i wonder if
this cockroach,
who spent its life
hiding and eating
garbage, died on
its back because
it was searching
for god, if roaches
even care about god,
or if it was just a spasm.
maybe that’s all
god is anyway,
a soul spasm

We begin with a slow cup

of coffee Observing the birds

and squirrels convening

at the feeder. Woody is the bully

of the bunch When he is eating

the others must eat his droppings

from the ground. The squirrels

chase each other around the trunk

Everyone playing nice-ish

until the hawk swoops

and the poor soul squeals

away on the wing.

The stationery
matters to me but not them.
I want it pretty,
written in sky blue gel ink
with hearts in my signature.

I must print the words
carefully now that cursive
is unlearned language,
but my flourished Grandma name
sits quite proudly at the end.

Because I wrote them,
I hope excitement erases
their teenage ennui.
I may ask too much of them
and the way of modern hearts.

I was so happy to have this haircut as something you didn’t know about me

And yet here you are, taking that from me

I so badly want to be free of you

As if your blood doesn’t pump through my veins

This one thing you didn’t know about me was so important

My sister doesn’t understand why I can’t be more firm

She gets upset so easily

She’s always been the one who is good at telling you what she wants

I wonder what that’s like

It’s unsafe for me to be myself

So I abandon myself for you

You act like this is what I want

You’ve never understood that I don’t feel like I have a choice

The space hurts less than being near you

I worry my hangnails raw

Seeing you standing at my door made me put up my guard again

I slipped into it so easily

A silk night dress against smooth legs

It feels like I have to start all over

And you get to just walk away

Taking what’s mine with you

They built a mountain made of stone,
Where river waters softly moan,
A glass-topped peak in valley laid,
By hands of men instead of shade.

Folks call it just the Pyramid,
Where courts and offices are hid,
But old folks smile and shake their heads—
“That ain’t what truly sleeps,” they said.

Long before the coal was king,
Before the rails and church bells’ ring,
Before the first axe split the pine,
A fire-born beast claimed these hills as mine.

Its scales were forged in mountain seams,
Its breath could boil the creeks to steam,
Its wings once cast the noonday night,
Its eyes were twin coals burning bright.

It circled high above the ridges,
Shadowed hollers, crossed the bridges
That hadn’t yet been built by man—
Only deer knew where it ran.

Then came an old and praying folk,
With hickory staff and locust yoke.
They sang no spell from wizard’s page,
But hymns remembered age to age.

They asked the dragon not to die,
Nor chained it ‘neath an angry sky.
Instead they made a solemn vow—
“Sleep beneath these mountains now.

“When greed has cut the hills too deep,
And widows gather still to weep;
When rivers rise and towns despair,
You’ll rest until hope fills the air.”

So down it curled beneath the clay,
Dreaming centuries away.
The mountain folded like a quilt,
And over it the town was built.

Years rolled on like Tug Fork rain,
Coal trains groaned through every vein.
The dragon slumbered, still and deep,
Guarding promises in sleep.

Then men raised walls of glass and stone,
Calling that strange hill their own.
They never guessed what rested there,
Far beneath the courthouse stair.

Yet every now and then at night,
When fog climbs up in silver white,
The Pyramid lets out a sigh
That rattles stars across the sky.

Some swear the windows softly gleam
With amber light that shouldn’t beam.
Others hear a heartbeat slow
Echo where no rivers flow.

When thunder rolls without a cloud,
Or whip-poor-wills grow strangely loud,
The oldest mountain people grin,
As if they hear an ancient friend.

They’ll say, “Don’t fear the sleeping flame.
The dragon knows us all by name.
It ain’t the beast that folks should dread—
It’s waking what should stay in bed.”

For one day, when these hills have healed,
And every scar begins to yield,
The Pyramid will split apart
Like bark around an oak tree’s heart.

A crimson wing will greet the dawn,
Its shadow stretching ridge to lawn.
Not seeking kingdoms, gold, or war—
Just home among these hills once more.

It’ll climb above the misty pine,
Circle every old coal mine,
Then fold its wings against the breeze
And bless the mountains to the seas.

So if you’re passing after dark,
And hear a rumble through the park,
Don’t reckon it’s a truck alone…

The oldest heart in Appalachia
May simply be turning in its sleep.

she took the stage to
perform her poem
“Please God, don’t let them
shoot my son for runnining.”
tears ran down my face

The poet used a camera
lifted to shoulder
its lens garners images
to enhance the balance of the universe.

Night After Night

As I’ve gotten older, 

Something I have found,

One of life’s greatest mysteries,

Occurs just as I sit down.

When the tv is the loudest,

When I tip the recliner back,

My eyelids grow heavy,

And my lower jaw goes slack.

Before I’m aware of it,

I’m drifting off to sleep,

Very soon I’m snoring,

So peaceful and so deep.

It’s then I hear those words,

“Why don’t we go to bed?”

I awake from my drowsiness,

And shake my weary head.

After all my nightly rituals,

I slip between the sheets,

As the darkness settles ‘round,

I think thoughts so sweet.

But soon I start to realize,

That sleep just won’t come.

I toss and I turn,

While counting sheep until I’m numb.

I think of all the things,

That I have done today,

And all I’ll do tomorrow,

If nothing stands in my way.

Perhaps I drift off,

And snooze for a while,

But I wake up several times,

It’s become my nightly trial.

Just when I’m resting peaceful like,

The alarm begins to scream,

I’m quickly jarred wide awake,

From a lovely pleasant dream.

So, feeling less than rested,

I smack that button on the clock,

The one that allows for a snooze,

Again I find myself sleeping like a rock.

But apparently a “snooze”,

Is only five minutes long,

And in no time at all,

The clock again sings its song.

I know I have no choice,

But to rise and face my day,

To down a cup of java,

Before I go out on my way.

I race off out the door,

Turning my back then to my bed,

There’s time a plenty, the wise men say,

To sleep when one is dead.

Never in my life did I ride in a sleigh
but I can picture it,

not the one with Santa Claus
& those magic reindeer

but that one-horse version 
out of Currier & Ives,

the horse tromping through the snow
snorting steam, a bit grumpy

to be working tonight 
in these difficult conditions 

yet enjoying it in spite of himself,
which I can tell

by the spring in his step
as he draws me farther & farther

across this field of white
toward the dark woods ahead. 

“We want so badly to create something like ourselves, that we forget ourselves.”