It was a routine check up,

is Christmas morning
dazzling you silly
with its tree-tinseled nuances
its ornamental nature
the piney greenness of it
30 dolls couldn’t compete
you fly down the stairs
bed haired and fuzzy slippered
coffee cup in one hand
thesaurus glued to the other
and there it is
beribboned and wiggling
mouth a slant of delight
onomatopoeic whimper
you nuzzle its connotations
rub its gentle iamb
then take it to the backyard
to that blank page of snow
and let it run wild

                                                      For all writers who search the perfect word

This double digit is a harbinger of luck,
its componets of seven and eleven
are naturals in the game of craps
where the shooter achieves a pass,
alas for me it’s no certain trick.

I’m fourth generation of potato men
who came from County Mayo to escape
starvation. the tombs of the three
before me are lined up in ascending row
in the cemetery on Old Mayfield road 
three miles from my childhood home.

Michael, who rode over on the Irish boat,
drove a horse-drawn dray loading
and unloading heavy loads all day. 
He died at the age of forty-four.
James Joseph (my name sake grandfather),
a traveling salesman, came up in the world
until he went down at fifty-five.
Patrick, my father, who I cannot explain
in a line or two, went to his rest,
as they say, at age sixty-six.

That I have reached the next milestone
in this progression does not keep me awake.
Unlike my forebearers noone can say
He Died Young.

I’ve always liked to play with numbers
and so I mark my life in seven stages
with eleven years for each. In this one
I’m Innocent, in that one Guilty,
or Greedy or Angry or Loving
or Overcome With Loss.
In this seventh stage 
I’m trying to shuffle toward Mindfulness
so I can let the eighth be what it is

Every poet should take a vacation.
The famous, the rising, the seasoned, and the beginners alike—
A species of the introspective
Should have a mandated time away from thinking too much.

Lest the brain and heart, working in tandem,
Not only to power the body
But also the pen,
Look at each other, then to its restless host,
To clock out on its own time—
Frustrated and fatigued,
Leaving the poet to fend for themself
In what is known as burnout.

Every person who has taken the time to think out and write a verse
Should take even more to walk barefoot along a sandy shoreline,
With the smell of salt and seaweed and skin
Overwhelming your senses.

And folks with tattoos walking around
That the elderly give disapproving glances at,
And crabs that gently nip at your heels when you get a little too close.
The sun giving you red cheeks and a sore back,
A stranger giving you a suggestive eye,
And—well, it seems I’ve disproved my point.

Part 1: Persistence

There are dreams
that wither
by slow lingering

like roses pinned
too long
to a gown

efforts are made
to preserve
the ethereal

chilling them
in the fridge
frost taking bites

While others become
pressed as roadkill
between leaves shut tight

But—If taken away
before mold makes
all writhe in dismay

rescued flowers
tied upside down out of sight
can dry in a closet away from light

and mummify enthralled
persisting through time
in a dark still memorial

PART 2: A Shining Moment

Scavengers on the move
searching empty homes
for something to sooth

Behind each door where memories bake
they wonder what’s in there
for them to take

The Closet door opens
indignant cries say:
“WHY TORTURE FLOWERS IN THIS WAY?!!”

Their eyes wide—short of fright
attracted and repelled
by the topsy turvy sight

Their restless fingering
reach out to grab
hoisted beauties still lingering

But their desire is too much
their touch bursts all apart
leaving nothing in their clutch

deconstructing a dream
formed in the bliss of youth
things not always as they seem

The invaders witnessed bits
disperse through the air
mingling with stardust already there

shimmering particles danced in the light
the streaming bands played
their last shining moment in the night

Alive of Wonder

Ashes of ceremony

Ashes once alive

Alive with energy

Alive with fire

Fire laden breath

Fire ignored

Ignored into hush

Ignored like burning

Burning to escape

Burning in smoke

Smoke from sage

Smoke from knowing

Knowing of prayer

Knowing of hope

Hope shaped in ache

Hope in embrace

Embrace in hurt

Embrace in growth

Growth in blooming

Growth in seeds

Seeds of becoming

Seeds of flourishing

Flourishing in a hole

Flourishing in the ground

Ground to expand

Ground to feel

Feel so alive

Feel so enriched

Enriched in water

Enriched in spirit

Spirit of ghost

Spirit of shadows

Shadows are lonely

Shadows of longing

Longing for  warmth

Longing for gladness

Gladness of mind

Gladness for self

Self to rejoice

Self to be

Be of breath

Be of love

Breath of stars

Breath of wonder

Wonder

Stars

Ashes of ceremony

Ashes once alive

It started with an accusation from a
white male coworker about me and work place sex.
Air was suddenly sucked out the room.

