Posts for June 14, 2026 (page 6)

Search until you find the quiet place, high above
a growling city, where an ocean blue sky sings peace
through the forgotten, living things.¹
Stand still when you listen.
Twirl, open-palmed, when you sing. Even with
outstretched arms, humble ministry  
will overwhelm a curious beggar.
Drop your crumbs for the chorus birds. Stop,
pick up a discarded six-pack ring from
the community watering hole.  Animals listen to
our pleas, despite their wildness,² so
spare no expense when offering your love
in return. Ignore the passing cars, the lostness of
your understanding, the worry of
unreturned phone calls, and exchange breath with
all that is seen and unseen in this caravan kingdom
of travelers fighting to explore
a trying world. 

    ¹ Oakland, California. The off-season grounds, the magical-play-pretend landscape of Woodminster Amphitheater in Joaqun Miller Park. 

    ² Two or three times a week, during my grad school years at Mills College, I would drive up to the hills. Park. Give a concert for no one. Such juxtaposition- honking and pollution, a hurried city below…above- fountains, a Snow White community nonchalant and hanging out…there was such a pressure-cooker signal for me to bottle my existence around 23,24…so I absolutely wore imaginary rhinestones, and Judy’d my best Rainbow to any deer, bird, squirrel willing to stick around and listen. Grateful for the friend who shared it with me. 

footsteps fall into place
Where Is the joy, to all embrace
slave away the jobs we hate
To be Paid a starving wage

Where’s our Wonderful People
                       Wonderful People
In this world, you could make it a better place—
                        wouldn’t it be nice?

children’s arms fall astray
Where Is the love, we all crave
no one looks up to see
All of Love’s opportunities

There are Wonderful People
                   Wonderful People
In this world, we could make it a happy place—
                   wouldn’t it be nice?

The hawk came down before he came
and broke its neck against the pane.

In an old story that I teach,
love enters at the window’s breach.

He set no tasks: I set my own
and stitched the seamless sark alone.

I washed it in the rainless well,
I dried it where no blossom fell.

I laid it folded at his door.
He answered not. He came no more.

What’s whistled down the wind goes free,
but no one asked the hawk, or me.

All autumn on the dappled walk,
they left the body of the hawk.

Moonlight unstitched it where it lay;
I watched it lighten, day by day.

Cold bleached it pale and wore it thin,
hollowed its eye, its beak sunk in.

A checkerspot rose from the breast,
each lost thing gathered, repossessed.

Let him go call the feather home
and knit the wing again to bone.

it’s a hopeful sad, 
i tell my therapist 
on the screen 
i don’t look at myself
in the box in the right 
hand corner
she asks, what does that mean 
i say i feel it in my 
breast bone 
like a flutter
an echo of something 
that once was 
& might be again 
in another shape 
i say, that doesn’t 
help much does it? 

Although you may think it
a movie lover’s sin
My machine already ate
my Gone with the Wind

A sacrificial test
to see how tapes play
But not even Clark Gable
could save the day

finally love yourself enough
to walk away
take the consequences, judgements, unanswered questions
     all the might have been scenarios
the realization: you are someone else entirely
it is time

one week out
growing more comfortable
decisions are not my forte
     I had a brief, Wednesday freak out
I admire myself though, for pushing through
confirmation is a process
yet sometimes the vibes register
sending more than a simple feeling
a push out the proverbial door

everything I value
evidence on a gravel road
perhaps a transition, only
still yet a change, beginning, hope
                                                     renewal

There once was a path from my house into the forest.
With my dog, I would walk an hour before sunset,
steeped in soft golden light or basked
in shades of clouds’ heavy sighs—
or light snowflakes that decorated my cheeks.

Lateef took in every scent, sniffed
at every critter’s scat, peed his own trail alongside me.
It was rare that we did not meet a creature
as curious as we—
a dove or cardinal or sparrow swooping
down above us, a buzzard in tattered cloak
standing watch over new death,
even a snake rustling under autumn leaves
or sunning on boulders halfway to a creek

where we dipped our toes in and drank,
wiped our hands on moss of great oaks
before turning back, bidding adieu
to our named favorite trees—  
Grandmother Cedar and her three saplings,

Uncle Red Bud, deceased but not yet fallen,
and we would step over Sister Sycamore lending her decay
to the mushrooms below, to Brother Olive Tree
and the twisted Pine Papas and Sugar Maple Mamas
at the edge of the woods where gentle breezes,
or strong winds, would carry us home.

Once inside, I would brush off sweat, rain, or a tick,
turn back to take in the sunset through a picture window.
There once was a path from me to home.

Dancing with the Oak trees,
the wind waves me over to join

in the gala, showing off June’s 
green gown as the sun-shadowed

leaves flutter and fawn.
Queen Anne nods her lacy head

and bows over wild carrot roots.
Above, the sky’s light smiles

down with warm pride as the
clouds circle in the promonade.

Papaw’s hands were mountain-made,
Carved by coal and spade and blade.
Blackened deep where daylight failed,
In tunnels where brave hearts prevailed.

Every wrinkle held a seam,
Every scar recalled a dream
Of bringing supper to the stove,
Of earning every ounce of love.

His knuckles wore the color night,
Though his spirit carried light.
Coal dust settled in each line
Like scripture etched beneath the mine.

Those hands could split a hickory round,
Set fence posts firm in rocky ground.
Patch a roof before the rain,
Or soothe a child through fear and pain.

I’ve watched them cradle Grandma’s face
With roughness softened into grace.
The same hands that wrestled stone
Never let her stand alone.

When Sunday came, he’d scrub them clean,
Though black still lingered in between.
Soap could wash the dust away,
But not the years they’d given away.

Now the mines have all grown still,
Their echoes sleeping in the hill.
Yet when the evening shadows stand,
I still remember Papaw’s hands.

For mountains rise, and rivers bend,
And every road must find its end.
But the strongest thing this world has known
Was never carved of steel or stone.

It was a pair of weathered hands,
That built a life on borrowed lands.
Hands that dug through earth so deep
So generations yet could sleep.

If Heaven keeps what time demands,
Then angels know my Papaw’s hands.
Still stained with coal, still strong, still true—
The hands that built the world I knew.

I place a foot upon a rung
I pull myself up one more step
Looking down I have come so far

Rising up like the lonely star
Shedding yesterday in my wake
To Heaven I make weary climb

Each step and pull a weighted thing
Each step up a good deed I sing
Though not easy to be divine

I’m almost there, I hear the call
Trumpets playing through golden hall
Passing final rung, standing tall

Then I begin to
                            Fall
                            Fall
                            Fall

From
Grace
Into
the
clouds
below

Ladder
rungs
flying
past
in
blur

Cruel
  Winds
They
  Whip
Me
  To
And
  Fro

Then I land upon
                               Rock bottom

Everything here so very still
Everything here is so quiet
Allowed time to reflect on life

Countless missteps during the climb
Wasn’t perfect   I    never      was
Yet here I am at start again

Two choices, then, I have to me
Stay and wallow in self-pity
Or make that dreaded climb again

I cannot promise anything
But I can try to right the wrongs
Putting others before myself

Most important: I’ll be myself

A weary grip upon a rung
I pull myself up one more step
Looking back I cannot forget

No matter how far we have come
In life we climb
In life we fall