Posts for 2025 (page 5)

That’s a dachshund puppy if I’ve ever seen one. 
Can we get one? Not right now, but in a bit. 
I promised the cats I wouldn’t do that to them again. 
So ten years give or take, maybe longer. I mean,
it’s not like I’ve never broken a promise before. 
Please? I know I’m allergic but I could do the shots, I would do all the walking, 
unless you wanted to, I mean, you like to walk after all.
(Somewhere my mom is rolling her eyes instinctively).
Yes, but this is different. I’m grown, I’ve kept these little guys and myself 
alive on my own for quite some time. I know what it is to lose a pet
 to a partner. But this is different. It’ll be mine.
Except, we’re supposed to be a team, aren’t we? Anyway, 
a dachshund is basically just a long cat. 
(Somewhere my dad, and his/our/my obese miniature (not so much) dachshund are sitting on the futon, alone together).
This is different. I want to be different.

the last five years ravaged me
without my consent 
and I was too sad to notice.
this year i’m going to be happy if it kills me because
somehow the slow ache of early adulthood failed to.
i was cocooned in my own melancholia but I didn’t
emerge a butterfly, i just emerged
older, with wrinkles i never thought i’d have
with clear eyes who still beg for the thrill of wind 
whipping my tears through crows feet
and more than anything, a body that wants to be loved. 
if i can’t outsource it i’ll have to start at home.
i’m going to care for this body like it’s the last one 
on earth and maybe along the way somebody else 
will worship it.

There was a prophecy, from ice-filled world:
A girl who would bring knowledge, unknown then,
Of time for warmth and growing leaves unfurled
Before she came of age to drink with men

Impatiently they waited for her birth
Until a cunning wizard hatched a plan
To speed up prophecy, and stole from Earth
A girl of age too young to know a man

He gave her to a weaver, left in dark
Of Earthly origins, who raised her well
Then she, when seventeen, went on a lark
Returning with a child in belly swelled

Prophecy, fulfilled, was quite a bummer.
Knowledge, new? She named the baby “Summer.”

shattering inside
     shards fly in all directions
     wall goes up for protection
answered “fine,” when asked how i’m doing

live my life like i’m dying to live

how to forgive myself
(yes, the person i was)
when i let your fingers slip     from my hand
your nails raking desperately
     across my heart

blush-pink roseate spoonbills 
 
suddenly take wing
 
cross the cerulean sky

Celebrate the day you where born
in this life or another form
borought together to share and see
every day a miracle to me
My lover and friend
from way back when
your beautiful eyes and warm hands
gentle style and loving smile
just a few reasons to 
celebrate the day you where born.

Small as a sparrow
bluest of indigo blues

passerina cyanea
spilling out songs

that may be confused
with the hymns of angels.

The male singing all day
in spring and summer

fashionista in blue satin
trilling and breeding.

Migration trusts in the
guidance of the stars

celestial magic whisks
from the darkest heavens.

The songbird descending to earth
to embrace the lonely

mystical dive in the middle
of the gravel driveway

splashing in a puddle
after a morning rain.

Sometimes I only see
when preparing to show someone else:

    “Now, imagine this:
    What if you couldn’t read?
    What would you notice?
    The lilies?
    The light?”

Gabriel’s message
is a motion, curling—
script unfurling in amber flame,
like the words remember heaven
and are already going home.

The curve of the scroll as it rises,
as if exhaled
or drawn back toward heaven,
is also Pentecost—
the Word,
the breath,
the gift of speech beyond letters.

If today I can read
the upside-down Latin,
it is only because
I already know the words.

But I had never seen
the sentence climb,
toward the Speaker of the sentence,
as if this greeting
were not so much delivered
as retrieved,
unrolled from the memory of God
to suffuse the glass,
letter by letter,
back into the mouth
that first thought her possible.

    “We are learning how to see,
    and how to be surprised by seeing.”

Cambridge English says a “sponsor” is “someone who supports a person, organization, or activity by giving money”. But what do we call it when we are forced to give money? “Extortion” seems fitting. All I know is, I don’t have so much left over for sponsorships when so much is taken by force. Income taxes are not optional. Interstate tolls. Property taxes and vehicle registrations. Banking and credit card fees. I could go on, but you get the picture. Here is the truth: “Money” is less a tangible thing than a representation of value. The “money” game only works when we all agree to go along. But every game must come to an end, and there is only one winner. When the game ends, we will be the losers. But don’t worry about it. Those things that have real value don’t cost a nickel.  And they are available to you in proportion to your individual choices. Me? I choose to give. To pour myself out, for only then will there be space within me for the universe to refill my spirit. And I try not to put this on others: my peace and contentment are for me to define and claim–no one else is responsble for giving it to me. See? I’m no extortionist.