Posts for 2025 (page 14)

There’s a beauty in the sitting alone

                                                                                          for today, though
                                                                                          when morning comes
                                                                                          we go in clouds
and you ask me
what it really means
to shine—
                                                                                         and both pray God by night
                                                                                         be our incense-tumbling-thurible
                                                                                         a pillar swirling fire—soothing warm,
and I sear you in buttered sage,
snatch out the fishy bones,
and burrow deep through
                                                                                        the ragamuffin furniture
                                                                                        that doesn’t bother me, but she takes
                                                                                        15 dollars to a thrift store where
your burst head adiposed
addles—scoop! a bowl
of voodoo
                                                                                        snakes sell a low cash loveseat sale—
                                                                                        my love’s snazz and character charms me,
                                                                                        Grace slings the meat, and returning
I’ll bore you, and bore,
and bore you down to the seeds
of our sometimes union
                                                                                        also a table’s worth of three pounds
                                                                                        of food to our place in the rain
                                                                                        where I cook
the succulent fruit beckons
hither, hither unto my heart where
I’ll eat them both.    
                                                                                        because our children surprise
                                                                                        more
                                                                                        than they argue
What are you thinking
my old hobbyhorse?
I think best to forget.
                                                                                        and no one here will argue
                                                                                        at all. 
                                                                                        Not for several weeks of rest.
This is dissociative shit—
all we ever were to each other
that’s it, that’s who we’ll be.

Shards of light shatter off the water
this summer Michigan morning,
sun slanting like an axe’s edge.

The girls rousing in the dawn, stirring,
the fishy breeze flowing from the West
and the promise of unfettered freedom.

J. isn’t home, but his boat keys dangle
from the iron hook, ready to Ruth’s hand, 
and readily taken–the call sounded,

the five girls don their colored glasses 
and take to the wood-paneled craft
hulking with muted speed and power.

Key turned, motor purring, bubbling water
rising from the propeller’s spin–
now they glide out, like a bold swan

cleaving the glassine surface, the
prow painting a silvered “V.” Ruth urges
the throttle forward, the rumble building 

to a roar, the thin, triangular wake 
swelling to waves: rows of soldiers, 
an orderly force, invading the shore.

She laughs, the raw power of the boat
rising–the girls all grow heady, 
overpowered with sun, water, and youth.

Objects abound like model train towns—
leafy willows dipping, fishermen
drifting, buoys and rafts floating—

only a frame to the urgent motion 
of this boat now carving circles that
cut the freshly incarnated wake in half

and the circles, the spinning, becomes
an intoxicating challenge to beat back
the wind and–slicing–capture the past. 

Past Orr’s Point, spiraling, the speed
increasing, the prow lifting to the sun
the motor stampeding into the light.

And then, a crunch, crash, and crumbling:
this steed bucking and twisting suddenly:
Ruth cuts the motor, the prow now flaccid.

Looking back, there is a cartoon scene:
one old man clinging to a rowboat, fishing
poles sinking, an oar outstretched toward

another venerable gentleman, eyes
full of fear and fire, grasping the blade,
pulled inchingly, achingly into the boat, 

blood boiling up behind him, staining the 
greenish-blue water with red, the three
primary colors that make white and 

in this he moves toward the light, the 
lifeblood ebbing from his leg, which 
the propeller, those cast bronze blades,

nearly amputated. This man–who only
expected to catch fish and bullshit with 
his friend–succumbed to the void. 

Where did we stray? 

Who will pay? 

What is the reason? 

Whence this season? 

Why did it shatter?

Does it matter 
that she is twenty-four?

Is she more or less ruthless or an 
arrow shot by fate to bring him home?

You don’t see the depth of my joy

You don’t see the woman in me

or her beauty

or how bright my smile is

when I am her.

Finally at home

in my own skin.

You don’t see my potential

beyond the selfish wants you have for me,

the dreams that lay beyond

the cage you keep me in.

You don’t see

my loving, compassionate heart.

You just think I’m foolish.

You don’t see

all the poetry and stories

that live inside me.

You don’t see my spirituality,

only the faith you raised me in

which hurt me

and which continues to

hurt

when I watch  you use it

against others.

You don’t see any future for me

that I want.

And I am not someone

that you would like

if you truly knew me,

no one acceptable

to your god or your president.

You don’t see the pain you cause me,

the ways you oppress me,

all the casual things you do

to harm me.

You don’t see the scars inside of me.

You don’t see

my brightness

or my resilience

or my hope.

You don’t see my infinite worth.

I love the person you don’t see

when you look at me.

A woman boards at dawn, extra heartbeat concealed under pencil skirt.

This evening, I was craving some Ben & Jerry’s

So I got a pint of salted caramel

And ate it with a spoon that was still warm from the dishwasher

Alone in my kitchen at midnight

While simultaneously realizing I’d missed my opportunity to make 69 jokes yesterday.

The end.

You were born hard pressed

Down a fine line

Between the hands of homemakers

and coalitions for coal mines

Longing to breach the hills

Where you roamed to hide

From the arms that held you

That should have never touched you

Where you road the bus

To a school you hated

Made attendance matter

To those who you mattered not

Gained scholarships up to graduation

And left to attend university

But wait…

What happens to a dream deferred?

When the cart becomes derailed

And perhaps

the road less traveled

Becomes the only path left in sight

For you in this meantime

Where glass ceilings became cement walls

You do what feels safe
But sometimes life has a way 
So you make a plan

Have a seat, take a breath

Find beauty in the pause.
You walked the stage 
mastered the Masters

Sometimes you wake up

To realize you’re living that dream
When all you hoped for is
All you have.

it’s the
way your day starts and ends
with your waking thoughts consumed
by all of the problems you slept with that rest in your room
and all the pain in your heart to match
the ache in your bones
the realization that you’re doing this
alone
and that no matter how much you give your all to
make this house a home
you’re always outta time
really, out of hope, out of luck
a few days late and more dollars short and
you’re trying to avoid eviction court and
you have more bills than you can afford
so when you finally sit in your car and scream
because you need a release
because sometimes showing you’ve been disturbed
can actually protect your peace
please understand that a lot of us feel like this and
the only reason some of us
haven’t let go of that thread
is because there’s someone who won’t let go
on the other side
the way your day starts and ends
can literally depend
on a support system that may or may exist
of your family and friends
and just be aware
that some of us have none of them
at all
no safety net to catch you when you inevitably fall
so maybe we’ll do better
by each other as a law
because God knows even the strongest soldiers, and camels
can only handle
so much straw