For almost 100% of human beings,
we are completely forgotten
in less than five generations

Our names may still be 
on a piece of paper somewhere
    —an electric bill; a signed check—
but those who knew us
in the flesh will have 
also Moved On

    So what’s the point, then?

The point is this, at least
in terms of physics:
you are a completely unique feature
of the universe–
there has never been
someone made exactly like you
(not even if you have a twin),
nor will there ever be again

    and (bonus!)

you walk a path through 
spacetime that exists
only because you are
creating it

your name and likeness
is not the part of you that
changes the universe–permanently–
it is the part of you that choose to act:

    to say–or not say
    to do–or not do

each choice you make
may not seem to change 
the entire universe,
but that is only because
we are blinded by scale:

(the ant on the sidewalk means little to us, but our descending foot means everything to the ant)

but trust me, you matter–

you will create
and you will destroy

and it is entirely up to you
where the balance point lays

I had no idea that Flamingos would become important to me
My son loved them and I loved seeing the fun, outrageous
ways that he incorporated them into his life
Like, the 5 foot metal statue in his apartment,
flamingo slippers, flamingo clothing, and sun glasses

Since his death, flamingos have made me smile because
they remind me of the fun side of his personality that
was sometimes hidden behind the illness that he battled
on a daily basis, it often overshadowed his personality
and his huge giving heart, would be raw and hurting

I try to keep the good memories flowing, but the pain
of his mental health journey keeps coming to the surface,
and flamingos were a special part of his journey, that 
he chose to embrace in the midst of his illness, and they made
him smile and gave him happiness in the midst of pain

So, when I saw a huge sequin flamingo for sale yesterday,
I knew it needed to become part of my life, so I am
trying to find the perfect space for this monstrosity and other
loud, beautiful, pink reminders that my son was a fun, 
special, beautiful person that I will always love, no matter what!

The clover’s come back thick around the edge of the garden,
and the wrens have returned to the same crooked gourd I strung on a wire last spring.

This morning, the breeze smelled faintly of sweetgrass
and something older—
a whisper from the dirt that didn’t ask for forgiveness because it never sinned.

I sat with my coffee, listening to the creek’s thin sermon,
and thought of Ivan Karamazov, his forehead in his hands,
rejecting a world where children suffer.

My backyard does not argue.
It grows.
It bears witness in moss and spiders and silence.
It does not rage against God or man,
but it does not forget, either.

Some days I’m Alyosha,
offering kindness like twine, hoping it holds.
Some days I am Dmitri,
wild with want, trying to outrun my own story.
And sometimes—God help me—
I am Ivan,
reading the news and walking away
from belief like it’s a burning shed.

But then a finch lands on the edge of the rain barrel.
Then a bee hums low in the mint.
Then the wind lifts a corner of last year’s leaf mulch,
revealing a single green shoot,
insisting on its right to return.

And suddenly, I am no one from a Russian novel—
just a woman in Berea,
barefoot in the grass,
trying to answer with her hands.

What life can I have,
I thought, without you in it?
Then kept on living. 

 words in
              dreams

voices from the 
               hills of home

rattling up from
                          cave
and grotto under 

                 mountains
                                vibrating 

in our
                bones

words of old

                      gods 

cosmic
                     scribbles 

              in the night

                                        sky

              create 

      us
                all         from

                                       nothing   

inspired by Normandi Ellis’s book, 
Imagining The World Into Existence.

these days obsessed by light

the possibility to leverage is uncertain  all the beautiful dawns
the days in this sun  remember
the lights cast  this image just right

these days of air  lit up
the brightness  itself a very thing
the golden ripeness  the wide expanse of time  the purity of pleasure

these days the hard outline  softens
the shovels extended reach into
this pile of soil warm between toes silted steps

the tangled roots shaken loose
the planted seeds woken to
the colors of youth in its gleam

the sprinkler rainbow arches asking
this light to dance
these days remember there now gifts

the sights arrival takes nothing that’s not duly given

maybe I’d be happy
if I could only eat raspberries,
pinkish-red, tart, sticky-sweet

soft fruit skin bubbles 
becoming tiny hats
dancing on playful fingers

under a setting sun
in the distance
where neighborhood kids gather
at dark for a game of manhunt

after the power goes out
for the third time this week
and everyone emerges from their homes
to make small talk with neighbors they barely know

to stave off loneliness
to press through the heat
of another summer passing by

It happens every Wednesday,

At our favorite pub, you see,

A grand form of entertainment,

And participation of course, is free.

“Questionable Activities”

Is the name by which it goes,

A chance to see between the beers,

Just how much we know.

Drinks are bought when we arrive,

And by seven we form our teams,

Something a wee bit suggestive,

To embarrass Drew it seems.

Drew, you know, is the master of ceremonies,

The questions are all his,

They cover many topics,

And at stumping us, he’s a whiz.

So we settle into concentration,

On the first round as it starts,

With any luck it’s stuff we know,

Or believe deeply in our hearts.

Sometimes the knowing things,

Just isn’t quite enough,

If your team has cause to doubt you,

Can you persuade or bluff?

Then comes the half-time question,

It’s a chance to get ahead,

With a few more points offered,

And they’ll stand you in good stead.

Then on we go to the second half,

And the question are a bit more tough,

We do the best we can,

And we hope we know our stuff.

And then the fourth segment,

“The Dark and Bloody Round”,

It’s only questions about Kentucky,

And experts on the state expound.

And the final bonus question,

Well, it finishes out the game.

We place our bets on what we know,

And then we place the blame.

Then the points are all totaled,

And the prizes are all paid,

And if there aren’t too many on your team,

Your bar tab has been made.

We have ourselves one more round,

And discuss the finer points of the game,

“Who was that guy in question three?

“ I can’t recall his name.”

And we speculate about who played fairly,

And who maybe was in cahoots,

But you know that’s just the way it goes,

In these trivial pursuits.

We had a full tank of expectations,
new tires, pinkish dreams of Camelot
in a desert state, Tucson, not vacation,
old life ditched in a Denny’s parking lot.

I won a grand at the Diamonds casino,
thought finally we had turned a corner,
fools gold, our crane flew out the window,
the piper would come for his share later.

You claimed someone did a number on me,
warped my brain on cheap booze, yours on peyote,
lost you to chakra, tarot card, moon breeze,
drove through the night, back to Kentucky.

Desert’s cold, our love dead from exposure,
twenty years on I’m still searching for closure.