There is a team named the Savannah Bananas.
Pitcher’s on stilts sporting yellow pajamas,
cather does back flips
fans swing their hips.
The game, like life, is farce and hosannas.

Funny how no one calls it by its name.
Instead we say the Fourth of July & celebrate
on the Second & Third & the Fourth & the Fifth,
the fireworks starting early & ending late
as the neighborhood boys learn their first lessons
on how to wage careless little wars
with the enemy out of sight & out of mind. 
No one warns them of collateral damage,
the poor cats & dogs running for cover under the bed.
How they shiver in those dusty foxholes,
how we wish we could tell them the bombs aren’t real,
not yet.

It’s a rough thing, losing your parents.
Lots going on.

Emails. Texts. Phone calls.
Siblings asking why.
Discussions of the will.
Memories, good and bad. Often simultaneous.
Tears of grief mixed with joy that the suffering is over.
Childhood home drive-bys, someone else’s family there now.
Old recipes since changed, but still reminiscent.
Mannerisms inadvertently inherited, stirring recollection.
Learning to be alone in the world.
Jumping at the doorbell, thinking for a second it might be them.
Going to work, no one knows.

All that, plus the fact they’re not actually dead.

Only dead to me.

they 
whoever they is
always say it’s not the heat
it’s the humidity

in the midst of a world 
so fraught with hot-headed 
hang-gliding    jumping  off 
cliffs 

i’m hoping the thermals 
keep us aloft for long enough
to find a clear place to
land

-for B. C.

that time I cried
in a meeting
during the pandemic
single mom
scared
of losing my job
& while everyone
sat socially
distanced in chairs
& turned their heads
to offer
sympathetic stares
you got up
afraid
you had cancer
& crossed six feet
of empty space
to bring me a box
of tissues

3/4 beef 1/4 pork cut in cubes

brown in skillet on stove

chop up good size onion in there.

Salt and pepper.

Continue to brown till there is brown on the bottom of the pan

when you pour in a little water and it makes a brown color.

Add more water.

Cover and simmer 1 ½ hours

more or less.

Add more water as needed

Add chopped celery.

Cook 30 more minutes

Translation. I got beef stew meat & cut each chunk into 1 inch cubes or less. Cut the onions in 1 inch pieces, added 2 cups of water to begin with then add more later, sprinkled lots of salt & pepper. You should be able to smell the pepper when cooking. Cut the celery into ¼ inch slices & cook 30 more minutes. Served with brown basmati rice instead of the white rice Mom cooked. Use tamari instead of soy sauce.

I spent cloud-reigned days
praying for sun on my skin.
The rain insisted,
while barreling through my door,
bright blue sky is not my friend.

I am weary!
Exhausted
Overwhelmed
Snatching moments of joy,
but wondering if I will ever 
FEEL happy again
Needing uninterrupted sleep,
but every night, tossing and turning
and seeing 2 and 3 am too often
Grateful for the friends that are checking in
and making plans with me, some of which
I just can’t make
and I pray that they understand
that right now, I am a weary traveler
on this road of life!

The power line flossing birds that string like rows
of blackened teeth or tahitian pearls.

Tarnished square silver belt buckle clinks gently against
the blue metal fence, paint flaking.

Breathe through your mouth- this field belongs to the
deer that keep coming back.

Summer dusk in the most beautiful place you’ve ever
asked questions about.

It’s like that sometimes. Carpet of lightning bugs set
the grass on twinkling fire.

I only start feeling guilty when I start to feel confused, like
I’m losing tug of war with my heart.

I have limited interest in breakfast foods. Let’s make a
secret pact and take it to our timely graves.

I have two small distractions,

And they seem to hate to see me work.

While I fume and fuss and sweat and write,

Around my chair they lurk.

They both are Heelers,

Supposed working dogs,

But it seems the genes for work appreciation,

In them has slipped some cogs.

The older dog nudges my legs,

To lie behind my feet,

She’ll lie there twitching and snoring,

And some odiferous things I won’t repeat.

The younger one’s a dynamo,

Thumping toys against my legs,

She growls and barks demanding attention,

And when all else fails she begs.

In slow demands the older one

 Puts a paw upon on my lap,

This is her request we go outside,

Now that she’s finished with her nap. 

To the door I then go,

As my four-legged shadows glide,

And the younger one must again be reminded,

That all toys must stay inside.

They run outside across the grass,

Their business to be done,

While I stand and wait in watchful silence,

As they have their outside fun.

Occasionally, I’m included,

As across the fields they streak,

They quickly come back to ask like hopeful kids,

“Can we go play in the creek?”

So I laugh out loud and say “Let’s go!”

To me, or both of them?

I suppose it doesn’t matter much,

I write while they swim.

I’m inspired to remind myself,

That life is not only about toil,

It’s also nice to relax the mind and soul,

In a little revel and a roil.