sitting at mcdonald's
I clicked 'add poem'
and I thought about
all the words I have
today

impatience and anger
blue blues

I think I better go home
and clean the bath tub

no poeting today

If I could draw it -
but I was never an artist.
What a picture that would be -
my family.

And maybe if I could trace the lines
I could better understand
how I came to be--me.

But I can't separate the smells
and sounds
and touch of it,
pencils can only go so far.

And there are the scenes
that I can only imagine.
The ones that happened
decades before me.
I see my grandpa's smiling face.
I don't remember him
as a brawling drunk
terrorizing his family
after world war II.

Granny smelled like powder
and liked men
though she would never admit it.
She talked a lot
but I don't remember ever
hearing any thing worthwhile.

The one I can't name.
He hurt me in the dark.

Mom Glass, the bootlegger,
who took her grandaughters
on Sunday trips up the mountain
to buy moonshine.
She wore red underdrawers
and she didn't care who knew.

Mammaw, who gave me words.
Who didn't know I was a refugee
but always welcomed me warmly.
She taught me the beauty
of being earthy.
No prim or proper uppity
girls fishin in the creek.
That one brought tears.
I miss her smile.

There are so many faces.

Voices.

Memories.

All contributed something
to the poem
I haven't written yet.

i am not
my favorite poet
not even third or
fourth in line for the title

the hawk circles
laughing
at such a notion

and i bury my toes
in the dirt
waiting for the mockingbird
to chime in

My generous hands
forgot how to pray.
I watched the butterfly
rise on strong winds
hoping that in the opening
and closing
of her silent wings
I might remember.

My heart is vacant.
The words all wandered off
and I've been searching-
for what
I can't name.

Hands wide open
and waiting.

My knees tremble-
ache-to please again.
But my hands won't remember
and the words won't come back

On days when
I'm neither here nor there
Adrift in a sea of senseless noise
Battered by waves of unrecognizable emotion,
Floating, just floating.
On days when I have
That faraway look
When you call my name,
Just know, you may have to call again
before I come back to you

i brought the potted plant into the kitchen
nobody remembered to water him
this week
and he was looking downtrodden
and wilty.

all that talk about
microwaved hotdogs
and pork chops cooked
a half dozen different ways
has made me slightly hungry

i have some granola bars
in my locker and
two and one half hours
until shift ends

looking forward to
seeing the inside of
these eyelids
insomnia has been crushing
all my best dreams lately

here's hoping
you have better
luck

anna has been carrying around
the dog-eared Robert Frost lately
she wants to read poetry with me

and sometimes we read bedtime poems
and sometimes i put her off til a little later
because there's always time for frost

but this morning
when we were waiting for the school bus
i thought to distract her

and had her looking at the tree in the field across the road
and how the branches laced through the blue black sky
and stars shone through the cracks like tree ornaments

and i had her taste the deliciousness of cold air in a new year
i told her that was poetry

and she said
that i should put it in my next
book of poetry

and i wondered if we shouldn't write it together

I'll wear my hair long
and throw my lipstick away.
I'll go where you go
and rest where you rest.
I'll hold you so close
that the darkness
can't wedge itself
between us.

I'll feed your heart
and tempt your soul
and you will always
be enough
for me.

But some days . . .
when I'm sideways
and the weather
wants to change
I may look yonder
and see a shining star

I may smile

and chatter

and fly free

every once in a while
i send you a note
two words
simple and true
'forgive me'

the ritual started
as a way
to say
goodbye
when i died
and before i was
reborn

so every once in a while
i re-trace old scars
and beg you
to forgive me

and when you answer,
if you answer
you say you already have
forgiven
me

but your voice
doesn't feel like forgiveness
and your heart feels hard

and i keep hoping
that one day i will ask again
and you will say
'forgive me'

sins of the past
however wrongly accused
should be forgiven--
let go; burnt offerings to falcon gods
sad ashes that float on the same winds
as yesterday's mis-spent dreams

am I then my father's daughter
blind and mute and imperfect?
unable to express the nervous tragedy
of days that follow after days

perhaps one morning my children
will offer these dry bones
on that same stone altar

perhaps I will be forgiven too

There's a poem coming

Something about mountains
And voice

Conversations
Are waiting

Maybe something
About being trapped long years
And finally
Seeing a light
At the end of the tunnel