Helpless I reached out to a black male coworker
asking him to not leave me alone with him.
Instead he piled on accusations of a video.
He laughed and said the infamous title
from the movie, “She’s gotta to have it!”
Betrayed my cheeks felt red hot.

I retreated into my protective shell.
Apparently believing the rumors
the black man decided to shoot his shot.
Invited me for drinks in my neighborhood.
Recoiled when I invited my husband to join.

Many years later I figured out the culprit.
My current boss who was once a security guard
use to stand outside my office door under a camera
harassing me after midnight in a desolate area.
Alone and afraid, I had to lock my door and turn out the lights.

More years later the same boss during covid
stole my missed meals and breaks money payments.
Me unknowingly, that this was a prosecutorable crime 
I reported it to his boss and the money was repaid.

He began to mess with my schedule.
This time I knew this was retaliation.
I reported it and his boss denied it.
I asked for it to be taken higher.
Nothing changed and no one got back to me.

Recently after he wrote me up
for a minor mistake,
I asked the Vice President
if the retaliation was reported.
He denied it had been.

Today I got enough courage to ask
the retired employee
about the suppossed tape.
He denied saying or knowing anything.
I could tell he was lying!

He asked if I wrote any of this down
with dates and times.
I told him no.

He told me to watch out for cameras
if I was doing anything recordable.
He was trying to be funny.

It wasn’t and this is for him.
It’s not a joke!
I told him I was poet.
This is how I write things down.

An entire department of men
harassed me for years
because security saw me on camera 
coming out an empty office with friends.
They renamed the office the love shack
when it became a computer maintenance office
where my now boss was temporarily located
when he was a maintenance technician.
It took me years to put this together.

The people who were supposed
to keep me safe were instead
surveilling me for who was
coming and going in my office
and now my original harasser
who is now my boss is continuing
to harass me with my schedule.
This is corporate America.

My words protect me from others.
My words are my shields and weapons.
My poetry saves others from me.
I am a Poet and you cannot destroy me.
I will have the last word.

They reach for stones
like it’s instinct.
Like the weight in their hand
makes them righteous
and the target less human.

They speak with certainty,
as if they’ve never
walked broken paths,
never faltered under the weight
of their own decisions.

Their gaze is sharp—
not to see,
but to slice.
They love the spectacle
of someone else’s fall
more than they care
to rise themselves.

Mirrors are scarce
in their world.
Reflection requires silence,
and silence makes room
for truth.

They project.
They accuse.
They declare moral verdicts
from unexamined lives,
building altars out of outrage
while their own foundations crack.

Not once do they pause
to feel the splinters
they’ve long ignored—
the weight they carry,
the pieces they hide.

Redemption isn’t found
in pointing fingers.
It begins in the still moment
when a hand opens
and the stone
hits the ground.

If there is anything I wish I could show you
from that fateful Friday night
when we shared too many drinks
and way too many words
for something not actually happening,
it’s how bewitching your smile became
through the silent stretches
of lingering eye contact,
how that set ablaze the alcohol in my system,
how I was erupting
the longer we stayed in that gypsy meltdown until
he, the coworker driving you home,
said it was time to go.

It took me way too long to realize
that was the only night
you didn’t immediately reply
when I texted I was home safe.

I wish you could have shared in my confusion
from a road dead-ending without warning,
how it had me questioning reality
until I asked you aside
begging for clarity
in respectful discussions of human emotion.
But you would later claim I assumed
sexual favors were owed me after that Friday
as if it wasn’t you who singled me out in conversation,
as if it wasn’t you who began to smile and flirt,
as if it wasn’t you who drew me the map I followed.

I wish that your reason for breaking promises
that may have never existed from the start
wasn’t because I was too nice of a person to date,
that such a line didn’t come on the heels
of a viral discourse of men versus bears,
that my resolve to not be that guy society (not unfairly) complains about,
paired with those suggested efforts to dress better
and work out toxic behaviors
didn’t land me in the same discouragingly defeated place–
not that dating is a vending machine one puts coins into,
but I shouldn’t have come out of this worse than a bear.

I wish
that you instead
had told me
about him,
that
my sense of self-worth
never had to be challenged
again,
that
I could have found a way
to handle myself
better
when the truth came out

because the problem isn’t so much the anger
but that all the surrounding emotions
are flammable.

I said something I shouldn’t have
when trying to dress my woundedness.
It wasn’t supposed to get back to you.
If it’s enough to make me that guy, 
then I truly am sorry.

I just want people to be better.
I want people to be more accountable,
maybe a society that takes a step back
from men-are-always-wrong narratives.

I want to feel like I belong,
like happiness and contentment
are still goals I can reach,
like it wasn’t a wrong decision
nurturing a desire to be good,
like I can be human
and stumble every so often,

like I can be forgiven.