Artistic Bias
Life lighter than
the poems suggest,
pain demands
a voice,
but joy is savored
in silence.
Life lighter than
the poems suggest,
pain demands
a voice,
but joy is savored
in silence.
This is the land the storms flooded—
drowned out people whose home it once was.
I am complicit here:
my own kin trod those bluegrass hills,
surveyed their expanse, cleared a swampy path.
The waters have receded, so they say,
nearly washing clear this history.
Today, we welcome a seventy-fifth
World Refugee Day.
Yet why do I still feel the wet tears?
A rising tide, for all those they drove away?
“Until Everyone Is Safe” echoes.
I see today’s news—
the echo fades—
a nation of a quiet flood remains.
VOICES FROM THE YARD
The twelve rung-ladder nailed to my tree
was removed for some child’s safety.
At least the queen bee loved me.
Her workers built a hive that started small
then grew to five feet by five feet, heavy
with honey, but somebody came with smoke
filled me full and took it all away.
My walls stopped humming.
They tried to relocate queenie to a wee box
on the ground, but she would have none of it.
What lives up here in me now is my secret,
but I’ve begun to rot and that’s not pleasing me.
I don’t wish to obfuscate the situation
with my whines and opinions except I feel
abandoned and now the playhouse
has something to say, too, but her voice
is as weak as her squirrel, mice and hornet
infested walls. She whispers and I hear
even though I’m up high, she—down low
we abide side-by-side living differently
yet deteriorating simultaneously.
For twenty years no one has bothered
to maintain our original glory.
We were built with pride by a man
who enjoyed working with his hands
making things for his two children,
outside in the big world behind the house.
I used to be rustic and sturdy
and little mini was cutie with painted
white sides and a brown shingled roof,
light lilac interior and flower wallpaper
accents. So sweet. We even had electricity.
She had lights and a ceiling fan.
Now her roof sags, walls have holes.
Good god she looks old.
Why do people build, create then cease
to care for what they propagate properly?
We, the orphans on this property, soon to die
say thanks for nothing and goodbye.
she asks if i know any good grounding skills
& debate begins, tension builds
seeking in a world of not knowing
I roll over debating my mind
I reach out to touch
to mine your words
your thoughts, experiences
I do not ask, I wait.
You come with your hug tight
I love you contained in arms you wrap around
& I witness your struggle
& all that you contain
& all that you hold back
& your story pours out
& I write poetry
because poems provoke questions
as I become lost in a maze.
My name either means
of bright shining fame
or serious. It kind of depends
on which one of me shows up.
In reality it just signifies
my daddy wanted a son.
So they could call him
Junior or The Second.
But out I popped
lacking the credentials.
So they stuck an “a”
on the chosen name.
That’s me all right—not
very serious or famous
or male, but lordy—
can I sass!
“And when you pray, you must not be like the hypocrites. For they love to stand and pray in the synagogues and at the street corners, that they may be seen by others. Truly, I say to you, they have received their reward.” – Matthew 6:5
In This House We Believe
Black Lives Matter (we just don’t know any)
Women’s Rights = Human Rights (except for Palestinians)
No human is illegal (unless they are mentally ill or an uggo)
Science is real (again, we don’t know any)
Love is love (as long as you’re cute)
Kindness is everything (but I’m a bad tipper)
We say No Kings then retweet Charles III
We Vote Blue No Matter Who unless they are a socialist
We call ourselves progressives and fight for the status quo.
In this house, we are Americans.
Being this close to him
turns my body to glass;
fragile, in his hands.
My fingers tremble
despite attempts to steady them.
His voice, his face—
makes my chest ache.
My body yearns for his kiss,
his arms secure around me.
Then I remember,
every promise,
every lie.
I remember every time
I opened my heart,
only to be crushed
in his hands.
Sadness steals my words
like his hands over my mouth.
Tightening the grip
around my throat.
His hands shatter my body,
like glass.
Jagged pieces of my glass heart
fall to the ground.
Crystal tears
gather in my eyes.
I don’t let them fall.
I know the cost of letting him see
me weakened in his hands;
he will only leave more scars.
His hands shatter me
like glass.
Tired of sitting in the same spot,
Morpheus hoots for my attention
but I have no time to move him.
He should know in hunting season
injuries flood the Rescue Center.
That’s how he got here.
I slip him a mouse meant for the reptile cage
who tries to scurry away but the owl holds tight,
making a quick end to his struggle.
Morpheus pulls his wing back to extend it
but the bullet that missed his heart severed
the tendon that allows his wing to stretch
and keeps him from flying.
My leg works about as good as his wing.
We are gimps, tottering from place to place,
unfit for the demands of normal society.
But here, among the three-legged squirrel
And blind skunk with his eye shot out
we are who we are, that is to say, ordinary.
We are friends with no disdain for those
imperfections that others spurn, trading
who who-who who-whos and keeping
each other company through the day.
He blinks, eyes dark with deep knowing.
Now that everyone is fed Morpheus, up you go
to the tree by the she-owl the with a mangled talon.
