Posts for June 9, 2026 (page 9)

Seven days is not very long, and
the sky has been building
toward something for you.

The moon is waning, and
the egg is still in your pocket.

It is June 9, and
Venus and Jupiter have aligned
in Cancer, magnifying your luck.

You’re writing about New Lenton and
the Bellona Loop, and
your chest is splitting open again.

The rain falls steadily, and
the house wren has been
singing all morning, and
you haven’t heard this song before.

And, somewhere, a Sagittarius
born in the far north
still lives, you suppose, and
you’re not part of it.

Written after reading: Robert Haden’s ~ Those Winter Sundays

drive to work . . . a short skip to my office . . . reverse . . . use mirrors . . . exit tight fit garage . . . BMW squeezes by water heater. . . avoid patio fence . . . sneak by leaning old oak tree . . .  

extend onto heavy trafficked side street . . . don’t forget mirror trick passed down from my truck drivin’ daddy . . .

a thought floats by . . . remember look to elders who have already transitioned . . . lit the path . . . DNA markers . . . Dad’s fast beatin’ . . . weakened heart . . . he lasted ‘til the first day of spring . . .

toy with hair color . . . as you ask, where is that brown haired gal . . . ? listen for answer . . . she’s singing hula songs on her drive to work . . .

where’s the gal with the swimmer . . . tennis player’s body . . . those water ballerina’s strong double ballet legs . . . the music . . . the unison . . . all the medals?

what happened to Ali McGraw’s eyebrows . . .? WOW! did they shrink! even smaller than those electrolysis-thinning sessions promised . . .  

what hasn’t changed . . . ? that simple spark and spirit . . . the Love of children . . . the glow we share when we sing, “I Love Myself the Way I Am!” . . . there’s nothing i need to change . . .

making friends with aging swings beyond physical body . . . wrinkles, weight loss, weight gain, cataracts, mumbling THING this and THING that . . . playing hide and seek with keys right there in plain sight . . .  

have fun with aging . . . make time for friends ~ for laughter ~ for story telling . . . back in the day . . .  

forget the scary math trying to figure out how much longer . . . remembering specific events . . . grievances . . . instead . . . FOR GIVE . . .  

make friends with age-ing . . . breathe in sage-ing . . . meditate . . .  as we earn the Badge of WISDOM . . . one day at a time . . .  

Blue makes painting exciting
when I see it
a waterfall of intrigue floods my being
I am captivated and spellbound
everything else has meaning too,
but,
only as to its proximity to blue
It is very unfair
but I don’t care

Blue turns me into a cat
the way a cat will endlessly play with
the same toy,
throw it into the air, and
carry it around the house in its teeth
I can’t stay away from Blue — just like that.

I wonder if blue has some mystical powers
that makes its devotees do crazy things
Picasso and Yves Klein both know what I mean

Whatever
it is
that Blue is
It just is
the color I love
That is my turtle dove

You use a white BIC
to light up your joint,
and I think I’ll be sick
as I hit my flashpoint.

I wasn’t there
when you bought the lighter.
It isn’t fair
you were forced to be a fighter.

Smoke rises between
your pointer and your thumb.
I think of when we were fifteen,
young, and dumb.

I missed you like a piece of me.
No, that’s not right.
I missed you like the tree
that fed my fire and brought light.

You pass the joint over.
I take the excuse
to lean in closer
and feel the warmth you produce.

I ignite upon contact
with your fingers.
We smile like a pact,
and the flame lingers.

The morbid pride with which
People from the deep south speak of humidity,
A mixture of pride and disgust, as though
Discussing a backslidden child.

You try to follow along as glob(ule) after globule
Of sweat pop out of their foreheads
Like Gremlins in a sauna,
Which is what it feels like here among
The stoic pines.

We watch in amazement as it digests
A birdhouse in real time;
The robin fusses at it, admonishes it,
Then the humidity attacks it too,
Erases it from tail to skull until
A beak, unadorned, drops to the matted
Pine straw-covered forest floor.

No one looks amazed.

