Hope
It’s a pretty tear
that rolls down the avenue
of a sun-kissed face.
I am a project woman,
and I cannot stop.
Even when there’s none,
I make some up.
That is where Sam
comes into my life.
He is my handyman
and very polite.
I met him through an ad
at the country store
People knew Sam,
said he didn’t shirk a chore.
As I get older
there are things I can’t do.
Sam, the handyman,
does enough for two.
I love my gardens,
and he helps with mulch.
Pulls weeds, blows leaves,
digs holes and such.
He works on my Casita,
keeping it clean and tidy.
Ready for my guests
any holiday or Friday.
He helps put up my Carport
no easy feat.
Put tin on a shed
in blistering heat.
When a tree needs cutting,
he chainsaws it down.
Splits and stacks the wood
so it’s off the ground.
He can do plumbing, electric,
carpentry, and more.
I am so grateful for Sam
and the country store.
awake early enough on a Sunday
I witnessed the clouds in pink dresses
their early morning dance routine
welcoming in a new day
reminding me a way is made
a place prepared
evidence in the sky
reminders cloaked in the ordinary, anything but
I
find identity in
the ful-
ness
of love
the contemplation of
fire consuming Fire,
that can separate us from
our selfish
Life forever.
the power to consume
will be hidden
As long as we love
*Blackout poem from chapter 5 of Seeds of Contemplation by Thomas Merton
Black Iron Lung
It squats in the corner like an anchor—
black-ribbed, unyielding,
a heavy geometry of iron.
To me it is a black iron lung.
It draws in the world’s bituminous panic,
filters the grit,
and exhales anthracite warmth.
Soot thick in my throat—
I stomach it at last.
I pull on thick leather gloves,
a hide barrier against the heat’s liability,
and reach for the brass coil.
The wire gives with a springy heartbeat
before the true weight of the iron takes over.
I yank the lever—
a gritty, metal-on-metal groan—
turning the act of opening the furnace
into ritual containment.
A harbor
where other people’s chaos is mastered.
Sentience is the anthracite I shovel in—
heavy, inherited malediction.
It warms the room
but leaves my hands stained black.
Now the iron wakes with a tock-tock,
expanding, contracting,
bleeding the sulfuric choke of swallowed pride
slow through the ash-caked mica.
Inside, a phantom flicker —
the illusion of fire burning in shadow.
The heat lingers long after the coal dies to a whisper,
a dull bruised red that refuses to let the room go cold.
I feel the throb of resentment through the iron—
the furnace-born slump of steel.
I have learned how to hold the ash
until the sun finds the garden.
I never wanted that little truck
And only had her because you
Couldn’t manage to keep her
Like most things in your life
You started big, talk and promises
But couldn’t follow through
And when your deeds didn’t
Match your words, as always
I was your net to catch it all
So I took her and her payments
Saving you from yourself
And from your latest vice
She became the part of you
I could still take care of
And protect from life’s wear and tear
I washed her and buffed her paint
I checked her oil, changed her tires
I kept her running for years
But eventually trucks die…and so do little brothers
