Posts for June 9, 2026 (page 10)

yet moment by moment
        hummingbird hovers nearby,
whispers of your presence
        gentle as lover’s
                touch, embrace this precious
life ‘fore flying
        away lightly with grace

Waves

Something I’ve lately noticed,

And it kind of makes me sore,

Folks out in the country,

Don’t seem to wave much anymore.

Now, I know what you might be thinking,

Sure, it could be they just don’t wave at me,

But I’ve paid attention riding with others,

And waves are now a rarity. 

Has the country lost the kindness,

That it used to have?

If so can we fix it?

Is there a balm or salve?

Old pickups in passing,

One finger raised you’d see,

Of course you might get the whole hand wave,

From friends or family. 

When passing folks a workin’,

In the garden or the yard,

They would most always wave at you,

And show you some regard.

Then you would return the favor,

To let them know you cared,

Perhaps to let them know you sympathized,

And the feeling at least, was shared.

Is it just the world we live in?

Is the rat race now too fast?

Could it be common curtesy,

Is now part of the past?

I hope that ain’t the case, sir.

I hope it just ain’t so,

But I have to say I miss the friendly place,

That I used to know. 

Who is the right operator
What is the commutative rule of great-grandparents born and buried in this soil
When does the lack of a Y chromosome cancel all
Why do we divide or multiply by the color of our skin
Where do we put the parentheses
How do we know the constants from the variables

Solastalgia is a form of homesickness or emotional distress one gets when still at home, but the environment has been altered and feels unfamiliar, in many cases caused by environmental change

                Waves of heat parch your thirsty soil as

                Rain fails to nourish what I thought would

                Always be here. But you have no more to give.

                We use too much, need too much while the

                Appetites of desert and dust beckon you.

                I asked a woman taken from her land how

                She bore the loss of what was once so dear.

                It lives within my heart, she said. Not gone,

                But here. She touched her chest. And yet

                A part of her was sad and broken.

                We have shared endless cadences

                Of seasons as they have come and gone.

                Still spring will rise, birds will sing the air to life as

                I take my broken pieces to a land of hope and water

                Holding within the place you will always be

found poem, after Tinderbox Poetry Journal interview
                             with Kelli Russell Agodon and Martha Silano  

                                                                                        Truth Tastes Like                                                                                                                                       music
 
                                                                                                             sidelines cheering
                                                                                                          sloppy  
                        first line pops

                                                                                              on the trail
                 jogging  
                                          
                                                                                     don’t stop.   Kinda dangerous, I guess, but                                                                                                                                          can’t put it off        

        Maybe we should get matching “Poetry chose me” t-shirts

It’s where the planet

recognizing our similar themes,
as we write out the dirt and the dark,
we are tethered to justice and dreams,
where each line can ignite a fresh spark.

oh, the healing these brave voices bring,
for the the heavy things life has to send;
thank the poets who stand there and sing,
they are making us whole in the end.

With her bedrooms polished
and smelling of Pledge,
before another load of washing
must be gathered, my grandmother
lets breakfast dry on the dishes, drops
her stout body onto the piano stool
and plays the only hymn she knows by heart.

She could be chopping wood, the force
of her forearms and bosom ample
as her vision of a home beyond the skies.  

She doesn’t embellish or let her fingers
fly above the melody like a ragtime beat
in a rowdy saloon. Her hymn is rich
like her pies, clean as her home,
solid as her steps marching
through a cloudless day.