I’m sad
Circumstance were right for a moment
That time has passed
I’m sad
I have reasons that I feel are valid
But I feel others judge
So I keep my mouth quiet 
But my eyes tell it all
I’m still sad
People don’t know it
They continue to look pass me
They don’t want to see what they saw before
There’s no time in their lives
I’m still sad
My laughter is drab
Yet they find it funny
I’m laughing at myself
They are too
I’m sadder
Nothing to look forward to
Don’t want to look back
They are gone again
Though the said they’d stay
I’m sadder
The sun is so bright
Yet it doesn’t shine
I’m dealing with conflict
Internal deep within
I’m the saddest
Alone in a wilderness
Trees won’t sway or lend shade
Animals are living life up
Parties in their respective homes
I’m the saddest
Me……I am
Alone and I’m sad
Lonely and I’m still sad
Me…..I was
Forgotten and I’m sadder
Born and I’m the saddest

Raphael, School of Athens, fresco, 1509-1511, Stanza della Segnatura, Papal Palace, Vatican

Layette
Loose end question
Poetry in motion
All spoken, perfect harmony
Hidden

On the first day, our schedules are packed
Classes all morning
And labs all afternoon
Barely time to grab a bite to eat
Before a meeting or two
And an evening spent singing Your praise
Staying up late with friends
Forgoing homework and studying
For a tiny respite

The second is set for much the same
An earlier wake-up call for many
More classes
More labs
More meetings
A shift at work
Then nothing, save the pile of work that should already be done
But who has time for that?

On the third we hit the mid-week crawl
An exam perhaps
Allowing a modicum of relief afterward
(Assuming you actually have confidence in your score)
The few with moments to spare set time aside
To sing and pray and share and beg
For whatever form of strength will get us through the rest

The fourth varies from student to student
Some finally take a breath by the afternoon
While others bear still more tasks from work and school
The evening, at least, is for worship again
This time a studying that fills our hearts
With love rather than dread

For the fifth life begins to slow
We cry and decompress
Barely paying mind to the expectations yet lingering
Desperate for the peace promised to us
We celebrate as the night draws near

On the sixth we rejoice
We have made it through once more
A handful of tasks knock at the door
But the load no longer smothers our joy

The seventh is the Sabbath
The day we heed Your command:
Be still.

The Kitten and her shadow tail
levitate and thrash upon the bed

“…who left the way a dream leaves once you open your eyes.”   
      -Jennifer Martelli, “The Memory Floor,” from Psychic Party Under the Bottle Tree

I remember before Duke Energy cut down the mulberry,
one main branch broke off in a storm. Lying in the ivy
until the following spring, leaves budded, unfurled,
and green berries appeared, waiting to ripen
on the severed limb, like a ghost memory…

a London friend told me in 2023 two men, shielded
by the wind of Storm Agnes, wielded a chainsaw
to fell the one-hundred-year-old Sycamore
in Northumberland “just for fun.” Said it reminded her
of the story I once shared about the swan, Faye

at the Manlius Swan Pond, the mute mother
stolen—cooked and eaten—her four cygnets
mercifully returned to fend behind the chain link
fence. Motherless. Yet another friend doubted
a vision she’d seen of a strange woman crossing
at the foot of her bed. Wonders

if it was a dream. The Major Oak in Sherwood
Forest died this year. One thousand years old.
Props and metal chains, concrete and lead—
like overkneaded bread, dead from excess
touch, compacted soil from too many tourists,
perhaps too much heat in our changing world.

On the phone, my mother repeats how she won’t
be here for the next wedding in July. Wishful,
she rocks on the front porch, laments the number
of cars whizzing by on East Genessee in one
breath, and in the next, how her daughter and son
got so sick. And here, she lives on, ninety-nine.

Baking in a 2010

Sun defining my vision

Staring off into an endless sea

2010s-2019s

Buttery popcorn bucket

Expired Dr.Coke

Melted M&Ms

Phone at 2 percent

Watching the show

Middle aged divorcee

Storming back to his 2015

Snorting and growling 

Exclaiming, “No No No”

Old shriveled lady

Three grandkids jumping around

Portraying what they just saw

Laughing, “If only you all were awake”

Young depressing couple

Moseying out one after the other

Eyes glued to phone

No words were said

Baking in a 2010

Sun defining my vision

Staring off into an endless sea

Watching the show

 After Eduardo Hurtado’s “How To Paint the Sky”  

How can I love gray?
Light seeps in, settles like old paint,
incredibly tired.  

But I remember
true brilliance:
No sky at all, just light and air,  

a place for cats and other living things.
Art is long. 
Paint yourself into a corner, settle in.  

Consider, as the poet says—
poet as trickster, truthteller, fakir—
in your corner, the love that hides,  

patched together,
love as necessary as light,
that one big thing the hedgehog knows.

As a mother of eleven children,
my mama did many loads of laundry
wearing her house dress and apron.
She washed and ironed many shirts,
blouses, skirts, pants, and dresses.
She cooked too many to count meals

She sang and taught us to sing harmony.
She whistled.  She played the mandolin.
She read us bedtime stories, tucked the
little ones in with bedtime prayers, and
then she kissed the many foreheads 
before turning out the lights

She encouraged us all.  She prayed.
She took us to church.  She showed
us how to love one another.

Her signs of surrender came
when she could no longer win the fight
against Cancer.  We eleven surrounded
her with our love.

She had given us everything that money can’t buy.

Sleep, sleep
And behind your weeping eyes
Dance through the flowers
Beneath the gentle skies

Dream of the summer 
Run through the trees
Feel the sweet wind
On the face of the leaves

Forget the winter
For it fades away
Wait for the sunrise 
And awake to the day

Sleep, sleep
Lay down your head
Rest your tired bones 
And forget the road ahead

Watch the clear stream
As she laughs down the hill
Wash your deep wounds 
As she bids you be still 

See the white lilies 
That grow on her banks
Feet in the water
Sweet sun on your face 

Sleep, sleep
Dream of the light
Let its rays warm your blood
In the cold of the night

Forget the winter
For it fades away
Wait for the sunrise
And awake to the day

I am face up in the sun
somewhere between the guy
with the mullet eating cheesy 
pringles and the skraggly gray 
dog wearing novelty dog-shaped 
swim trunks. 

A spider has made our towel her campground. 

She scuttles up from terrycloth 
peaks, and disappears behind 
heaping granules of beige sand. 

I am sitting beside my friend, 
while another returns their
feet to the algae thick water 

Graceful amidst the screaming gleeful children.