Posts for June 8, 2026 (page 4)

My poems recently have been angry,
and there’s a buzzing pressure in my chest
like wasps forming rank.
I want to be a father. I want to hold a child—
my child—to my chest and mean it when I
say everything is going to be alright.
but then…
We’re back in the Middle East. BUZZ
Beef tallow and Vacinnes. BUZZ
Data centers consuming my hometown. BUZZ 
Unbidden, the first prayer I’ve uttered in years
vibrates through my lips.

Let them be born into knowledge of their sins.
Let them see, in the moments before they die,
    the gaping maw of Hell
Let me feel their blood on my hands.

blessed are those with strong opinions
who spit shrapnel at any bold enough to seek them out.

acid-tongued oracles
shrieking empty truths with priceless lies
unveiling that which aches to remain hidden

Head:
Watch it.
You’ve seen this before.
It only feels real; you know it’s a fucking fantasy.
A trick of the light in the golden hour sky.

Heart:
This time, though!
Look at him.
Look at how he looks at me.
This is new, different. Perfect.

Head:
Foolish girl.
He’ll take what he needs
and leave you to sweep up the mess.
You’re crying because you know I’m right.

Heart:
No!  I’m crying because
…well, because I’m terrified
but also exhilarated.
Does that make sense?

Head:
[ . . . ]
I can only keep you safe if you let me.

Heart:
(whispers) I don’t think I want to be safe anymore.

6/8/26

picnics settle in the cracks of forgottenness
the way photographs used to live in shoeboxes
or photo albums tucked into the junk closet
of a spare bedroom (serving as emotional reflector tape
should life bring you to your knees too often) 

strangers join as friends who become family
wait for hot dog skin to blister
time passes as
everyone talks politics… weather…the differences
between creamy and vinegar-dressed slaw
then (if you’re lucky) someone tosses a giant
bag of marshmallows on a table
sticks are gathered…chocolate is melted…and
everyone’s sugar raises or
you top off another round of horsehoes with a brownie
a spoonful of banana pudding
a cup of fruit salad

the point of it all arrives a week later…or
the next year at a funeral or weddin’ when you
remember that one human (that good nut who
wore a bun’s worth of chili sauce on
that new tshirt and fed those people’s dogs the
cold weeners) and
lordy… lord… lord…how good it would be to
hear those laughs
again

I read last night in a fiction book, no less,
but backed by scientific data
that the chances that we (as in
all of earth’s inhabitants and the planet, itself
and all its constellations) will be sucked
into a black hole are one in a trillion.
It doesn’t take higher math to know,
that’s a lot of zeros.  And yet,

what are the chances that we—
that’s you and me, baby—
would be born out of one singular,
ba ba boom bang let loose at the beginning of time?
Or, out of God’s words, all of which began
with Let there be? I say again,
what are the chances?  
I’d say more than one in a trillion
since black holes came out of that bang.

Nothing short of a miracle,  
and yet here we are,
Alpha and Omega,
highly improbable, yet possible,
maybe even inevitable. 

On the off chance that we  
are swallowed by a black hole–
I need you to know now,
because then will be too late–
I am forever grateful for

everything,

The typewriter sits proud in its earned place
’50s paint job striking, robin’s-egg blue
Chipping here and there tells a tale of use
The cold aluminum chassis is strong and sturdy
My hands are weight-bitten setting machine in front of me

The rubber platen roll grips paper tight
Turning the knob sends vibrations through my arm
It sings a gear-ratchet melody, click-clicking a hundred times
A weighted push sends carriage to the far right
My fingers kiss the yellowed keys, and I begin to type

The clack-clack clacking an otherworldly tune
My pace picks up as I write with all my heart
Man and machine become a mechanical dance
My words printing across and down the page
When it’s over all is quiet

My heart is a seed
brimming with silent words,
sitting on a shelf, collecting dust.
I offer my hands, palm up, like open petals,
but they flutter away
carried off on the wind of indifference
while I stay rooted.
Yearning for the rain of recognition
that never falls.
I gather fragments of silence,
each one a stone to build;
a wall, a fortress.
I am an unpicked flower,
my vibrant colors fading away,
wondering if anyone sees
the beauty hidden in the weeds.
Or if I am destined to wither,
unnoticed, beneath the weight
of a world that turns away.

Two years later, there is a white squirrel
That lives in the tall sycamore trees on the little bank across the stream
I thought I was dreaming when I saw the flash of white, and hoped it was OUR white squirrel
But it was wishful thinking
This one isn’t quite as big, or as belligerent as the prior one
We’ve seen it twice, gathering food for winter, both on the ground and spiraling up and down the trees
I watched it through my binoculars
And several times got a very good close-up look
It’s also leucistic, not albino – bright white with a solid brown tail and nose
I still can’t see the eye color, at 250 yards, even with magnification

We took a video of it and shared it with friends and family
I haven’t decided yet if I will report this one on the official white squirrel watch website (not joking)
I guess I should, as it seems that white squirrel genetics are strong here in the forested creekside back corner of my sister-in-law’s farm

Seeing another white squirrel this year makes me happy
I marvel at how its whiteness stands out against the drab yellow and brown of autumn
And I hope a hawk or other sharp-eyed predator won’t find it, when I can see it clearly from all the way up the hill
But I know that’s unlikely to happen, and just how life works

And maybe the lesson is renewal if there can’t be persistence
Life can be rare and precious
Even when it’s fleeting

I want to wish you the worst

I want it to all finally crash down on you

I want the world to make you suffer

I want her to cheat on you

To maybe get close to the way

You made me feel

I know I shouldn’t want that though

They say time heals all wounds

And that’s true

But it’s also true that you’ve never left me

That I take you with me

Hold what you did to me

Every step of every day

Right next to my heart

And sometimes

I open it

I let it infect me

Infuse with my bloodstream

I let it take me over

Other days I forget it’s there

And then

I see you

On my phone

In my mind

In my dreams

And I’m transported back

Into the body of a 14 year old

Who was left

Alone

In more pain than I’ve ever felt in my life

And so

I want you to feel how I felt

And maybe that’s awful

Or maybe that’s human

And maybe I shouldn’t feel bad for feeling it

But I can’t help wondering

What if wishing bad things on you

Makes me deserving of it all

A farm is not an esthetic

It is not gingham table covers

Or neutral tone dresses and pedicured toes with babies around your feet

It is sun cracked hands with soil running in every line

Tomato ripe like the blood in your veins

It is in the way the farmers can feel the frost in their bones

Before it ever glazes over strawberry leafs

Or the smell of snapped green beans forever in your nose

The thud of them landing solid in an old Lowe’s bucket

A farm is my ancestors, my uncle and papaw

That taught me how to till soil

And how to properly shuck corn

Brad that taught me how to peel a potato with gentle hands

Bill that taught me how to spot ginseng in the hills behind the garden

I still see their hands casting seeds like holy water to the land

And now I carry this legacy

Pulling weeds and sewing hope

Hot heat on my back

The coolness of a spring wind

Whispering to me that

They still live through the sprouting

Of life from earth