“The real war will never get in the books.”

— Walt Whitman

It was not a war we read about—

but the one we lived inside.

It began in the quiet:

when secrets slipped through the seams

of our life—

spilling into

our home,

our children,

our truths.

D-Day was the slow drip of revelation,

betrayal

leaking out

in hesitant confessions

and fragmented memories

replayed like ghosted film.

Later,

It arrived again—

when I said no,

and you forced your yes.

Then again, and again, and again—

when effort grew quiet,

intentionality died,

and love was left

unspoken,

untouched,

unfelt.

But the final  battle

was not loud.

It came after years and years

of trying to win

what could not be won.

It came

as I raised

a white flag

with trembling hands,

and finally named

what you would not:

defeat.

As a Visual Artist
I will say
I love lines…I can
Easily perceive the contours
of what I see — the seams
Bețween things, like
highlighted cheeks sloping
over to long,
straight strings
or looping circles for hair…
Or I picture
The individual leaves
   in a landscape
   having some trees with
Diamonds
Drawn as leaves
   along branches
to give some representation
   of the reality I’m composing,
Adding lines
For the angles and borders between
Lights and darks, hues and tones to
Delineate
The mass of pictured
surrounding things,
Or of those shapes
   the imagination brings,
   seeing that even blotches
   have boundaries,
in a defined space.
I often play with drawing
Letters, enjoying their shapes —
Straight lines, arcs,curves, and circles
   (especially so for calligraphers) lines
Joined to make the words we read
and with some delight,
like lately, I may note for
   a split second’s pause as
I make the sweeps of the ‘S’
— that appear to me like a
S w a n
with her elegant neck ~and
To which I’ll sometimes add a
wee dot at the peak for her head.

—————————————————————————————–
My deep apologies for missing 3 days due to severe illness.  i’m back now……

Rainy 
Contemplative 
Hectic
Frustrating 
Then the rain pours down
and cleanses the earth and
eases my soul as the soothing
sound is a balm to my tense body
You can almost hear the earth sigh
after the refreshing shower
I think my attitude was cleansed as well
Rainy Mondays may be the best Mondays

you gotta lose a lot
before you can win

you gotta do a job
only you believe in

aint gotta prove em wrong
if they can’t see your vision

just gotta move along
with what youre meant

to do

I want to be a mother, I think.
I have picked out names
like Frances
and Arlo
and Indiana
and June.
I want to be a mother, but I think
my wants have been stolen.
I yell names into the wind
to remind myself of
my could’ve beens.

I’ll end up a martyr instead.
I have picked out names
like Hind
and Trayvon
and Anadith
and Ronnie.
I’ll yell their names into the wind
to remind myself that
I will bring no more children into this fight
and I will bow for no kings
that allowed the taking of
their should’ve beens.

Vacuuming the furnace—
Likely no one’s favorite
Chore, but at least
You know why
it needs to be done.

i am afraid to cut off sentences

and the tails of my yarn

as it feels like a killing, not just an ending;

Two old boys lit out to the lake
with pontoon hearts and a shared
chum bucket–two rods between them
on a little boat that listed left
then right. Each took an oar 
and paddled til their tendons ached
too much to fish–the sun threatening
high overhead–an inevitable 
burn.

They took turns blaming each other
when, let’s face it, they were both in control
of the direction the water took them. 

How many beers they guzzled before
the fall. And true, there were moments 
where one or the other stopped moving 
the boat at all. Who could blame the water
for moving its way south, like water does.

What can be saved from this listing ship?
Not much. Two old and bald-headed sinners
who’d been here before. The poles
and their hooks.

In a spite, one dumped the chum
into the lake just to watch the other’s eyes
bulge. He threw out the oars, too–left them
stranded–as he waved his buzzed hands
at the shore and the other dozed–
as he always seemed to–as if

it were all some foolish allegory
and not their lives, 
as if it were a simple
fishing trip. 

The orange day lilies
lining creek banks
will never know how much

I love them

or how I look to them for hope.
The way those bulbs washed
downstream and rooted

somewhere unprecedented,

so blooms emerge from
old tires, steep, rocky
juts in the bends, and are

dotted as far as I can see

in the twists and turns
where water rages after rains,
holding on tight.

I want to be like them.

Defiant and bright.
A beacon for anyone
who cares to notice.

Corroded dreams taste
of tungsten and ash.
Not broken, just burnt
by the heat and friction
of mundane details.
Each striking score
of match-flame bears names
like compounded interest
or power-of-attorney
or Jardiance.  

Most adult butterflies only live 2 weeks—
sculpted wings soft laughter at our cares.