judgement
Sand in the sieve.
Sometimes folks just don’t need to hear it.
If “folks” means yourself, that’s ok too.
Flip a coin
to find out what you really want
while it’s in the air.
button button button
button button
One day
I will
climb
to the tippity, toppity, resting place
of the tallest oak I can find
I will dangle
my feet over
a sturdy-enough branch,
squeezing my eyes tightly shut
as the wind
from a much-needed incoming storm
blows.
I will talk to the dry Earth from up above,
encouraging it to open its heartbeat
and share with me
the secrets that stay hidden beneath
the rocks
the roots
the ribbons of debris
left from flooding after a wicked snow.
I will listen until my hips settle
into an unhealthy angle.
Then, I will climb down
to write the story
of the loneliest acorn that never did
fall.
I think this
whenever I am
alone
on the ground
in the woods.
After Natasha Tretheway’s “Rotation”
My father was both moon and sun to me—
a conqueror returning each evening, often with a treat.
He played cards with me, letting me win, I’m sure.
With wonder, I looked up at him, filled with light.
Sitting beside me, he taught me Casino
and how to play Patience like in Vegas, but for pennies.
When I looked up at him I saw his face
and then his hands, fingers confident on the cards.
When he stood in the doorway of my room
I trusted him, I knew he’d keep his promises.
He came in, light-footed, happy to see his darling daughter.
I don’t remember when he turned to go.
In the dark, in my room down the hall, I knew he watched
and would protect me. I couldn’t see a time
that he would not be there, a time he’d turn away
like a moon setting, a sun behind clouds.
Sometimes life’s hard facts
Take over my mind
Reality is so unfair
Ugly crying isn’t really encouraged at work
Giving it my best shot to do my best
Grateful for compassionate co-workers
Looking forward to the weekend
Essentially wishing the day away
Basically just surviving the day
Using my coping skills to stay grounded
Staying a prayer that tomorrow will be better
Perhaps we are all unreliable narrators.
Each human experience being subjective.
Who would we assign the title of reliable?
Certainly not the disciples for they have thrills to gain.
Maybe the father himself, thought I might argue for proof.
We must rely on ourselves, though the living is lonely.
Our Home our hearth a blaze,
a place where we gather to Be,
a place to let our hair down, brought a blanket when chilled
simply loved for who are are
Mom was the light, the bed maker, the menu planner, the grocery shopper,
the chauffeur, the tutor, the candle of constant belief,
She was out spoken, strict, a kick ass, straight shootin’ gal,
Never bothered with elitists, yet knew how to be with the best of ’em,
She was a deep lover, a fighter, the one who always had your back,
She’d face off the bully, the punk, extend her Scorpio claws to protect &
shelter all the kids in the neighborhood,
She was a broad to reckon with!
Home was Mom
Hope can be fragile as butterfly wings
or fading rose petals.
As distant as stars or the moon.
Shining bright like sunlight
or as dim as a dark cloudy day.
Waits for your call
when trouble arrives.
Will be ready to rise
at the blink of an eye.
When its time to fight evil deeds
it will be there beside you
in a fight to restore
and keep peace.
Hope never dies!
My day glides by
in effortless attention
to my infant grandson
His language:
caveman ravings
of tiny cravings;
pre-mama, pre-dada
Together we make
a pair of bookends
For him I hold up
a page of colorful snakes
For me, his teething drool
is eloquent proof
of string theory
