Here I am,
staring again at keys—
cold, white and black.

Remembering where I last ended.
I was nineteen.

An upright held their stark geometry still,
it smelling of mineral spirits,
dust-filled,
until I first, at age eight,
plunked thin, short fingers down— 
a C major shock.

I scaled C to D to E,
then thumb-tuck pivot to F and G,
climbing up,
joined by left hand. 

I asked myself then:
Now how was that fun?
A harp twirled in my mind.

But I scaled simply with simple books,
to hymns I did not wish to play,
to classics,
to years of black dresses and silent judges,
to endless drills and afternoons extended,

to hear that last note:
Talent but thin fingers still too short— 
not enough range.

Yet today,
I run down the scales on a guitar band app,
smooth,
longing for hard, colder keys.

How could I have ever known
a new-found love of verse
would wish me to play?

My own tune,
set to my own poetry.

Feeling the roll of the tires
on a bumpy-ass on-ramp
like an extension of my body.
Blasting the AC
down New Circle
helplessly exhausted
trusting her
to get me home.

The Librarian slips him dragon
books before barcoding them.

Sure to see him again before
the final bell rings.

The real tale to tell
is where his imagination

takes him. It isn’t reality
although it’s based on a true-ish

story. As the prophet of his
friend-group, he is no main

character- he is an unreliable
narrator. Not an overachiever,

he hides behind the cover,
avoiding –although reading–

the room. The twist– he can predict
with some accuracy the origin

story of both heroes and villains.
Victories and downfalls falling

on equally deaf ears. World-
building his memories.

i say i love you 

Here is my entry for today. I hope you feel seen. 

Motherhood is sacred work.

Every diaper changed,
every bottle made,
every meal presented

is ritual.

Caring for children

is holy work.

Kissing boo-boos,

telling made-up fairy tales,

or reciting a poem—

it lives in the spirit of the child.

Slow down, Mama.

This is sacred work.

It is holy

the way we are muses.

Take a deep breath

and remember:

this work is everything

for the future of the earth

and her inhabitants.

Every nursery rhyme you teach.

The way you speak to the bees.

The little ones absorb it all.

Sponges of curiosity,

they are.

And their muses

are we.

History is a snowglobe.
every time the shakes hit
the snow of details settles
differently.

When snowdrifts clog
the streets of perception
with inconvenient facts
rattle your saber, missile
strike a different part
of the planet, and see
where the facts settle
when the snow flies.

No problem is so big that
re-arranging the powdery
façade can’t distract
attention from it.

So drill baby drill, or drop
bombs baby drop bombs,
blockade, obfuscate, lather
rinse, repeat.

Selective history: a better
stick to beat to trick to treat
than telling the simple truth
that the landscape underneath
will never change.

best name of the day
little pink hour
that no time owns

blooming like a rendezvous
kept by no one
therefore never broken

pink light and streaked clouds
the day held onto its dawn
a gift! late risers

At seventeen I thought
I had this life figured out.
At twenty-seven I was certain of it,
but with every passing decade
I have become less and less certain,
until, at seventy, though I know more than ever,
I feel utterly clueless.