all of the work
had been done
the farm house
and outdoor furniture
painted
a pristine white
that he wondered
out loud
if my wife would
think him crazy
for the love
of such a color
all that was left
was to mow
create straight lines
become an empty
thing
until
it was all done
although I don’t
own the land
or the machines
it still feels good
to see what I’ve done
cut it all up
thrown it away
made something new
Oxford’s synonyms for multiplicity
strain from my searching tongue.
I’ve been disintegrating for years,
these organs long-since pooled
beyond my larger flesh. & still
I’ve needed even less—
to be a liquid further
from myself. Many friends describe
to me how the caterpillar turns
to goo, their hopeful eyes alight
on the multiplying delight of easy
metaphor. They encourage me a full
meltdown. & I can’t say I disagree.
I see this self as an emerald cut—all
fifty-seven facets divided & running
in water-green rivulets around me.
Some more synonyms for the long hall
of mirrors: crown, hummingbird.
Now, I’m hoping, all kinds of papillon.
Oh how I wish I had the ability to
pull the thoughts
from my head like a string and
transpose them onto paper.
My thoughts, these thoughts you read now,
repeat over and over
while my fingers struggle to keep up with
their cadence in my head.
The beauty of them is sometimes lost
in the moments between
inner becoming outer,
like a lacy petticoat
forgotten on the floor
in a dressing room.
Dishes are stacked
The moon is nearly full
My stonecrop
hitched in balance
on crystals and agates
A vulture, a rat,
a pigeon feather
a black cat
a lightning bug
a poison apple
A tornado of blood
A vial of inkspill
in Coleus dapple
A vision of storytelling
from another time
Being kind to everyone
will kill you, but then
Some day my prince will come
We were always told about ‘soulmates’
But I think reality may be ‘soulmate’
That one person is made for us
But it’s not promised that we are the one made for them
And if you are even lucky to find this soulmate,
You may only be meant to just experience them,
See life through their eyes
Learn how they love, how they speak,
To learn how precious time is,
How fragile love is but,
They are not always meant to stay
When she tells us they had to make
the fence around the patio higher
because she tried to climb over it,
we agree – it is a high fence.
When she tells us they keep
taking all the pictures off the walls
in her room, we talk about how nice it is
she has so many pictures of her family.
When she tells us they are trying
to kill her, we agree – that is not very nice.
We bring her favorite donuts and sit
outside. But it’s too hot. On that we all agree.
It’s hard to write a poem
when my kids have conversations
with me about how dire the world is.
What they’ve overheard on the news.
What other kids have said.
What they have witnessed.
“It wasn’t like this when I was younger,”
my eleven-year-old daughter says.
“But it was,” I say,
“You just didn’t notice yet.”
“Makes sense,” my thirteen-year-old son adds,
“We’re more self-aware these days.”
It’s hard to write a poem
when I keep replaying these talks
and all the things I wish I’d said,
all the things I wish I could promise,
all the things I feel the need to apologize for,
but I can only hope
they feel how loved they are,
I can only hope
they choose kindness in their words
and actions,that their intentions are good
and they learn from their mistakes
instead of growing bitter
despite what others may show them.
I can only hope
they know it isn’t their responsibility to fix
every bad thing, but to do all the good
they can where they can when they can.
It’s hard to write a poem
when my head is heavy with
worries of my children,
but maybe a poem is what they need most.
Standing in silence the flowers suffer to bloom their way out of earth.
#AmericanSentence
Chiggers and mosquito bites,
briar scratches and rug burns,
scraped knees from bicycle
accidents, blistered hands
and skinned elbows from
climbing trees.
Splinters and stumped toes
from running barefoot
all summer long. Bee stings
and sunburns, earaches
from swimming and burst
lips from not catching the ball.
Band-aids and calamine lotion,
tweezers and Vaseline,
sweet oil and rosebud salve.
Nothing could keep me inside.
The woods called to me,
the trees needed climbing
and all the small maladies
just part of the adventure.
KW
6/19/24
