The ink of a cheap gel pen smears across the
page as I furiously attempt to capture what
those before me have. The words they wrote
captivated me into believing that I also could
create literary beauty in minutes. The letters
from two lines ago continue to smear into
complete nonsense, yet the story flows into
my brain and onto the page too fast to stop.

What starts off as a seed, becomes a seedling, with little starter leaves.  Then, it gets it’s true leaves.  With fruit-bearing plants, such as tomatoes, okra and cucumbers, once they begin to flower, the blooms become fruit.  

As a mother, it reminds me of my children, my seedlings, which became flowers and bloomed and are HEAVY with fruit.  From the flower, which is me, I bear GOOD FRUIT!  If I CONTINUE to consistently water and tend to MYSELF like I do these plants, I will CONTINUE to produce GOOD, LIFE-SUSTAINING fruit!  

Clouds of dark memory threaten to storm, with each new drop, long-gone rain.

I feel better
‘Cause we’re together
Talking about our days,
Sharing stories
Is never boring
When I’m here with you.

I know what it feels like
when nobody hears you
when you show you hurt

They go about their business
like that’s not my problem
that’s yours

Wrong  
she’s showing you
different

Stop gaslighting her
senstive yourself
to what she’s saying

She’s saying a lot.

There was a brief respite
In the summer heat today
In the form of a brief rain shower
But I missed it because I was napping

I love the smells and atmosphere of a
Summer rain
But I also needed the deep sleep of a 
Much needed Sunday nap

The singing white trumpeter swan is so white 
you couldn’t attempt to imagine her any other way.
Like marble she’s so painfully, breathtakingly white
that if you severed her heavy head, you’d imagine
there’d be no blood to flow into the ripples around her,
just a smooth snowy blankness inside her hollow neck.
And if you severed her graceful head, the song would die
in her empty throat, last notes lilting to a shrill stop.
She’d careen, thrashing water once still into motion,
a headless goddess with no eyes anymore to watch
her tranquil lakeside world fall, feathers unpeeling
like peony petals, except still so beautifully white,
as she devolves, decays to whirlpool and wind.
She may try vainly to flee from the end of herself,
and if she flew the sun would suck her into its arms,
and if she swam she’d sink into a calm oblivion,
listing like a ship overloaded with precious cargo.
Her stone heart is so heavy it’d drag her down.
Like marble she’d sit at the bottom of the lake,
of the whole world, looking up, peering coolly
into that sliver of starlight piercing from above,
and she’d glow in the dark of her own accord,
so dazzlingly, somberly white. 

Lavender Fields (June 22nd 2024)
(the poem I wrote yesterday that I forgot to upload)

Sweet smell of soft sleep,
slow, hazy summer dreams.
Fall into calmness.

You can make me angry, but you will never make me act just like him. 

            “You know you do.
                We all have a PoMo crush”
                            – Unnamed PoMo Friend

Planted in beds and soils
my roots will never taste,

even so, you are the flowers
melting at fingers’ touch–

pouring color from palette skies
across my June-ish mind

like viscous drops, ever falling:
I’m an Afremov painting

under layer after layering–
distant knife, always reminding

petrichor doesn’t have to be
smelled to be fragrant;

affection doesn’t have to be
owned to be beautiful.

no one needs a ceiling fan on a breezeway. landscape
fabric only lasts a few weeks–black plastic works but sickens
mother earth slowly. flowers last longer when you change
water daily and trim stems. don’t eat other people’s
birthday cake–you’ll eat their spit. it’s okay not to shake
hands. don’t let someone else open the door for you if you
get there first. it’s okay–no, it’s good–to explain what is
polite for you–some just don’t know. there’s more, you
know, but not many read long anythings these days.
you expect me to end this list with a nugget of life’s
meaning, don’t you? but i’m still searching. hey, maybe
you know? sometimes i wonder what’s the point of life if
i’m always searching the why–not simply enjoying the now.