They have you doing the dirty work.
Cleaning up the messes you didn’t make,
caution signs on the corner of every aisle,
wrong turns send you colliding,
so you try again.
The complaints are the worst of it.
There’s always a new situation,
something out of your control,
you have to give something,
to keep from an explosion.
You don’t know what makes you stay.
The obligations to make it right
take hold of your senses.
But I won’t be you anymore.
I quit.
Bandage covers right side
from ear to bottom of jaw—
a sharp angled line as
where creek meets cattail
& cardinal flower, where
winter branch meets azure,
where rock meets rock.
And yet it is the left side
that fascinates me, or over
green-coat shoulder-pasture,
past the face so like a cliff.
Geishas in a valley, women
dressed in scarlet & sapphire
waving a fan so pearl it knocks
out sun until only outlines remain—
sleek stygian hair, cherry blossom
tree elbows, pyramid-mountain
distant & dreaming.
Rays leave the sun, absorbed into a leaf
Plucked from a tree here at Walden.
I am stunned by beauty, by nature, by earth;
Of creation and birth, soiled when all done.
Fragmented chatter burrow into attentive
Eyes, demanding attention and perceptions.
Thorough are the letters sealed with a stamp;
Slow, but deliberate—with words of intention.
The journal is the journey of the mind:
Boundless and mine, timeless in bind.
Ice cracks the lake like an imperfect fault
Of civil disobedience, authentic and reflective.
Truth is found within; beginning with me,
Thoreau, and the government to overthrow.
I tread the same paths
hoof-falls echoing on the smooth rock
worn formless and without ornament
by the countless before me.
I follow the others that broke from the flock
untended by the shepherds, forgotten.
Yet the wolves are simply cried for;
apparitions in the trees.
They do not yearn for blood
and they have no mouths for teeth.
They wail and howl incessantly
mournful calls to the moon and the sea.
In their song, in their pain
we catch glimpses of the truth.
For the wolves are not dangerous
not killing, exploiting, and castigating.
The wolves do not disown their own young
and abuse the young of others.
They do not hide behind a paper-thin guise
and defend their actions with flawed rhetoric.
They do not follow an outdated
centuries old storybook
twisting its words
without grasping the meaning.
They do not carry staffs
with which they punish and warn.
Though demonized by the pastoral shepherds
they are not the wolves in sheep’s clothing.
Neither is what it seems.
Billie who slept
on sidewalks nearby
would also slump against
our house in a stupor
Billie’s world was small
dwindled to this locale
where he claimed his hard bed
and no one messed with his cart
I worried about
his dreams
getting caught
in our walls
I suppose they did
because I still think of him
sleeping under the bright parking lot lights
which made him feel safe he said
I think he just wanted
to be invisible,
for no one to confront him
as he kept his routine
when 911 would come often
he told them
he was just resting from
folding his laundry and they would leave
911 finally took him away one day
where he died
in the hospital
of a very long list
When I turn the corner
and look around the side wall
of our house, I still imagine
I might see Billie
close, but not quite
actually, not truly close
just something
and that’s not enough
an inkling, an ounce
a mentioned deliverance
does not equal what my heart needs
therefore, I choose
myself even if
Part II
Again, too hot. Dressed in a thin white cotton dress, I climb into my empty tub, sit on the edge, and view a painting by October, my Oma’s alter ego.
All is calm in this sea scene— all ocean blues with soft grey mountains in the background, boulders strewn on the shore— broad brushstrokes of bistre brown for jagged rocks— but the sands— smooth, and where the water touches shore, silky.
It feels safe to dive into this ocean— and so I do.
I round a bend, jump: my grandmother sits there!
Overhead, three large seagulls squawk against a soft sky. My dear, go! I never intended you to see me in this landscape. But since you are here, I must ask— why are most of my paintings hanging in bathrooms? I thought they were gifts you valued from me?
I dig my toes into the sand. I explain they are. Then I tell her, Oma, I saw Russ yesterday in his Sails on Stormy Seas. No reply from her. He sent me away with a message of love for you. I know you loved him, too.
Finally, she says, You know I was lonely– divorced at twenty-two with two kids. Marriage suitors lined up at the door, yet I fell for my boss.
I smile. But then you bought him out. There was your opportunity.
She shakes her head. No, my dear. You see, it was never the right time to divorce a Catholic wife. I made our choice. And I have no regrets. But it is time for you to leave. And turn up your air!
She splashes me.
The salty waters reach my lips. We both laugh, then look to the sky. It’s the same ol’ game.
I start. Oma, what do you see?
She replies, What I painted, silly— serenity. And you, my dear, what do you see in your Kentucky skies?
I look outside the ornate gold and canvas frame and smile back at her. Oma, I see my serenity, too, that— the most treasured gift you gave me as a child.
An ekphrastic from Las gaviotas sobre la playa Manzanilla de México by October 1. Date: 1965. Oil on Acrylic. 20 x 24. (Translation: Seagulls above La Playa Manzanilla of Mexico.)
You wear your pride
like armor fused together
by ignorance—
unwilling to yield,
even as truth cracks beneath your feet.
You don’t see it, do you?
Eyes welded shut by your own certainty,
your pulse syncs
not with justice or wisdom—
only with the echo chamber
of your favorite headlines.
The leader you hate
could cure cancer
and you’d call it a cover-up.
The one you love
could burn the Constitution
and you’d call it cleansing.
You’ve built a faith
not on evidence,
not on hope—
But on the poisoned stem
of a cynic’s crown.
Just look at you,
hunting for any flame
to prove the world’s on fire—
even if you have to light it yourself.
How miserable must life be?
How much must you crave
the role of a victim—
to dig through ashes
just to say,
“I told you so”?
You ignore the laughter
of children,
the healing,
the quiet victories
of neighbors who still believe
in something besides
the downfall.
I know—
peace doesn’t get clicks.
Unity doesn’t trend.
Hope doesn’t fit
your doom-scrolling gospel.
So here you are—
a prophet of collapse,
preaching to a choir of cynics,
while some of us
choose to build bridges
from the bricks
you keep throwing.
Wake up!
Not everything’s falling.
However, you might be—
and too proud to notice.
Temp 96 degrees
Feels like 103 to me
It’s a
Perfect day for a swim
It’s a
Perfect day for ice cream
It’s a
Perfect day at the beach
It’s a
Perfect day for an ice-cold drink
It feels like 103
But they say it’s only 96 degrees
