Throwing the blankets back my feet hit the floor

Still groggy from a nights sweet sleep I make my way to the kitchen

Grabbing the kettle I fill with water and start to wake up

Sitting it on the burner I am starting to get excited, next is my favorite part

Walking over to the cupboard I start looking at all the different sizes and color of boxes

What tea shall I start my day with

Choice made, an earl grey. I hear the whistle of the kettle, its time

Grabbling my favoite cup, I fill it with the hot water and slowly  lower my teabag in

The faint aroma of bergamot tickles my nose

I wait patiently for the water to turn that light brown amber color

With both hands around my cup the warmth feels so good

I slowly raise it to my mouth, first smelling and then tasting

Its going to be a good day

The engineer of the train going somewhere pulls the whistle three times.

There’s a stretch along the Natcher Parkway
where the trees have no branches,
a remnant of a trauma
the clouds unleashed on land.

I first saw this place with my father
after terror’s demotion to memory;
our awe at destruction striking
so close to a place we called home.

It takes me back to a storm-filled night
as a sleep-denied child drenched
in beads of sweat and rosary-
one Hail Mary per thunderclap.

It makes me think of the American city
just minding its own business
when the wrath of windborne devils
threaten all we hold dear.

Some towns aren’t very lucky.
Some get wiped from the map.
People die in gross miscalculations
of the reach of nature’s power.

Others pay attention, sounding
alarms at first signs of danger
so parents, siblings, children
can brace themselves in bottom floor bunkers.

They huddle together in the dark
hoping for a home to return to.
They offer up similar prayers,
Please deliver us from the storm.

Then the noise dies down and the chaos soon passes,
the calm inevitably restored
save for a subtle fear of what could have been;
not all are as fortunate.

Those who get spared offer what they can
to alleviate those affected,
each time wondering when is our time
to be the victims of a vicious sky.

Thus I watch for a stretch along the Natcher Parkway
where the trees have no branches,
a reminder of greater forces always around us.
Respect for the Earth is earned.

went to find a poem
and all I got was
this lousy sentence. 

 Sometimes                       
 the poem rhymes.                                                                                                                         Sometimes
 it doesn’t.  

Some days
the children play.
Other days
they don’t.  

Sometimes
I scrub and scour.
Other days
I won’t.  

Some days
the hours fly.
Some days
I simply sigh.

I am used
to the splotches of rain
on my windshield
as I drive down winding country roads
swerving to miss vagabonding deer
looking for life on the other side. 
That’s why I don’t mind
the finger prints on my glasses
from my constant pushing
to their place on the bridge of my nose. 
The lenses have become scratched
from my repeated pressing
and I no longer see the scars 
on the glass. 
“How can you see like that?” 
my mother asks. 
“Simple,” I reply. 
“I could never see clearly
in the first place.”

The heat of the fire filled the room

I worry sometimes what God thinks of me
and what the dead, and living, members of my family tree see.
I contradict what is taught in Bible Belt Sunday School.
I am LGBT+, Bi and Nonbinary
and there are those in my bloodline
who see that as a crime,
an affront against God,
but is he not a being full of love? 

If he created us in his image
and we do not have the point of view of his eyes
then who’s to say he didn’t make us with different dyes
and wove us with threads
that defy what is considered
traditional sex and gender lines. 

So while I know
that there are those
in my family tree
who hate to see the sight of me,
I hold on to the hope
that God sees me
and smiles with glee.

(Happy Pride!) 

Let’s all write a poem
Every day for a month
XOXO a love  

Poem – I
Only have eyes for
My
One true love!

June, I’ve been waiting
to open into your days—
this sacred practice.