Posts for June 9, 2026 (page 2)

A raccoon

The love has stayed within me
just the same as the resentment.
Perhaps the latter more easily,
perhaps the latter now more familiar.
All of your news is secondhand—
or, should I say, all my news?
A death foretold months ago,
limped to its final place in the garage.
My second thought was, “I told you so.”
My first was still to wonder how to fix it,
which led back to what I can’t say to you now.
I don’t say anything to you, now.
You’re gone but only from my life, not yours.
How do I deal with this living grief?
The love still lives, the anger still lives,
the hurt grows larger by the day.
Resentment changed and larger, too,
I miss you and I despise that I do
when you don’t seem to miss me at all.
But the love is still here, same as me,
hoping you’ll come back.

The connection was severed in name only

When my footsteps are the only ones
that break the silence in the house
the distance seems greater 

Two lovers 
a couple cartons of selects
and a financial quarter 
widen the gap between us

Yet it’s hard not to long 
for your head on my chest
when you sleep a room away

you are talking to someone on hinge
I hope it works out

People go through this life
Merely in existence, day after day 
Never really saying what they mean 
To those who mean so much to them 
Instead they just assume that feelings are known 
People only know, what they know, when they know it
Nothing is learned a moment sooner, and it’s usually too late 
My grandfather told me, assumptions make asses and assholes of us all
I am certain I’ve found this sentiment to be true many times in my life
Why is it that words from our hearts arrive only when we are desperate 
When apologies and tears flow after disappointment 
Eulogies send off with a love letter or poem 
When death has sealed the fate of forgiveness forgotten
I would rather be remembered for living fully and loving out loud
Making sure to pour out all the love I never got 
Into those who are dear to me
So they never have to wonder 
That I didn’t wait to share the most 
Along the way with the people who deserve it 

Will you love me
in spite of my crooked teeth?
Will you catch 
the uneven bumps 
of my smile
and will
you find it endearing?
Will you love
the jagged bottom line
hidden under the buck teeth
that peek through
the part of my lips?
Will you love it
the way I do?

I write as one, one being, one voice
one witness, but I am not alone

for other poets are present in my ear, my mind
my books, the community of LexPoMo

to offer prompts and inspiration — to guide
with dedication, craft and paradigm.

you can’t write 
a poem
about writing a poem
just who do you think 
you are
you aren’t Ginsberg
you aren’t Whitman
hell you’re barely even
a poet
you’re just some
twenty-something 
kid
who thinks because 
his heart is sewed 
on his sleeve
and because you know
how to write some fancy words 
and insert a few
line breaks 
that you’re
some sort of
authority 
you’re right
you’re right
you are right 
about it all

but i’m gonna do it
anyway 

 you bastard

 Staring in the window

At the table
There is food

But not on every table

sugar honey
tasting magic left on my lips
dancing on my tongue

quiver
rush
laughter
trembles

sugar honey
tasting you 
left on my tongue
kiss
and
see
for yourself 

I have been an injured bird so long,
grounded while my friends fly far from home,
exploring and experiencing the world.
I hobbled forward with broken wings day
after day, lying in cold creeks and
chewing willow or laurel to
ease the pain. I collect as much fluff
and down and scraps of fabric to
line my nest to the ultimate level of
luxury because it is what I deserve
and it is not fair—none of this is
fair: I am in pain while others fly
free.

I crossed paths with luck and found
help after help after help, surgery
and metal to fix my wings, physical
therapy to remind me of what is
natural, inborn, that I too am
meant to fly.

Now that I am able, I haven’t left
my luxurious nest, I haven’t met up
with the other birds in far away places.
I freeze over and over, frightened by
my injury, my past, my trauma, the
incident that changed the course of my
life and grounded me, and I soothe over
and over because I have to survive somehow.
I am no longer in danger, but habits are hard to change.

I am calmer now, more acclimated to
a life with less danger, but sometimes
adventure looks more like peril than fun.
I am no longer in crisis, but how I took care
of myself is hard to shake.
I am afraid as I compulsively soothe unruffled feathers,
that they will fall off, never having been used,
and my adventure will never begin.