Poems

I sometimes find that poetry offers a more fluid format to express or explore emotions or experiences. Unrestrained by traditional rules of grammar or even spelling, it can evoke deeper feelings or capture the essence of those thing we sometimes struggle to name or describe. Attempting to apply words to those experiences that defy language.

  • Parts Work
    The parts of me
    who used to give a shit
    about what we are “supposed” to do
    are hiding out back
    smoking a joint

    While the part
    who wants to dance
    is doing cartwheels
    in the front yard
    after spending the morning
    drinking mimosas
    on a rocky beach
    flirting with a sunburn

    And for a moment
    all the parts
    are at peace
  • Do Overs
    The time I let my heart slip
    like a butterfly, escaping the cocoon.
    Stretching away from you.
    Silent.
    Expected by everyone else
    except for me – 
    that fresh creature – 
    stretching my paper-thin wings.
    Dancing with danger.

    The time I used force
    to overpower my baby
    	(physically and his will).
    Not to abuse
    but to control
    	to contain.
    And I watched the reaction
    in his eyes
    turn to fear.

    All the times when disappointment
    turned to shame
    in the hearts of children
    	(even my own child-like heart).
    Layering on, compounding
    like thick tannins 
    in an unbalanced wine.
    Believing that you are bad
    	(and not just that you did something bad).

    The things we carry:
    heavy burdens.
    Alone.
    Weighing us down.
    Seeking an altar – 
    a sacred space – 
    to lay them down.
    Releasing the guilt.

    So we can fly 
    again.
  • Believing
    I wonder,
    do animals believe?
    Does the bird or the field-mouse
    or the grasshopper
    believe? 
      In magic or fairies?
      In Gods or ghosts?
    Do they sense the mystery
    of a force bigger than us
    than now
    rippling through the ages?

    Or is the capacity for belief
    	that pull and longing
    	that certainty and curiosity
    isolated to only humans?
    Are we the only species
    who feel that connection:
    a compulsion
    to acknowledge synchronicity
    with gratitude;
    a gift from the universe
    	or from God
    wherever or whoever She is.

    I think the trees experience belief.
    The plants and flowers and weeds
    arching toward
    a spirit,
    evolving and resilient,
    patient and steadfast in purpose.

    I hope the barn-cat and sparrow;
    the toad and the milkweed
    experience belief;
    the wonder and bliss
    and awe.
    A belonging
    to something incomprehensible.
    A faith in something
    bigger and greater.

    Unseen
    and still known.
  • Super. Heros?
    Today
My boys told me
Of the silly game
They had played with classmates

One wanted to be Captain America
One, Captain Crunch
One claimed Captain Canada
     (he was born in Canada)
The last declared himself Jeff Bezos

And so, Captain Crunch decided
Bezos sounded like Basil
So he would, instead, be Jeff Pesto

And so they played
Super Chefs
And ate imaginary pasta
     (with Bezos Pesto, duh)

The End
  • Salt Dip
    Memories of my grandma
Often include antiquing
Treasure hunting
Visiting garage sales,
Flee markets,
Antique shops,
On a hunt
For a special salt dip

These small, glass dishes
Pre-dating salt shakers in origin
Became a focus
Easy to carry and display 
	(she had a special shelf)
Cut glass
Colourful
	(or not)
We would hunt

Maybe it was about the seeking
The asking
Hearing stories:
	The origin of these
	Particular belongings
	At this particular farmhouse
	In rural, northern Wisconsin

Maybe it was about the collecting
Memories
The characters we encountered
The negotiations:
	$10?  You must be joking
	$5?
	How ‘bout $7
	…do you have change?

Maybe it was about the adventures
Open road and freedom:
	No clocks
	The sweet taste of independence
	No mealtimes or diets
	Where is the ice cream shop?

Maybe it was about all of that

Or maybe we just really love salt
  • Old Souls
    Youth is wasted
on the young
What does it mean
to be wise?
To recognize
that catching grasshoppers
in the dewy grass
on a summer morning
is the only thing
that could ever really matter

At that place,
At that time

To be satisfied
with the beauty and mystery
of the universe
without seeking
to control it

But you can’t rush wisdom
Can you?
as tragic as that is

Maybe the “old souls”
are those who get there faster
But nobody can teach you that

And some will never learn it
no matter how old they get
  • Hands
    Some say
Eyes are the window to the soul
and I (sort of) believe that

But if there were a close second
I think it would be the hands

I have one son 
(and not my youngest)
who will still reach for my hand
any and all times
I have it free, outstretched at my side
An instinct,
almost like blinking, or breathing

I remember holding my mom’s hand
For safety, yes
but so much more

She would squeeze it,
Three times: I. Love. You.

And I would return the message,
Four squeezes: I. Love. You. Too.

Sometimes we’d continue:
I. Love. You. More. Than. You. Love. Me.
Dissolving into giggles
Losing track of the count
but never the message

A signal of connection,
holding another’s hand
Of trust, vulnerability
Hands hold so much power
and utility – 
	to communicate
	to knead
	to dig in
	to tickle
	to raise

The brush of a hand from
another
can feel so intimate,
sending surges through
my entire body

Open in surrender, clenched
tightly into fists
Painted
or adorned with rings

Pudgy and dimpled;
nearly skeletal with knobby
knuckles and paper-thin skin

Another piece of my heart will break
when my son’s self-consciousness,
overrides his instinct
to grab for my hand

but until then
I will hold mine out
and when he grasps it
I will squeeze three times
  • A Letter to my mom (or Women on the Verge of a Midlife Crisis)
    I get it now
In ways I couldn't before
The unsettling of
The messy middle
That lingering urge
To get in the car alone
And just keep driving

The longing
For something unclear
Out of focus
Or just out of reach

The sense of loneliness
Even while surrounded
By so much love
So much humanity
     (spouse, kids, colleagues, parents, friends...)
Abundance
And still want
Unsure of what
     Or who
     Or why

Yet the sadness prevails
The hunger and seeking
Potential slipping away
Wanting to feel valued
To actually be valuable

That desire
To tear off my skin
Becoming me
Reborn
While still alive
Slowly, not like the first time
Indistinguishable to many
No fancy showering
Of gifts
No announcements

The mid-life rebirth
Is soft and subtle
A shift in the soul
And so only those who know
Your soul
Could ever perceive it
If they pay close attention
And still, it means everything

Reawakening
Experiencing the world
Through fresh eyes
When, to most,
It looks exactly the same
And you wonder
How they can't see

Even while there are
Some days
When you also
Can't see

Maybe we are like fruit trees
Or raspberry bushes
With multiple harvests
Multiple stages
Of blossoming, bearing fruit
Becoming
And also going dormant
Of producing
And also resting
Seeking
And surrendering
Again
And again