Chomp 
Crunch
Gasp
Groan
Hiss
Hum
Pant
Sigh
Slurp
Sniff
Snort
Squeal
Whimper

…these are words for some of the
sounds human beings make,
pretending we are not
like animals.

Ugh

Poor People Have Got Poor Ways

I think back to when I was a kid,

And the way that I was raised,

The one thing I learned for certain,

Was that poor people have got poor ways.

If there was a harder way to do it,

That was the way we chose,

Of course there was often easier ways,

But we didn’t choose any of those.

When the yard edge needed trimming,

We’d prefer to use the scythe,

We’d leave the string trimmer in the storage shed,

Swinging the blade far and wide.

Why use the saw to cut a tree,

When we have a good sharp axe,

Why bother to bale up hay,

When it can be forked into stacks.

Why walk home to get a hammer,

When close to hand there lies a rock,

No need for a corn picker,

When you can bundle it in a shock.

I’ve tried hard to overcome it,

Though I tell you, that’s how I was raised,

No matter how you slice it,

Poor people have got poor ways. 

Folks who survived the Great Depression,

Don’t throw anything away,

You may need it tomorrow,

If not some time today.

If you can grow it or raise it,

And turn it into food,

Then raise at least twice what you need,

Be sure it’s store up good.

Eat all you can from the garden,

And can up what you can’t,

Everything has got a use,

Those that don’t are mighty scant. 

You’ll be surprise at what you can do without,

How little you really need,

Folks who never have had nothing,

Don’t have much use for greed.

So when it comes to hard times,

Don’t forget the phrase,

Don’t never throw anything away,

And poor people have got poor ways.

a pause
before the next
decision

        Kicked in the head
but she still 
        likes horses . . .

I wrote a poem
It was a good one
They couldn’t stop me, though they tried to, hard  

They didn’t know how hard they tried to stop me
that it’s a good one
or that I wrote it  

things were already busy
the plate full
overflowing 
like the gutters during that storm on Monday
or the blossoms in that daisy flowerbed
redolent
effusive 
lavish
exuberant
gushing
okay really  just too much
but who is to decide when much is too
I awake to a new day  after all  so this much mustn’t yet be too
much

so go ahead universe
throw in that broken hvac and dad in an ambulance and the meeting with words uncomprehensible and immenent delivery of prebuilt and can’t do it yet sorry and can we have just one more day plans changed and unavailable until july *   and mom 
so sad so sad so sad and scared
and me here so far so far so far away

I can take it

Indulge in this skin

reinvigorate your senses

crave fullness

defying protection

strengthen gentle hands

THANK ME LATER

 Common grace embraced
her on a summer morning
drenched in promise.  

Walking along the path
saturated in pebbles
searching for fossils

Cops coping with slop
sloughed onto metal trays
hazed by tazers, a razor’s
edge separating life
from work; strife 
from sentiment. 

They’re trained to fear us. 
They’re trained to fear us. 
Their brains can’t trust
we have reason to run.

I remember the day the motor in my mother’s 1970s era Waring 3-speed hand mixer died. She was making butter cookie dough from scratch. A Christmas tradition. On the third batch, the almond colored appliance stopped suddenly, mid-mix. My mother took a short pause, unplugged it, and inspected it carefully. She turned to me and said that it owed her nothing. I remarked that appliances she had from when she married my father were built to last. She slipped off rings that adorned all but her ring finger and quietly began mixing the dough by hand.