When times are most dire,
at least one saving grace is ours
if we can muster the strength
to claim it:
that bad politicians
facing next elections
share a similar weakness
with bed bugs.
While always best
not to get bitten,
they do become much,
much easier
to crush
when engorged on our blood.
carve me from your sculpting block,
o Artist. chisel any blemishes from your
sight, for i am yielded to your tools; bare to
the Sculptor is my marble form.
like michelangelo and his david,
would you rid of me the pieces that
aren’t of you? i promise not to mourn
what is shorn from my marbline mold.
instead i rest in tender hands marked
by garnet wounds, for i am fashioned
gradually to the living stone you had
in mind. radiant in your eyes, gleaming bright.
I had completed my task
dispersing my offerings
my colors well positioned
I was free for other things
I hovered the surfaces
retracing my steps
in a reluctance to leave
falling out of my depth
One mis-step I took
when I did not look
where I stumbled through
the color Blue
In regal silence it had presided
impasto plump – lying in wait
this slow drying meat eater
waiting for prey – touched my fate
oil soaked by this chance encounter
stained blue cloaked and glazed
whispering promises of infinity
I drew back covered and dazed
A close brush with Blue
its beauty cancels all sin
it is good to be in paradise
if only now and then
(from the point of view of a paint brush)
The
The truth
The truth alone
I(ve) demand(ed)
To my own detriment
From my own talk in turn
Tape measures
Labels on cans of tuna fish
Turned-in-on-time book reports
Titles alphabetized by author’s last name
T-shirt tags that show the fruits’ collection method
Worst of all thought and turns dreams take
When I faced the sunrise but only walked backward
The rattling-chain-suspended (wrought iron) crate sprung open to disclose blank space left behind by its juggler-magician vanished
Badger, badger, still trapped by hounds,
who and how do you employ
so creative, adept, to, somehow,
keep inventing
new varieties of lies?
After so many years, I have learned it is best
to keep a $20 bill hidden in my car
or on my person
and a can of WD-40 whenever possible.
There is no MAYDAY when our training wheels
roll into the thick brush piles of regular everydayness.
I have a new therapist, and she sparkles…
or maybe I am finally ready to receive that energy.
She is normal-looking.
On the street, you might nod and open a door
or walk past without recognizing her grace.
But her presence
brought such ease to me
that I longed to break mid-sob and ask her
if it would be okay,
if she would like to hear, too, about
the glittering, happy memories
I do not want to leave.
I am and always have been
a hustling kaleidoscope
of fractured rainbows
calling on the universe
to exchange my brokenness
for cinematic legitimacy
to share with whatever audience
I entertain.
Could someone please
hand me
a magnifying glass?
Viewing the days
through the eyes of my eccentric fanciness
is a good time
– complicated, chaotic, but uniquely me nonetheless.
My authenticity was born barefoot,
in a flower-filled side yard,
jumping rope with a garden hose stream
held by my grandmother’s summer hands.
She once went to Ocean City, Maryland,
looking like a movie star
and sometimes,
I wore the baby blue terry cloth shorts
she brought back
or maybe, the eyelet dress with bowtie straps
from the dress-up box.
My reality has grown me into a thick-trunked, sycamore
an ever-changing but resilient woman
with roots deep in a ground fed and watered
by the mercy of God,
who pokes me
with a teasing love and guiding firmness
that I kneel before
in respect.
He is down with my ugly cries,
my jazz hands,
my resting silence.
After so many years, I have learned
that brightness waits,
hiding in the darkest corners,
ready to relight the lamp
that is needed
for our journeys-
to the end of days or the gas station down the street.
It brings freedom,
but only if we are willing
to work for it,
to rearrange our bones and parts,
to sweat while making space
for the light to fill
so that we can claim it, again, as our own.
Darling you are free to chase the lightning anytime you want
with pearl-colored comfort wrapped ‘round your shoulders.
No storm may smite your soul beyond rebirth,
Love loves you too much to allow that.
Wash your face, your hands, and your aching feet
in the grace that grows perennial.
Her rain will sow flowers in your hair,
crowning the miracle growing from ashes and blood.
Write across the rooms of your heart in whatever ink you like-
you are beloved and beloved and beloved.
Sewn from Love spinning the universe itself.
Learn to spell it in every language,
practice forming the word that will form you back.
Feel it cross your lips in exhalation, revelation-
Beloved
even weary, even doubting, even now.
never
shrink
a wild thing.
don’t diminish it,
with your novice touch.
try only observing,
with the softest gaze.
as it exists,
in its freest form.
without your disruption,
or any of your weak intentions.
it is not for your insecurities.
it is not for your fears to understand.
divert your hardened focus,
it doesn’t need your rules.
it is not for you to grasp.
She carries a wisdom,
you may never know.
love her from a distance.
love her there,
where she can most love herself.
Plaster blooms above the bed,
a constellation of flowers
from the scrabbled bushes out front.
And in the living room–a window big
as a daydream and twice as dirty:
refracting spider webs in a trender neglect.
The refrigerator thrums dust through the floorboards.
Outside, a hoisted-up neighbor downshifts
his too-big truck, a groan
Of brakes and the smell of diesel.
This is the garden I know:
This bed of quiet
listening.
LexPoMo friends, it’s always such a pleasure to read your work and comment with you. I look forward to this chance to write. I’ll be rereading your poems and look forward to seeing you again, hopefully sooner than LexPoMo 2026!
