you two walk toward the sun like what you have is no big deal - but it is.

the tall dark and handsome by the artsy blonde.  

that is special, and the sun is shining, and you two are together in the sun, and that is special.

so put your arms around each other and show us that you know what you have is beautiful!

i want a grade school kind of love

tiny paper hearts

handwritten, sloppy, love sonnets

a lot of giggling and heart fluttering

she’s gone and my world becomes a small comfortable bubble of washing dishes, making phone calls, giving hugs.  things are simple again.  relationships are pure and strong.  the people who care are right there with help, the rest fades away. no mess.  life is black and white - it’s grieving and comforting - it’s sorrow and hope - it’s washing dishes and making phone calls.

the relationship to a grandparent is a strange one.  there is a difference between knowing who a grandparent is to you, and who they have been.  grandparents are known by their grandchildren at the end of their journeys – not as small children, or college wallflowers, or tennis champs, or young mothers with smooth skin and quick hands.

grandchildren should be more humble. they fit into the end of the intricate lives of their grandparents and are lucky to witness what they do.

when you did that thing you did

when you sang that song you sang

your mouth an open heart

pressing up pressing up

i won’t forget the way you looked to me that night

a soldier, a man, freely giving of his life


i love the way you move

i feel it in my spine

a man so set, on fire


you know yourself

you know your kind

you move so well

you can’t be mine


attach my arms to yours – my legs and head too

i’ll follow your lead

i’ll do what you do

i love the way you move


my muse my muse my muse

i love the way you move


come find me

lead me

move me


i’ll move the way you do

battleground
uncharted territory
hiding place

joyful  aching  bursting  empty
familiar and mysterious

brick walls crumble at the wrong word
shields go up
it's tight
then the next moment flowers bloom there and spring arrives
it's delicate
it changes
hard and soft

a memory box inside your chest
a sacred space for sacred feelings
both hidden and declared

a punching bag sometimes
it hangs sore and tired
then a 5 year old on a trampoline
wild and free
up and down

an ***** we dress up with poetic language
every beat of it keeping us alive
pumping pumping pumping
very physical

it must mean something
our ticker
our hub
our essence
our home

our heart
our human heart

nonny is slipping away.  she can’t eat  her eggs, they dry on her lips.  her hand is a claw, deformed, unusable.  she shakes.  she moans.  her legs are thinner than they've ever been, her stomach too.  she is just a straight line, no more womanly, comfortable, grandma curves.

for the first time she looked at my face and no smile broke out and no shine showed in her eyes.  it is time for her to go.  it time for her to know peace and joy and comfort again.

i hold her boney, contorted hand, and kiss it.  i forget about the grossness of old age and just want to hold her.

i think i’ve heard the last words, and i couldn't even understand them.