Posts for June 13, 2026

From our car we see a woman walking down
the gray sidewalk, red-light glow her own
spotlight as we wait for it to change.
We’re late for a show downtown.
It’s winter, stone blue twilight.
She holds a cardboard sign
from this distance we can’t
or won’t read.

When Medusa was raped in Athena’s temple,
the goddess punished the mortal woman,
knotting her hair with vipers, condemning her
to watch the world through lowered lashes.
The gods knew how to punish,
but not as well as we do.

The woman on the sidewalk moves in peripheral.
Lifts her face toward a window, then down.
Moves to the next car. Looks up, looks down.
Eyes slip from her like black ice, as if
a glance from her would turn us to stone.
As if we are not already.

She pauses then at the car in front of us.
I see a car seat, little legs kicking in the dark.
A small hand bounces in a wave, and something
thaws in the night air. The woman gasps, great yawning
O and the corners of her mouth lifting at the sight
of the child, eyes wide, held in another’s
joy of beholding, and being beheld.

The 5 second rule applies. 
You just write it and if it falls on the floor,
it’s safe to eat if you pick it up
within 5 seconds.

Yesterday’s trash thrown out the car window
makes the best of stone soup
warms your belly on cold winter days
but gives you diarrhea the next morning.

Words fall into the current.
They skip against the surface tension
like a comet bouncing off our atmosphere,
but eventually sink like stones.
If you pick them up within five seconds,
they’re safe to swallow.

And rhymes are last year’s fad 
now passé like the Barbie pink dress
made from shiny stretch fabric
and memory foam.

The editor promised you a spot
at the fold of the saddleback,
but he must have forgotten
and when you burned the mag,
the flames turned blue and green and orange.
Five seconds or not,
don’t pick that one up
and eat it.

I’ve been thinking of the old days, at the river bed

With many people walking here, every night and day

As I sit and wait my turn, next to our favorite spot

I’ll be thinking of you, on a rainy day

I remembered when we laughed and played, at the river bed

Splashing and having lots of fun, saying sweet little names

Years and years I would remeber all the things we did

Then you were taken away, on a rainy day

I’ve been sitting here lots of days, at the riverbed

Staring off into space, with you in my head

Thinking about all the fun, when I come your way

But until that day, I’ll just sit and wait

And I’ll be thinking of you, on a rainy day

Despite an envious flood of light

coming from every direction,

the metal and glass that greet you still seem

poised to drink 

the vigor from your hands

as you reach for companionship alone

across a space not meant 

for man to linger long.

The clouds that pass

and deposit their shadows

serve only to remind you

that more exists outside this glass

that you have tied yourself to

without expectations.

Greenhouses contain,

but they cannot contribute,

cut off and bridging the places

where natural systems work

toward unnatural goals,

lambent only 

with what purpose you can find 

buried in the green,

in seedling, sepal, or stem.

A single season can 

deliver or destroy 

the harvest you have sought 

to break yourself free,

and this plant in your hands

might be the stock needed 

to seed your prospects for good.

The great grower knows 

that things can grow even

in the greenhouse darkened 

by covering our own panes

as long as a grain of strength remains

even desiccated and dark. 

You become the greenhouse 

whenever you feel ready

to allow yourself to grow again, too. 

The poems are quieter now—
the words more whispered
than written, the wind streaming
into the open car windows as
Nirvana plays and your Subaru races
down Baxter Avenue and back to my place.

The passenger seat of his car
now feels like home.

I vow never to forget this moment,
sitting in your car watching the sunset
over the middle school football fields
too scared to look you in the eye
yet praying for the space between us
to no longer be big enough for Jesus.

A child kneads the dough, pressing love into every fold,
Each rises to a quiet devotion.
A grandmother’s hand moves through theirs—
Guiding, shaping, whispering the old ways.
The weight of tradition rests in a child’s palm,
Flour-dusted and warm, like a story retold.
They do not need to ask how to make bread—
They remember the way their loved ones showed.

The gray clouds outside

make my room feel

so dark and comfy.

Even though the dog is barking

to be let out,

I just want to lay here

and be nothing.

There is a comforting irony
in seeing life in the cemetery
Live flowers planted to honor those gone
Bunnies in the grass and beaten gravel path

People cross through
Day in, day out
Considering mostly the dead
Sometimes contemplating their 
very own existence

Because there is a beauty in the life
of the cemetery

I never wanted
More time
Come inside 
Calm and serene

As you get older
you wonder if you really
did anything to make the world
a better place–
Did something you did
start an amazing ripple?
reach someone or something,
inspire, encourage–
a tsunami of love
washing over a country, a forest,
everyone in Day’s coffee shop
last Sunday morning–
you will never know.

I do know that today I saved Larry–
the firefly that’s been hanging out 
near the ceiling fan in our bedroom.
We spotted him on the ceiling in February!
I said to my husband do you see what I see?
He said do you mean the firefly on the ceiling? 
There Larry was, around midnight, dancing and 
singing, brought his own spotlight
as the snow, ever so silent,
landed on the balcony outside our bedroom.

My grandson saw him yesterday,
padding into our bedroom at 4 am–
Mimi do you see what I see?!

I vacuumed today, and, as usual–
the roar scared the hell out of the dog,
but not Larry, I noticed something crawling
on the bedroom carpet
past my Bissel with the headlights–
it was him–he was really traveling,
toward the open door to the balcony–
a long haul on the rippling carpet,
for a firefly who wasn’t using his wings.

He’d been randomly lighting up our little life
for months, now, his tiny firefly legs
were headed for for for…
I bent down, opened my hand–
Larry climbed up my palm,
I slowly walked to the open door– 
the sky was pink and orange, blue
blending into lavender–
Larry opened his wings,
I could see his lovely red spot,
as my breath elevated him
up and over the flower box
in the direction away from
the bright rising moon–
Larry became part of the purple dark
for only a moment, in the distance
I could see those flashers–
it was time to illuminate
his own little place in the world.