Posts for June 29, 2025 (page 2)

    Sitting at the pine kitchen table                      
            bathed in morning light                            
                            trying to forget . . .                              
                            writing to remember . . .  

    how the wave of your wand went “poof”                        
    all hard edges instantly soft

    a loud crash at the kitchen window snaps me out of my                               
                                            writing reverie                              
                                            i open the door             
                                perched on the rail i’m greeted
                                            by a bright eyed bird                                    
                                                staring deeply into my eyes

                                                  my heart tells me        
                                you’ve been struggling to stay on this side

                              thoughts of our indelible “family sign”        
                              the one about three birds                     
                                             flying into our front window                                 
                                                   any time we had a family member                                                                                                              laid out at the mortuary

                                                             bird’s stare                                                                                                                          entrances                            
                                        dove tells me you’ve transitioned                                      
                                                 tells me you’re OK                                    
                                                 tells me not to worry
                    
                                        phone rings . . . John the mortician                                                                                             our family friend                                        
                                                        his voice low                                                                                                                         whispers,                                                                                                                                                 “i’m sorry . . .” 

                                                      morning dove, you told me                                                                                                                                            you still tell me                                                                                                                   every time i hear                                                                                                               coo coo ~ coo coo                                                                                                                   

The neighbors 
fireworks are just
far enough away
from the fourth
to be annoying

A glance at your
phone reveals
it’s past midnight

The feeling that 
June is almost done
crashes over you 
like the waves in 
Santa Monica 

They knock you
to your ass while 
he watches and   
laughs, pointing 

Still, you sit there
like an idiot and 
let the water lap 
at your chest

Because with you
everything, much
like June, ends
in quiet defeat 

I wish I was a sun-croaking cricket—humming through my humid days.
Finding salvation in the short summer. But, I’d bargain for the bareback
Hammock of a horse-fly—outlaw, taking a free-ride away from free will. 

I’ll never tire 
of those swollen summer 
stretched out days 
where the sun has lost
the direction and wanders
across the sky
embarassed to ask
anyone to point the way 

to live in those moments 
where it’s too humid
for noise or thought 
letting the body ease
into a chair 
and unroll those nerves 
find solace 
with you 
and the promise of forever 

I am so very tired of working my life away
Just to watch one day roll into the next
Be sad that I had to miss out on the sunshine
Or a fun game with the kids, or just be in the yard
I’m exhausted with the same mundane mess of a job
That I know I should “just be thankful it pays the bills ” 
My mother always says, but my job isn’t always paying the bills 
And while, even when it is, am I not and should I not
Be allowed to breathe, or have some kind of payoff for the work,
Maybe besides the weekend and by the time we get there 
We’re too damn tired to relax or really have the energy to enjoy it
I know I can’t be the only one who thinks and feels this way 
I know there have to be others out there who want more 
I have worked my entire life, quitting has never been an option 
Right about now though, I sure would take an extended vacation 
With absolutely no return date.

do you dream the day away 
climbing mountains in the sky
jumping waves in the sea

discovering candy castles?

did you lose your math book
in a puddle on your way to school
pretending it was a ship sailing to

a world where you can fly?

excerpt from my manuscript of poems
for kids of all ages.

A free newspaper turned up this morning
Crackling pages were turned and articles were perused
Nostalgia washed over my usually-digital-reading self
It joined a myriad mix of emotions
and thoughts about the covered stories

News can be redeemed and transformed so
scissors came out of the drawer trimming
random words and letters for fun and craft
The first five-word ensemble
Proud To Be A Scribe
shall adorn tomorrow’s journal entry sure 
to chronicle personal stories and a few wild tales
all steeped in gratitude and grace
Reconciliation is a choice

I lay soaking in the filthy bath water of what if
I drive carelessly down the interstate dreaming of what could’ve been
I bask in the sun watching the leaves sway back and forth
All of the voices around me like butterfly wings in the wind
My mind constantly vacationing to anywhere that isn’t the present
Writing so many stories my callouses have callouses
Regret hangs above me like a spider from a web
Nostalgia hugs me so hard I think my ribs will break
The thought of what could’ve been
Dangles me from a steep cliff
Forcing me to hang on

sitting in the grey of dawn 
previously raucous birds
have fallen silent

Per Dr. Hue’s texted instructions
I dig two giant beets 
from his illegal garden.
The third day cresent of new moon
hangs in the westren sky
when I put my hands to soil
and pull up the taproots.
I carry them like babies
to his efficent kitchen,
slice them tenderly,
the stain on my hands 
darker than blood

The end of this month
is another notch
in the belt of my life.
My 93 year old sister, Helen
came home from her spring
visit to Rome with a 75 year old
boyfriend from Columbia.
I’ve moved across the parking lot 
from her condo to Dr. Hue’s.
How long will this last?
I’m unsettled, displaced.

With skill I place the beets
in a cast iron skillet, sautee
them in olive oil with minced
garlic and oregano, of course.
Tough I am alone at my meal
I am pleased with its earthy taste