Choices were made, though not all were wise.
Now my bow hangs over a bookshelf,
string long since loosened.
Where arrows once filled my hands,
are teacups, pastry dough, and
dog-eared novels.
The winters come and go now as they should.
No endless darkness. No frozen roads
swallowing travelers whole.
The young speak of those years
with wonder in their voice.
To them, it is an adventure—
campfires beneath stars,
treasure buried in forgotten places.
I do not tell them how often we were cold, frightened, and lost.
I do not tell them how young we were.
That is perhaps, what I miss most,
the certainty tomorrow would be there.
The bliss in believing.
Sometimes I catch myself
setting an extra cup at the table,
or glancing toward the door
when the bell chimes.
For a heartbeat, I expect to see them—
boots dusted with snow, laughing at a joke.
But none of us can walk together forever.
So I tend the fire. I recommend the books.
I listen to travelers tell their tales.
And when night softly falls over rooftops,
I raise a glass to friends and the foolish courage of youth.

More popcorn and sugary drinks.
Quality cartoons and hide and seek.  

An hour past their de facto bedtime.
Two hours past ours.  

We ought to put them to bed
but what does “ought” mean
to three early tweens
when grandparents snip a string
on the balloon bouquet of rules
their parents gave them to hold?  

We validate what they already know –
every seatbelt eventually unbuckles.

                                                    –a found poem

Belonging is a feeling that humans
constantly crave.
The desire to socialize and experience the world around us
is a sensation gifted
to almost every human being.

Humans find heaven in sonder,
realizing that everyone carries their own conflicts
and weary circumstances.

When given the opportunity to explore new worlds and meet new people,
do we welcome it, or shy away?

London is well-recognized for its nice view
of the Eiffel Tower,
and the pastries–like croissants.

Even among brutalist towers, it’s hard to feel lonely,
surrounded by a moving stream of life.

time bends, air thickens

I dropped         my wine

There is a weight that sits on my heart,
an imperative that demands to be heard.

Create,

it says with its crushing insistence.

Create, and I will relent.
Create, or die.

So,

I write,
and the pressure lessons.

I sing,
and the load lightens.

I share,
and it’s as though I have wings.

Yes, now you see.

Create and live.

I have a running list of “take root” tasks
that cannot be begun until we know where
we’re living next. 
Until then I drift, waiting
to be planted, growing top heavy
with ideas, dreams
spilling over like catmint 
cascading down the pot, miniscuile
blue flowers a landing pad for bees,
roots constrained by a future yet to be
unlocked. 

The scent of his cologne appears before
his ghost slides back into my space
twisting of bergamot and cypress vine finds
cracks in the window.
The ghost appears when least expected,
a text, a phone call, a post on Facebook,
a snippet of affection through regular mail,
even threads woven into pages of my poetry.  

The last time he surfaced was after a long absence,
measured by full moons with many transitions.
It took me off guard, I was not ready
for a reconciliation, the sudden shift
in the atmospheric river announced his return
trailing whiffs of cedarwood.
I hid, I made excuses, I moved,
changed my number, shut down.  

He always finds me, no cave too deep,
sipping coffee on a park bench,
browsing for books in a hidden country library,
hanging clothes between the silver poplars.
He rolls in on a cresting ocean wave,
a magic carpet of satins and silks,
powers in like a snowsquall blinding me,
a bolt of lightning dropping fire in its path.  

Ash falls from the sky,
I listen to the echo of the whippoorwill.  
Soothing nocturnal music
lulls me to sleep,
covered with the thick patchwork quilt
handstitched comfort embrace.
The skies clear, the Strawberry Moon,
hangs low, reminds me it’s just a dream.

Today I say goodbye
to all the pens
who write about life,
family, and friends.

Another year is done.
It has been fun.
We all win the prize.
With each day’s surprise.

Have a good year.
Write without fear.
Read more books,
and I’ll see you next year.

Treasure among the cellophaned slabs
in the raised pit of raw meats:
mixed in among chicken breasts edged
with phlegmy yellow fat, pig knuckles, and packages 
of ham hocks for seasoning slow-cooked green beans,
pork tenderloin for under three dollars a pound.

We come to pick through, to hold and gauge 
the weight in our hands against the hunger 
waiting at home. One people, some in church clothes, 
some still in pajamas, engaged in rite primordial: 
jostling to get at the prime parts of the kill. 

Consider not the big trucks
rumbling through Butchertown,
resigned wet eyes peering out 
from between the slats of the stock trailer.
Nor the squeal of the steel saw blade through bone, 
the electrical outlet noses 
floating in puddles of blood.
Or the leathery odor of feces and fear
emanating from the rendering plant
the wind diffuses across the city
like an aerosol portent.

Imagine, instead, peaks of mashed potatoes, 
broiled kale, hungry mouths 
seated around the common table, 
some saying grace, some mid-argument,
the steaming roast on the platter uniting all,
how sonorous their grunting and belching,
how grateful they are to do the dirty dishes.

*                            *                                    *

Yo, Adrian! We did it! At times grueling, at all times wonderful to read the fantstic poets and poems of LexPoMo. Thanks for taking the time to read and comment on my outbursts. Love this family.