discernment  (          & the Ant)

Well, yes–marching along single-filed, good
-natured bunnytailbubble kids like us, 
 dropped Dorito-bound, lined up sock-footed 
en route down stacked cinder block inscriptions…
 We look up. A Dollar Tree clock, viscous thick
now over the Wall’s pocked bricks, oozing goo,
 fills the grooves. Our one request we quickly
scrawl, path tracing letters that reverse into

 cursive incantations. Intangible
Peace at last born, borne by child’s instrument
 of petulant destruction. We 
      called time here. Nursed it
     
       with salt water, and held it in our mandibles.
 We became wet nurse to an experiment 
Fusing fire, sweat, and ice. We are not the clock.

To sojourn on alone in the constant construction of continued existence
is difficult
but must be taken.
Other days, though, the path of perilous persistence welcomes companions along the way.

They journey with you to destinations planned and spurred
and while the winding path is fraught with dangers:
curving roads that lead you astray,
an idle mind that ignores the signs of caution (figuratively and literally), an unforseen discussion of vulnerable lore;
We seek the joys in the experience:
the roads are curvey and confusing but we find stories and jokes through the detors,
I forget the color red at a crossing path but my commarades remind my sight (we laugh horrendously about it seconds later), we’re vulnerable and it’s beautiful to be accepted for it all because it all equates to you, us, and this fellowship we have.

To sojourn alone is a necessary feature of our ever frantic reality,
but communion with kin and kindred
can be found betwixt the lonesome parts
of the hero’s destined journey.
Embrace it when you can. 

06-28-2025:

Something about having you in my passenger seat
captures all the moments that never developed on film
and tucks them tightly in my pockets
overflowing with the magic that fireflies make
on a warm night in July.

Something about the way you stick your head out the window
and smile back at me
makes the fears ebb and flow away
thoughtless as a jellyfish.
I think I made the right decision.

Oh Great Grand Daddies you ever beckon
Solid Safe Solemn ~ as you
Wrap us in your gargantuan arms
Your playful souls oozing collective charm

Ancient wisdom reels Rockefeller’s wealth
Generously sharing Aristocratic views
As mystical fog tiptoes and bathes
Soothing us with gnome leprechaun charms

The way you hold court in purple majesty
Circles channeling messages of magic wisdom
Seep up from roots of fallen comrades ~ never forgotten
Revealing toe-curling truths of transformational surrender  

A tender language truth is 
Loudest in the middle of one’s limbs
Healing wounds in soul-sanctioned groves
Circled witnesses prophesize profound direction

Oh Generous forefathers, you have saved the biggest and the best
for us your children
May we be humble enough to listen to your virile voices ~
prophetically guiding us to soft landing

Urging us to
Spend time in your arms ~ Listening to your silent wisdom

In the early days
Before the white man came
The birds sang their songs

The trees relaxed
their resplendent arms unto the world
Animals of all kinds
roamed the lands

There was plenty

We took from the land
And the land gave back to us

Great Father Sun rises, greets us
Bathes us in warm golden light
Whatever the season
The light of dawn returns
his blessing, our gift

Visible but tightly closed –

Like an abused teenager –

I observe the flower’s presence

In the early morning.

I sit and write surrounded by the

Peace and hum of life

Awakening to the day.

The sun crests the trees and

Stabs my eyes with its

Blinding rays.

I shift into the shade

To find the blossom

Slowly unfurling. Despite the

Sunlight being indirect, it reacts.

Yellow center and long

Red stamens,

Tipped with velvety dots,

Respond to the axis of light,

Anticipating the warmth and

Brilliance of the summer day.

I feel manic today

unmotivated and strange

impending vacation glaring at my face.

I cannot wait

to be out of this place.

Out there on the beach, in the surf

in the sand and the dirt.

No agenda, no meetings,

no schedules, no deadlines.

Just me and you, and whatever we want to do.

I cannot wait.

I feel manic and strange.

Like a monkey in a cage.

Waiting for the day

when the locks will break.

My daughter says

Inspired by Maggie Smith’s first line in her poem Goldenrod, “I’m no botanist.”

I’m no meteorologist— if there’s a cloud overhead—
wispy, dense, puffy— it means rain. If I walk

outside and my glasses fog up, it’s high humidity,
and I’m meant to stay inside. I wake to happiness

or sorrow or numbness or upheaval—
sometimes more than one in a single day.

Especially here in Kentucky, every day
waking and wondering what’s to come.