finally love yourself enough
to walk away
take the consequences, judgements, unanswered questions
     all the might have been scenarios
the realization: you are someone else entirely
it is time

one week out
growing more comfortable
decisions are not my forte
     I had a brief, Wednesday freak out
I admire myself though, for pushing through
confirmation is a process
yet sometimes the vibes register
sending more than a simple feeling
a push out the proverbial door

everything I value
evidence on a gravel road
perhaps a transition, only
still yet a change, beginning, hope
                                                     renewal

There once was a path from my house into the forest.
With my dog, I would walk an hour before sunset,
steeped in soft golden light or basked
in shades of clouds’ heavy sighs—
or light snowflakes that decorated my cheeks.

Lateef took in every scent, sniffed
at every critter’s scat, peed his own trail alongside me.
It was rare that we did not meet a creature
as curious as we—
a dove or cardinal or sparrow swooping
down above us, a buzzard in tattered cloak
standing watch over new death,
even a snake rustling under autumn leaves
or sunning on boulders halfway to a creek

where we dipped our toes in and drank,
wiped our hands on moss of great oaks
before turning back, bidding adieu
to our named favorite trees—  
Grandmother Cedar and her three saplings,

Uncle Red Bud, deceased but not yet fallen,
and we would step over Sister Sycamore lending her decay
to the mushrooms below, to Brother Olive Tree
and the twisted Pine Papas and Sugar Maple Mamas
at the edge of the woods where gentle breezes,
or strong winds, would carry us home.

Once inside, I would brush off sweat, rain, or a tick,
turn back to take in the sunset through a picture window.
There once was a path from me to home.

Dancing with the Oak trees,
the wind waves me over to join

in the gala, showing off June’s 
green gown as the sun-shadowed

leaves flutter and fawn.
Queen Anne nods her lacy head

and bows over wild carrot roots.
Above, the sky’s light smiles

down with warm pride as the
clouds circle in the promonade.

Papaw’s hands were mountain-made,
Carved by coal and spade and blade.
Blackened deep where daylight failed,
In tunnels where brave hearts prevailed.

Every wrinkle held a seam,
Every scar recalled a dream
Of bringing supper to the stove,
Of earning every ounce of love.

His knuckles wore the color night,
Though his spirit carried light.
Coal dust settled in each line
Like scripture etched beneath the mine.

Those hands could split a hickory round,
Set fence posts firm in rocky ground.
Patch a roof before the rain,
Or soothe a child through fear and pain.

I’ve watched them cradle Grandma’s face
With roughness softened into grace.
The same hands that wrestled stone
Never let her stand alone.

When Sunday came, he’d scrub them clean,
Though black still lingered in between.
Soap could wash the dust away,
But not the years they’d given away.

Now the mines have all grown still,
Their echoes sleeping in the hill.
Yet when the evening shadows stand,
I still remember Papaw’s hands.

For mountains rise, and rivers bend,
And every road must find its end.
But the strongest thing this world has known
Was never carved of steel or stone.

It was a pair of weathered hands,
That built a life on borrowed lands.
Hands that dug through earth so deep
So generations yet could sleep.

If Heaven keeps what time demands,
Then angels know my Papaw’s hands.
Still stained with coal, still strong, still true—
The hands that built the world I knew.

I place a foot upon a rung
I pull myself up one more step
Looking down I have come so far

Rising up like the lonely star
Shedding yesterday in my wake
To Heaven I make weary climb

Each step and pull a weighted thing
Each step up a good deed I sing
Though not easy to be divine

I’m almost there, I hear the call
Trumpets playing through golden hall
Passing final rung, standing tall

Then I begin to
                            Fall
                            Fall
                            Fall

From
Grace
Into
the
clouds
below

Ladder
rungs
flying
past
in
blur

Cruel
  Winds
They
  Whip
Me
  To
And
  Fro

Then I land upon
                               Rock bottom

Everything here so very still
Everything here is so quiet
Allowed time to reflect on life

Countless missteps during the climb
Wasn’t perfect   I    never      was
Yet here I am at start again

Two choices, then, I have to me
Stay and wallow in self-pity
Or make that dreaded climb again

I cannot promise anything
But I can try to right the wrongs
Putting others before myself

Most important: I’ll be myself

A weary grip upon a rung
I pull myself up one more step
Looking back I cannot forget

No matter how far we have come
In life we climb
In life we fall

There once was a concrete buddha from mayslick.
Who came upon a concrete cow from mooslick.
The concrete buddha said mooslick.
And the concrete cow said mayslick.
Mooslick,mayslick,buddhalick,cowlick. Samelick.

Delia dances dizzily down dappled dreams, dawns droll druid’s delight

I am a turtle on a rock
A cat in a box

I am in sleep mode
waiting for a system update

My pens will not pirouette

I will avoid eye contact
with the list on the fridge

The weeds in the flower bed
will get a reprieve

This corner of the couch
has invisible straps

My spirit surrenders to a languid state

I can reach the remote
my bag of chips

I will plea to loved ones
to refill my glass

I knocked on his door, he never fails to answer. Losing hope by the second I turned around, his mustang pulling in. I knocked on his door while he was up on the hill, as he says, whispering a soliloquy of my name, my spirit and my safety. Oh what divine mercy. If there’s a god he gave me the best person. I was in my early twenties on his porch,
crying on my dad like I was a little girl again, for a second I was home again.

I prayed to a god I don’t believe in for a sign that everything was going to be alright.

I stepped outside and he was there on the porch, I sat beside him in the midsummer heat, the evening sun setting behind the thick green trees.

We both gazed into the field and saw a doe chasing a coyote.
neither of us said anything for a moment.

He had never seen anything like it, he said, in living here for 30 years. My awareness sharpened, the warmth in my heart started to pulsate, suddenly I was drowning in light. My sign was right there in front of my eyes.

God was a goddess this entire time.

We all know what it means to miss the boat,

to find ourselves a fish out of water.

So over our heads, we have to sink or swim.

If we can’t reverse the tide the only way out

is to bite the bullet and swim against it.

Break a leg, they say so I try to get my act together,

to find a way to hang in there. No use getting bent

out of shape and making things worse. It could

get out of hand if all hells breaks loose.

Let’s go back to the drawing board.

It isn’t rocket science when we wrap our heads

around how to bite the bullet and get the train

back on track so we don’t bark up the wrong tree.

If we miss the boat, we’ll find ourselves in a real

pickle. I swear, that will be the last straw.

What can we do but live and learn? Just

remember to look before you leap. You

know you can’t have your cake and eat it too.

Don’t go throwing caution to the wind. Get

over it and remember, no pain, no gain.

There is no best of both worlds, unless your

guess is better than mine. No crying over spilt

milk when you bite off more than you can chew.

Cutting corners is no way to navigate a perfect storm

even when getting something out of your system.

I’ll cut you some slack if you get your act together and

stop adding insult to injury. Change your attitude.

Don’t you have bigger fish to fry? Every cloud

has a silver lining. It’s a blessing in disguise.

Good things come to those who wait.

Actions speak louder than words. Do you get the

picture? That picture is worth a thousand words.

We can all live and learn at least once in a blue moon.

After all, time flies when we’re having fun.

Let’s say that again.