We go on talking about our misery,
Shortening our sentences,
Just in case.
At the end of our chat
We snap on our snorkel gear
And just sort of float away.

moon beams narrow overhead
bodies girate purple longing
thickens the air

they want for something
spin round and round
whirling dervishes

in search of rhythm they believe
freedom belongs to them- now  
they are confined, stiffened

one of them remembers 
a time when their hate
stood a chance but

love has hidden itself
from them again as it rests
just beneath the beat

rhythmless- another of  them
remembers something akin
to softness but none can escape

the notion they may have been
the ones who killed that
too

the music fades they try
to awaken- eyes sewn shut
one even attempts to speak

but he is too enraptured
in his own presence charmed
by the smell of his own sweat

he doesn’t know all of their
mouths have been sealed
none realize the door

is locked from the inside
hubris does not allow  
time for reflection 

there is no more air
for any of us -not just some
of us- the air was stolen

just like the land
just like the food
just like the people

they have celebrated 
theives and they 
don’t even know 

the game was rigged 
against them too
a time for celebration

victory in a war waged
against themselves
they clung too tightly

to tales of supremacy
and now their souls
pay the price even

as they believe themselves
alive- but their rhythm is off
arms glitch in distortion

backs do not bend 
they can no longer think
and there is no more time

they attended a party
thrown by a Eshu
they expected to dance

atop of the dead but the

moon beams have left
them- gone is the Light

and just as they secretly
feared each one is alone
moaning in despair

they realize where they are
and now live among the dead 
trapped- just beneath life

now buried with all the ghosts
they justified sending 
before them

Actors are builders who borrow creases.
We stage the roses of our memory
around cemetery scripts meant to honor
the unfleshed bones of comedies, of tragedies.  

We beg for truth. ‘Where is the truth?’ we lament.
We ask silly questions, ‘is this me or the character?’
then fill our bellies with wine squeezed from
invisible grapes, an intimate hostage held beneath a
downstage left, low-light special meant to showcase
the pomposity of play-pretend misery.  

Then comes intermission, then comes
the last scene of the last act,
and We must admit that purpose dwells not in
the scream, the cheat, the borrowed ankle boots,
but in the space after the spine of a text has been
ripped and torn by animals desperate to ease
the worry of a blind man sitting in the
second row at the back of the theater, tired of
remembering how it used to feel
when his sight was free.

I long for spring

Just like my eyes long to see the fullness of the moon

A clear brightness greater than the very own host of the sky

The moon is still out in the middle of Martin Luther King,
to the left of the Calvary Baptist,
and oh shit it is 8:26 AM.
Honey, put some clothes on!
I shout to her.
She is naked as the day she was born.
I think of myself as a girl’s girl so I cannot
have my friend get cuffed for indecent exposure
just cause she’s out too late messin’ around.
Especially not in front of the church, woohee would people talk.
The cops are rushing into work on Main Street,
hot coffees in hand.
 

“Will you still love me when you truly know me?”

The question echoes in the back of my head

at every family get together.

A sadness underlying all the happy times.

You have seen hints of my true identity

(the colored nail polish),

heard rumors about me

(“He’s living as a woman.”),

and your reactions have not been kind.

I know that love can be conditional.

I know that some day we may no longer speak.

I hate this,

I fear this,

and I also long for it.

At least I would be free

from your expectations of me,

no longer bound by your false perceptions of me

that I fear you love more than my actual self.

I don’t want you to love who I was

at eight years old.

I want you to love me.

We can be cruel to each other.

I have taken great pains

to keep my feminine name from you.

I don’t want her to become a mean joke.

I try to keep my own sarcasm in check.

When you walk right into a punchline,

it takes willpower for me not to pull the trigger.

We have always used humor as a weapon.

I’m trying to stop.

It’s hard when I have no shield.

I’m tired

of fighting with you.

I’m tired of hiding from you.

I’m tired of feeling angry

and jealous.

I wish to Christ you would stop hugging me

and throwing around “I love you’s”

if you’re not going to let me be myself.

I’m sick of pretending to be a family.

I’m sick of being a son, a brother, an uncle.

Let me be a daughter, a sister, an aunt.

Someday, I will show you who I am.

But you are already showing me who you are.

I told you who I was.

And you refused to listen.

Some day, I will say it again,

louder and clearer.

And I wonder,

Will you still love me?

Will you love me for the first time?