When the new phone asked
what apps to reinstall
I declared
Fuuuuuck no to Facebook.
Writing this poem reminds again
to reduce Reddit to memory;
maelstrom media’s gonna miss me,
but I won’t be missing it.
We’re purifying the newsgathering
talking to real people
having real conversations
engaging with the real world.
And the effects are instant.
I’m more at peace with myself
if not exactly at peace
with the way things are
but when the shit’s
not in your face so much
everything smells a little bit nicer–
think I’m gonna stay here.
‘Cause you’re never gonna change a mind on the Internet
but you’ll certainly change your soul
going outside
and touchin’ some grass.
A slight smile cut his wrinkled face.
Slowly he nudges several long grains
from his worn lacquer bowl onto the granite surface.
His longtime companion wing-flapped
and claw-hopped to perch next to him,
grey beak airborne after each eaten piece.
Six bald orange-robed figures strode
quietly to his side. Nodding to them, he rose
and stood by while they bowed, then lifted
the limestone cover of his mausoleum.
Every day a young acolyte places
a tiny bowl of rice on the aging stone.
Every day a crow eats the rice, and flips
the bowl over with a clatter when finished.
A decade passes. A small boy in orange
places the bowl, and sits to wait. The crow
arrives, almost blind now, with a stone
clutched in its gray beak.
Ignoring the bowl, the crow taps the limestone with its pebble.
The young boy nods when he hears the return tapping from below.
