Tag Archives: poetry

did you know

30 Apr

Introverts on break
pull energy from walls, re-
charging all the things.

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National Poetry Writing Month
30 poems in 30 days

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This Public Door

29 Apr

This public door,
This wooden cutout
hanging on this public door,
This wooden cutout
of a human silhouette
hanging on this public door,
This wooden cutout
of a human silhouette
in half a dress, half a pant leg
hanging on this public door
says I don’t care what you wear
to pee anymore.
Come on in. You
are welcome here.
You are. You are
welcome here.
We defy
the need to know
how you identify.
You are. You
are welcome here.
I love this public door.

* * * * *
National Poetry Writing Month
30 poems in 30 days

IRL

28 Apr

Can we relate?
.
If we met each other
in the here-and-now,
in real time, in the context
of our everyday earthly lives,
would we be friends?
.
How to decide?
Do you know?
.
Do we have the same
values
interests
struggles
beliefs?
Does it matter?
Does that make us
more or less
likely
to be friends?
.
Why are you online?
Why am I?
Is it to
think
reflect
cry
laugh
listen
rest
comprehend?
.
Respond?
.
I behave sometimes
as if my words
online
are weighted,
as if the internet gods
will one day post
a word cloud
of annual shares
and measure me
on some political scale.
Whose side am I on?
Who do I play for?
Where do I stand?
.
It isn’t true. I don’t think
it’s true, but if they ask:
I stand for equity,
justice, love and peace and if
I’m pressed to choose
just one
.
I choose
the one
designed to
hold them
all –

Love.

* * * * *
National Poetry Writing Month
30 poems in 30 days

we used to know

26 Apr

We used to know without pause
which blouse, which skirt, which shoes,
which size was right –
what time work ended – how to connect
when one of us failed
to answer the phone.
If one of our kids
was melting down,
if it was too late,
we’d wait with each other
in public until it passed.
We used to know
each other’s allergies.
We used to understand
the village
wasn’t only for our kids.

We used to decorate ourselves
and our spaces, too,
with feathers and disco balls,
slippers and smoking jackets,
on fire with possibility,
forging bonds in that fire,
naturally
unbreakable bonds.

We cleaned each other’s houses.
We brought each other soup
and tissue and wine.
We watched each other’s kids on snow days,
holidays, sick days and in between.
But we never sealed the pact. There were gaps,
days we missed, moments we drifted off.
In the center of our lives
was this open-air home we’d built together
and I (because I can no longer speak for all of us
and probably never could) – I thought it would stand for

passion,
possibility,
perseverance,
strength,
creativity,
justice
all over the world
forever
and maybe,
just maybe
that was it.

Maybe that
was the cause
of its demise,
all those different signs
on one door.
I don’t know.
Maybe the mortar never set.
The walls didn’t match up.
Those signs
were too heavy.
It was never a home.
Too big,
too small, too restrictive.
It had too many rooms.
I don’t think
any one of us
can point to why in that singular moment,
the sledgehammer dislodged possibility
and we all came crashing into the here, the now.
I still don’t know
what caused the rubble –
I didn’t see –
a series of moments maybe,
a shift in our foundation.

A cluster of infinitesimal seismic shifts.
Dynamite. A lack of faith. Silence.
Divided loyalties.
It was preventable.
It was inevitable.
It was what it was.
Now it is what it is.

But as the sun
peeks through the trees,
I’ve noticed
each of us,
mourning,
wanders back to the site
and stands awhile.
We assess damage. We gather
what we treasure most,
each stone,
each mirrored shard
reflecting who we were,
who we wanted to become,
reminding
us

as we linger
by the hammer, still in the center
of what used to be the floor,
that if we decide
more intentionally this time
to build a village square,
it only takes one of us
to begin.

* * * * *
National Poetry Writing Month
30 poems in 30 days

Dots

22 Apr

Starting with one bright red dot,
my finger swypes a square spiral –
What would you call that?
A squaral? – to meet
the only other bright red dot
on the screen. Soon,
there are paths of red and
blue dots, yellow and green
dots making mazes, called Pipes.
Pipes. This is how I pass the time
when what I want to understand
is people.

* * * * *
National Poetry Writing Month
30 poems in 30 days

it’s all in the eyes

20 Apr

Mom.
Mom, look.
Mom, look at the back door.
Mom.
Is that a macaroni noodle under the counter?
Yum.
It smells like…
Mom.
Mom, look out the back door.
{Long exhale.}
My head is on my paw, Mom.
Are you seeing this?
This paw here. No, this paw.
Mom.
Mom, look at me looking
at the back door.
Mom,
do you see?
You see!
You see me!
You see me seeing the door.
I am spinning.
I am spinning.
I am spinning
and …
Is that my tail?
That’s my tail.
Outside? Why?
No.
No, absolutely not.
Wait.
Mom, you’re not going out there.
Mom, wait.
Mom, you’re standing on the porch.
Mom, no.
Wait. No.
It’s raining.
No way.
I’ll pee tomorrow.
You do you –
I’m going to bed.
Mom,
close the door.

* * * * *
National Poetry Writing Month
30 poems in 30 days

Morning

19 Apr

Exiting the train,
Witness to these new blossoms
Whispering, it seems.

20160419_224640

* * * * *
National Poetry Writing Month
30 poems in 30 days

The Mic is Open

18 Apr

I speak
one word into the microphone,
amplified, catching the light
on my face.
In my mind’s eye,
I see you from the stage
although
I’ve made no commitment
to be there. I am not
standing there now, although
the mic is open.
My words are slippery,
not ready to be seen.
I am not ready
to be seen. But
it isn’t what you think,
this not quite readiness,
this

finding my voice
like so many before me,
like me before
me. It isn’t what I think
either.

What is it that keeps me
glued to my seat,
ducking my head when you say –
Get her up there.
She knows how to talk in the mic.

I grew up on the stage.
Of course I know how.
That isn’t the point.
For me, standing up there would be
like
falling off a log.

Yet that was a different life
I led with lights in my eye,
my voice booming
to the back of the room,
a life before
motherhood, before
owning a home,
before dogs.
I’ve never been good
at divided attention.
Is that it?

I don’t feel fear.
I don’t know
what I feel.

It’s just that,
upon coming home
tonight, after
hearing you all on the mic,
after watching faces, supporting
my friend whose story was superb,
I feel relieved
to be home with dogs
who lick my hands, and my Honey
who places the computer
on our dining room table
just like I asked –
to help me not wake her
when I come in late
and still want to write a poem.

* * * * *

National Poetry Writing Month
30 poems in 30 days

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I always carry pens.

17 Apr

I always carry paper.
I always carry pens.
Multiple pens.
Pens, plural.
Enough pens

to fill the hands
of young companions
during church
or a concert
or a car ride or a show.

Enough pens
to lend friends
prone
to sudden flashes
of WHOA! and
to hold in my own hand
when life is slow,
or when I need to
jot something down

…like a list
or a letter
or a poem…

I always carry pens but
PENS RUN OUT OF INK.

Or they’re not returned,
or one lands on the floor
of the car, forgotten, and so
I always have another.
I make sure to always
have another

because
no matter
where I am
or who I’m with —
waiting or wondering or
witnessing whatever
stunning or wonderful thing
we find —
pen and paper
make things
better
and
if better
isn’t good enough,
pen and paper
help to pass
the time.

.

* * * * *
National Poetry Writing Month
30 poems in 30 days
* * * * *

.

Lazy Saturday

16 Apr

Lazy Saturday
spent sun-soaked, giddily flopped
in a chair, reading.

image

* * * * *
National Poetry Writing Month
30 poems in 30 days

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