It’s Toss-the-Stuffed-Puppy time
and we laugh at fantastic catches,
each grasp at paw or tail
sillier than the last, our smiles
racing to be the widest.
My teacher-self sees hand-eye
coordination and self-confidence,
my Nana-self exhales
a ripple of giggles, making
that trip to the clinic redundant.
❤️🔥 32 Looks Good on You
32 looks good on you.
Your steady hands, your heart of gold,
honey, you’re not getting old.
You’re becoming.
Life is only beginning.
Can’t you feel it?
The veil keeps thinning,
and still, the end is nowhere in sight.
You arrived here exactly on time,
like the moon arriving to faithful tides.
A man to be proud of,
soft yet unbreakable,
gentle in a world that mistakes cruelty for strength.
I swear I dreamed you up
before this life ever began.
Maybe somewhere, long before earth,
our souls recognized each other
by candlelight.
Maybe I have loved you
through ten thousand names already.
Your quiet steadiness,
your constant metamorphosis,
grounds me when my spirit wanders too far.
And still, somehow,
I fall more in love with you every time.
I love you,
and I love us,
the strange little universe we’ve built
out of survival, laughter, devotion, and hope.
Watching you become a father
healed places in me
I thought would stay haunted forever.
The little girl inside me
feels safe enough to come outside now.
Because of you,
I remember how to be soft.
How to play.
How to believe in goodness again.
You are so special
without even having a clue.
I pledged my soul to you.
Not just in this life,
in every life after.
And if I’m the first to go,
I’ll pull a Wuthering Heights
and come home to haunt you,
just as you wanted me to.
You’ll feel me in flickering lights,
in thunder shaking the windows,
in the cold side of the bed turning warm.
32 looks good on you, babe.
Here’s to another trip around the sun,
another chapter written
inside the home we created together,
a sanctuary stitched together
by tired hands and stubborn love.
You are proof that good men exist
despite the sensual politics of this world.
A rare soul.
A sacred thing.
And I’m so thankful
you chose me.
Forgive me for the ignorant decisions,
for the storms I carry.
I’m still growing into the vision
I’ve had since I was a little girl.
I’m the Miss Honey in your world,
still learning how to believe
I deserve gentleness too.
I love your truth.
Your honesty is sexy.
Your humor feels holy to me.
And you light up every room
like the moon,
quiet, observant, watchful, psychic somehow,
always there even when hidden.
I have never loved anyone
the way I love you.
Not with my body alone,
but with whatever ancient thing in me
keeps reaching for you in the dark.
I hope you feel that
even during hurricane season.
Hurricane Violet has me weeping
from joy to grief and back again,
like the ocean answering the pull of something celestial.
You have all of me.
Every version.
Every lifetime.
So happy 32nd birthday, my love.
I can’t wait to witness
who you become
between now and next year.
the street dreams
summer shadows
we slide down moonlight
we dog-walk crunching
acorns kick up leaf mold
we lope across front
lawns scrape our paws on
sidewalks chasing stars
A natural wonder appeared right before my mortal eyes
as an eagle majestically soared high over the Cumberland.
This painting by Mother Nature with ease of flight glided
across the water as if each brush stroke gently touched
the canvas in this magical masterpiece.
I’m intrigued by how nature paints beautiful pictures that
we see and enjoy when we stop to smell the roses. There
is much that rapidly passes in life that will be missed if we
don’t take the time to slow down and open our hearts and
eyes to embrace the experience.
So as the bald eagle soared high above the Cumberland it
was like a spiritual blessing from the heavens. Thus, in this
natural work of art, soar high bald eagle, soar high.
unloads beside the cemetery.
I wake without armor
brimming fear
as if I must storm the beaches of Normandy
by myself
although it appears
I only have to
take my car in for servicing
cook lunch
attend my granddaughter’s
high school graduation
The true genesis of concern
isn’t what’s written on calendars
it’s
primordial weather
in deity’s mind
vast
blind
bigger than any old story
it’s
sky
trying to get in my body
Sometimes our sins
are our best friends,
we keep them around like pets
to remember
what we’ve gotten away with
My worst sins (a few
actually criminal) are often
done with good intention,
when i am at the point
of exhaustion or ex-
asperation. They are
the hounds I keep kenneled
behind the farthest barn,
the SMALL ones, the
Small ones, the small ones
are the mutts in the yard
who I like to greet
with my lolling tongue
and wagging tale,
they are the sins (I think)
that reveal my true nature
Let me give you 3 examples:
1) Once a scantily clad neighbor…
……………………………………………………….
Oops,
just now
you walk past my desk,
read this over
my shoulder and say,
Let sleeping dogs lie
Rage strikes hot,
making me forget everything.
Body shaking,
from the rage
within.
Sorrow
fills my heart.
Trying to extinguish
the flames in my head.
But there’s no salvaging
those burns.
Flushed face,
body’s hot,
shaking and uneasy.
Blurred vision,
tears dousing the temptation.
Mental fire, within in head,
spreading through my body.
To let the interior inferno
consume me,
or smother the flame.
The tempatation,
to burn.
