Posts for June 4, 2026 (page 12)

the morning is a spring cerulean

the baby twists, he is still sleeping in

my sister smelled of Johnson’s powder

chestnut swirl, coffee cold on the counter

I’d never chosen to carry someone

tiny clothes hang, hold space for a son

when he is two, his hair’s white in the sun

and Mom counts her coins, stretches the dollar

the morning is a spring cerulean

regret can eat you, leave your bones clean

we say ‘squeeze, squeeze’, skin our knees when we run

then they are tall, hug someone else harder

and you are proud, but quiet in a corner

years are dice, doesn’t matter what’s chosen

the mourning is a spring cerulean

Let the dream be written twice

and the love once

and the loss forever turning

its shadow over brass.

He sits at a busy street corner
cardboard sign propped against his backpack
Homeless, Broke and Hungry.
He sits with legs stretched out
crossed at the ankle, skin tan
like any other tourist.
He’s engrossed in his book
and never looks up at passing cars.
His attitude–come to me
if you’re interested–
not for me to plead.
He wears a Patagonia jacket
and eats peanuts as he turns the pages.

I never knew you, only of you
from my mother, who you terrified and
my grandmother who you bore and ignored.

Most called you trash, brash and cold
Full of piss and vinegar.
“She ain’t no count.”
“Rode hard and put away wet.”
Empty and hollow, hard-hearted and cruel.

I found your picture in my mother’s things.
One picture, likely the only one.
In black and white staring into the lens
High cheek boned and leather skinned
Wearing some man’s dark overcoat.

Others saw callousness, I see it too
But I imagine a different story

Hard-heartedness born of fear 
Weariness from a life of scrapping 
And conforming, alone in your anguish
To find a way to    just     stay     alive.
Used and discarded again and again.

From a place where meanness begat meanness
You had no one to show you what 
Love looked like.
How love, once held in your open hands
Could then be offered to others
To sons and daughters, your daughters

Tecumseh Valley’s Caroline
Was a daughter of a miner
And the sun once walked beside her
You are so much that Caroline
Your sun darkened
By all the hate inside you.

I, third generation from your tragic song
See you differently, dear rawboned Caroline.
Mother of my mother’s mother
Without you, and your strength and your will
I would not exist
A living testament to your grit
Passed to your daughter to her daughter
        and then to me.

Fare thee well, Tecumseh Valley

“Tecumseh Valley” – Song by Townes Van Zandt

DeNial

The tooth’s root is split
removal is imminent

Doc it doesn’t hurt
or smell anymore

best it’s been in a year
scheduled extraction today

I cannot face another
molar departing me

appointment canceled
afraid of domino effect

one down one next to it
is next until none are left

too old to rationalize expense
and more pain for an implant

reschedule two weeks from now
hope I’ll be able to accept the risks & loss

by then.

Apparently, there comes a point
when the compost is finished.

Greens for nitrogen:
smiling veggie peelings,
grasses shorn of the earth,
coffee grounds that made mornings
a place I wanted to be.

Browns for carbon:
cardboard that boxed lives,
straw that comforted chickens,
shredded paper from all the vultures
who want to buy my house.

Moisture:
too dry slows it down, too wet
it goes anaerobic and smells
like desperation. Don’t cry
over it.

Air:
microorganisms and bacteria
need oxygen, flip your compost over
like grave dirt to aerate and let it breathe.

When the compost becomes balanced,
growth can begin.

*with nod, after a fashion, to Mary Oliver (it is always a good morning to read “Invitation”).

He is entirely and seriously himself
    a black and white cowcat of limited grace
    one weepy eye, a polka dot heel, he is
    A Fluffy and Delightful
        nuisance seeking a missile, a cat that is

such a puppy, at home in fetch and following.

He wanders the house again & again
    seeking
        Knowledge &
        Chaos &
his very best friends

His Favorite redbird toy chirps merrily from his maw all along his loop
he is singing
    “awooo  awooo, 
            won’t someone be alive with me on this fresh morning?”

My little Dracula cape hung so lonely on the back of mamaw’s oak chair

My eyes stung of tears mixed with ghostly white face paint

My pleas were dashed away in the cool autumn breeze

You did not listen to me

You did not see my excitement when I came home with the cape from the local library

“A little ghost you’ll be” you stated to me

A shrug of your shoulder

“Little girls can’t be Dracula”

As if my play and make believe was challenging any of your beliefs

So there I sat on mamaw’s kitchen table

You painting my face and spraying my hair

My aunt holding my tiny hand promising me I’d still have fun

As mamaw came in with the small sheet that would be my costume

She gently shroud me and said

“Tomorrow we will play Dracula just you and me”

Perhaps the world ends here
Joy Harjo was signing copies
I couldn’t resist
picking it up for you.

Joy Harjo signed copies
pickng one for you
Enjoy, Cuz Gary.
She signed boldly- for Linda be strong!

Picking Girl Warrior for you
Cuz, I know you enjoy poetry
Be strong as Girl Warrior
pick yourself up.

Cuz I know you-
picking up your strength
through your poems
perhaps the world ends in poetry.