I will miss it  come tomorrow
the time I would’ve taken to be queiet  to let the words seep in around the busy brain

but no  right now I can’t do it   won’t do it  the letters pop in and ask for attention  but no!
the pull of tasks and ticking of boxes  too much   
the dogs with ears peaked and tongues lolling  asking for   no time!
to be still  to allow space  to flow 
they keen only   for a step outside
for a soak of sun   a touch of that breeze
a taste of grass  and maybe a sneak of a pick   yum raspberries
and yes!  there’s a chase of squirrels  and 
oh! 
     tick boxes  get tasks completed
there is no time for a poem today

Upside down in a dance class this morning, I remembered I get nauseous when the earth rises to meet me. So, instead, I sat. And then the world settled. And everything made more sense.  

When I was 22, I came to New York because it meant something. And because I wanted to make it. Dance classes were fifteen dollars, less if you knew your way around the scene.  

Now, I’m no longer seen in the same ways as then. And I see differently too. All these people, I continuously muse. Each with their own whole world of baggage.  

In the dressing room after class, two elder women stretch. Earlier, I’d noticed one of them briefly naked, and I smiled to see her body still making its way through. Her skin. Her breasts.  

Now, in yellows and peaches, she snaps at her friend. The divorce? Oh, I’m not gonna talk about that! Her friend (a bit of an asshole, really) asks why. I slip out before the answer.  

But, good grief lady, we’re paying to play at twenty-five dollars a class and, lord knows, none of us know how much time we have left. So, what do you say—let’s just keep pressing forward.  

—
PROMPT IDEA FOR JUNE 30:
Hi poets! It’s been so great to write with you this month. I wanted to pass along a fun idea for a final prompt from fellow poet, Virginia Woolf Bailey. Last summer she wrote a “self cento.” Typically, a cento pulls together lines from other poets. She personalized this by pulling one line from each of her own poems from the month and creating a new collaged poem of her own lines. I was inspired and tried it myself last year. It’s so revealing! A second layer of truth in your own work—or a new spin in a different direction.

I can’t remember if I kept the same line breaks or played with picking phrases and doing different lineation. I think the second. The less rules the better because it’s already pretty hard to synthetize so much writing! If you have questions, feel free to post in the comments. And I look forward to reading your work for the rest of the month. Cheers! (And thanks Virginia!!)

There is something tightening my chest.
There is something overflowing…stress. 

This new job can weigh a lot 
and make my confidence rot,
as I’m taking my shots 
in the shadows of expectations.

The new information onslaught
feels like smoking pot
for the first time
as I’m boggled with no directions.

I’ll find my stride
and I’ll find my pride somewhere floating,
as I keep stroking
through this sea of “what am I doing?”  

I’m disconnected
I’m free 
I’m risen with glee 
I find my esprit in my own jamboree 

in heavy heat of day,
in heavy gait
with heavy beats—
right hind leg,
right fore, left hind,
left fore, and so on.
slow, smooth. but she
trots now, seeing
canine-friend,
human-friend to enjoy
a cool rinse, a fresh-
picked black raspberry.
she nudges us both,
cuddles close. three
cats stretch in loft—
lacie’s large brown eyes
take all in. mine, too.
i breathe in
a ton of love.

Tins of olive oil
from the land of your birth
crowd your cabinets, the perfect
blocks for small hands to play with.
The sound of oil popping as it
enfolds bell peppers frying in the
cast iron skillet, creating the forever smell
of your house.
Crocheted covers embrace tables and beds,
gifts of elegance created by your hands large
and worn from the working, making, and giving
of your many years.
The noodles only you could make, kneading the
secrets held in your heart, pressing them each
Sunday, sprinkled delicately with flour and love.
I see them draped over the backs of the dining room
chairs waiting to dry.  

the rains came down
and the rivers rose
and the winds blew
and that which was
a solidly built structure
gave way in the storm

no fool was involved
every caution was taken
but the skies had decided
the house had to go

that’s what faith
and bettering myself
seems to earn me
a cycle of growth
then unfair destruction
then picking up the pieces

has me wondering
if the foolishness comes
from trying to build
anything at all

The depths of your core squeeze
And your eyes squint,
Almost all the way shut,
Your lips part

And the sound,
unique to only you,
Pushes out, forcing your jaw to expand
enough to allow room for the booms
of joy… 

I have often fancied myself “funny.” 
Finding humor amid failures,
inappropriate moments,
mistakes, even in the movements of others, strange thoughts,
my neurosis are particularly comical as well.
or the way people use their face in so many ways.

And of course, the best part of honing the label of
“being funny,” is having a part in making people laugh.
Because… we ALL freaking need it.

Working (re: social work) with vulnerable adults can be challenging.
Especially when years of protective factors come into play, 
creating barriers.
A person with their guard held high, 
is my favorite opportunity
to implore a challenge against the bold encasing…

Sarcasm is specifically my most treasured brand,
And often most successful.
Slice the ice…
with some,
good,
ole fashion
mockery.
When cussed by client that I am trying to help manage their money so they do not become homeless (again), becomes hostile, complaining of me being “up his ass:”
“Oh, yes, dude, I can promise you one thing to be true, up your ass is the absolute last place I desire to be. So, if you could just help me stay outta there, I (and probably you) would appreciate that. So, let’s try this again, Mr. Happy Sunshine.”
Mr. Happy Sunshine indeed chuckled and loosened his shoulders.
There we go. We are both just human.

And if the time is right (well, or if it isn’t),
Add in some voices.
Oh man.
Some tried and true characters (who have rarely failed me):
We have;
Judy from London, who laughs with an overwhelming squeal, and is always, always drunk with hiccups,
Todd, who is very “bro,” and thinks females are innately beneath him, and being a man gets him everywhere, but he fails to see he is nowhere.
Betty, the old lady, who cannot for the life of her use an iPhone, or understand the “progressive” world we live in.
Billy or Billy Joe, the redneck, (must protrude teeth and generally contort face into looking like utter dumbass); typically used when referring to racists or ignorance in general (I know, I know… I am irreverent).
Marvin the Martian, who will eventually successfully blow up the earth (one of my oldest voices),
And
Karen, of course, needs no explanation. 
And of course there is the character that IS my daughter, who is a whole “thing” of preteen joy and ‘tude with a personality as big (and beautiful) and unrulely as her hair… She gets the most pissed. But man, she makes it easy.

Introducing… The Comedian (yes, I know, a character role as well);

Breaker of silence, stifle-er of pain, releaser of whatever is inside, reflective listener, troublemaker, ADHD spewing, faker until maker,
Yes… fake laugh, until it turns real.
I. Dare. You.

Flashback:
Without a doubt, like clockwork, eyes watering, pursed lips, until I cannot hold it in and snot flies out with a chuckle during the DEAD SILENT PARTS of Catholic mass…
And the inevitable, ultimate disconcerted look of disappointment and anger from my father. I still do not know what was so funny… Replaying the horrible a cappella attempt from the poor soul of a song leader…? Or mostly looking at my friend and simply knowing we are not supposed to make a sound, let alone laugh.
Repeating “Don’t laugh, don’t laugh, don’t laugh…” until it was Marvin the Martian’s voice in my head saying, “LAUGH LAUGH LAUGH. It’s all funnnnny! Blow it up! Laugh!”

And more times that I would like to admit, I am a “laugh until pee-er”… If the laugh turns silent, then you can bet to catch me sprinting to the bathroom.

But. I don’t want to laugh alone. I want you to laugh with me.
But. I would also appreciate being the reason for your laughter… 🙂

your secrets clench my stomach,