6/1/25
My granddaughter has taken
an interest in helping me write my poem.
We talk about metaphors, avoiding cliches, 
point of view, implied meaning and focus.
This goes on for hours. 
We get stuck on a line and she runs downstairs to ask
her grandmother to name a plant whose flower
lasts only one day.  She comes back with daylily

6/8/25
At my desk 
I find a piece of paper sticking out
of a pile of books.
A glance shows that it’s two poems
my grandaughter’s left me as a surprise,
the second written from the point of view
of her grandfather (me):
1) I wake up in the morning
    to hear a hoot in the rise
    of the sun and
    a scream in the distant
    woods then I think
    as a fox is to stealth
    an owl is to wisdom
2) My sleep is broken
    by a loud squawk
    high in the sky
    followed by the thwack
    of my grandson’s bow and arrow
    my mind comes back
    and I think to myself
    an eagle is to freedom 
    as an arrow is to bravery

not all,
but most,
and definitely some
more than others

You lived long, very long,
but the Dutch sickness
got you finally,
and you were felled.
I’m sorry about that.
We had no choice in the matter.
The city made us.
I just want you
to know
that we miss you
very,
very
much.

Coworker, 
I drive her most of
the way home.

I’m not the problem.
I could be, potential,
a threat to safety.

How far to go
before someone trusts me?
Doesn’t matter.

Over her shoulder,
extra lap around her home,
keys between knuckles.

I drive away
not knowing and who am I
to tell her different?

Give me a word for when rain
turns into stained glass. Give me
the word for how it shatters
sunlight, makes summer-filled beads. 

stuck in this fucking hotel room

14 floors up

with a yellow leather fainting couch

and

the bourbon on the counter’s

lookin’ good

The back and forth
patty cake
twister like game
has my insides flipped
and knotted around
one another
like the necklace you gifted me
that has itself tangled
among all of my other pieces
proving impossible to remove
and constantly tarnishing all
that crosses its path.

A pair of two birdies, perched up on a tree

with their black birdy eyes glued tight onto me.

Just play along now, finish up what you need. 

But never forget, the pair of two birdies watching.

Please mind your temper, try not to see red. 

Lower your voice, child, and lower your head. 

I know the world’s spinning, but close your eyes, count to ten.

You must paint on a smile and keep everything in.

The birdies test my patience, but rather than cry

I just lay in the grass and allow them to fly.

You must ignore their chirping, their shrieks, and their songs, 

for these two little birdies can’t quite tell right from wrong.

Such a labor of love, to raise birdies like them,

preening their wings and their hearts to better fit in,

flying by example so the birdies can learn

exactly how to handle the world at their turn.

The pair of two birdies have grown plenty since then.

Their wings almost 40, their minds forever at 10.

I have grown too, from once bubbling behind a mask,

to genuinely, gently answering whatever the birds ask.

As I now look how far, birdies and I have come, 

again my eyes dampen, but this time overcome

with love and with pride over every endeavor

made to let the pair of two birdies…

stay pure and sweet little birdies forever.

I don’t have a poet’s soul
Because I can’t feel my emotions.
I live in the moment,
never 
reflecting on the past,
looking towards the future,
searching my innermost thoughts,
listening to other opinions, 
observing the world around me.
I forget those feelings that would set me free
And hang onto the ones that bind me up. 
I also lie to myself a lot.

light these screaming bugs up in flames
sure it’ll be louder for a second,
but then i’ll have silence
maybe be able to nap a while
i’m not sure where to buy a flamethrower
let alone how to light a fire