She washed her brushes
slow intention.
The warm water splashed her wrist
sending the memory
of the morning’s perfume
into the air.
She remembered.
She was a woman.
She washed her brushes
slow intention.
The warm water splashed her wrist
sending the memory
of the morning’s perfume
into the air.
She remembered.
She was a woman.
Spent the day away, thinking about our sweet Lily, who would have been 9 today. We chose to unplug from FB, email texts, etc. We cried and yelled and dumped our feelings out on the floor to pick them out and sort them. We went to the mountains, and watched the river run and continually renew itself. We were quiet. We showed mutual compassion, and we survived another year.
The summer moon hangs
Glinting like a fisherman’s hook
To pluck the delicate flesh of my heart.
It is a sliver of a crescent,
like a shinny sickle in the western sky.
The log rolled off the fire, leaving hot stars in its path, like a swarm of angry bees.
The wind beat tree branches against the metal roof, like the rapping of a landlord’s angry knuckles or an ex begging for another chance.
Snow slides from the roof, landing with a dull thud, while I lament about the feral cats staying warm.
It is cold outside, and the chill seeps inside like a ghost, making the old dog age.
Longing for a break in the darkness, we take to our distractions, bathing in blue electronic light.
3 Poems or 5 Minutes, Whichever Comes First
Listening to the old men,
Their grizzled tones and empty saber rattling, times past and times to come.
Listening to the young men,
Their cadence fast as race horses- s l o w, let us savor it and remember it is our first time.
Listening to the old women,
With memories of gold and pain, and their black patten dancing in the rain.
Listening to the young women,
Discovering their anger and their passion, and their distaste for how the world sees them.
Listening to the old gender neutral poet,
Listen to their words of discovery and ages of pain and the secrets of yesteryear.
Listening to the young gender neutral poet,
Lamenting that nothing is changing, and the cages of distrust and hate have them feeling down.
Listening to the Hispanic, the Asian, the African American, the Jewish, the Poor, the Broken, the One Who is Always in Love,
They distill life and all its beauty,
Into 3 poems or 5 minutes, whichever comes first.
Ripple
Could the woman who paid for your groceries
Understand the ripple effect?
How your tears of joy
Would wash away so much that is wrong in the world?
Could she have known
How you needed a win to go to the next round?
She could not have realized that
Her gesture would shift your life.
Making you a kinder, happier soul.
And now you get to pay it forward.
The ripple sounds and bounces.
Warm Day
Driving on a warm day,
Tiny hands touch the breeze
In the car in front of me.
Ladies stroll sidewalks,
With painted toenails and bare arms.
The men in the 7-11 smell
Musky and salty from their hard work.
And Domino by Van Morrison is playing on the radio.
Weed
She’s a lovely little daisy,
With a broken stem,
Waiting for a rich man to pluck her.
Take her home to his vase.
Me, I grow wherever I land,
Lawns, gardens, playgrounds, and between rocks.
My dandelion roots are deep,
And I can be hard to get rid of once I have settled in.
I bloom easily and early,
And require no care.
And while some call me a weed,
The bees flock to me,
And call me food.
Old Dog Wobble
My old dog wobbles,
When he used to walk.
He hovers between sit and stand,
Back legs shaking as his hips give out.
My old dog never looks comfortable,
Nor does he smell good.
But sometimes when he runs in the back field I see him,
Just a puppy in the inside.
I hope someone loves me – when I get old and wobble.
Life In The Rear View Mirror
Stress stacks on shoulders
Work piles and tips
Bills keep taking
Sickness surrounds
Here is the key to escape
Leave all of it behind
It’s not so easy
But wait…