There is definitely
A poem coming

Maybe we will write it
Together

if you could just plant me
somewhere
deep in your heart

shine smiles on me
here and there

water me with kisses

i promise to grow
into a fragrant bouquet

just for you

he came in the house
in a panic
out of breath
turning all the lights on
maybe the hounds of hell
were after him

son, what is the matter?

     somebody said 'boo'

foggy sleep addled reply
was something like
that could be anything

I notice though
that he stayed close
that he left all the lights on

and this morning
in the light of day
i wonder

do spirits of the other realm
think it is fun
to say 'boo'?

sometimes
i get a glimpse
of words i think i ought to know
from poets i used to read
way back when

i keep running
down dark alleys
chasing shadowy figures
and alluring words

where do the ghosts
of dead poets go
anyway?

my world changed today
and nobody has noticed
yet
i don't like change
don't deal well
with upheaval
with letting go

even when it is needed

but at least there are words
and time has a way
of erasing memories

a year from now
no one will even remember
i once filled a chair
during the night shift

it's so difficult to live

when you've decided not to

and you're just hanging around

     -nervous-

but you've got dignity

even if you don't have enough pills

                      to end it quick

but you've got dignity

even if it can't pay the rent

                      or keep the power on



still waiting for the right time

       -the moment-

that will be your last

but you might as well read something

you might as well return a note

to someone who loves you

and doesn't ask you to pretend



even if the words are shaking



grasping



cold

it sounds like an old joke

i've lost over a thousand pouds
over the years

what, you say?

how can that be?

when a soul is born
to learn the biggest lesson
well, sometimes,
you have to go through some stuff

sometimes, you have to starve
to appreciate the end of famine

and so i am learning
to say goodbye
to those who can't
or won't
love me

maybe i will still be
a blessing to those folks
somehow

but right now
i've got to roll up my sleeves
and learn that biggest lesson.

Coy, little butterfly
with the fragile wing
teach me your Secret.

So that one day
when I have
grace enough to fly

and Wonder
wraps me in gentle
breezes

I will float Free.

they laugh
because i want to know
all the weeds by name

and when they overhear me
talking to the plants
in the garden

it isn't enough to know
a plant
by name and purpose

or to be able to carry on
half a conversation

i have to know all the seasons
and stages

and guess what might
be lurking
under those leaves

I wonder, sometimes,
if this is how
our Creator feels

Your loss must have exploded from your heart.
I heard that small, still voice of longing as the ash
settled from the sky --
melancholy floated over the hills on the wind.
I tried to catch the emotion in a mayonnaise jar
like those lightning bugs when we were little--
But, I never thought
and it turns out that the holes in the lid were too large.

I was sorry to see your grief set loose
from my childish jar
to lose a thing and then lose the sadness--
to be doubly bereft.
I expected the feeling to have floated
halfway across the country by now . . .
and, yet, there it still is
draped around your shoulders
as if to keep you company on lonely nights.

last night i dreamed a brown bear wandered in my room and grabbed something off the side table and just wandered out again

i assumed the kids had just got another pet

but then you said

I had not shaved in weeks, get very Grizzly like, and your door was unlocked, so?

so, maybe it was that old story
Goldilocks in reverse
but i don't think you were really after my porridge

the smiling creator
takes his light in his hands
and whispering something
of lovely summer
places tiny seeds in pots
and hovers close
anticipating the joys
of imperceptible growth

for that next
bit of information
to come across the radio

units cd 12

subject detained

no injuries

sometimes i hold my breath
to try to listen harder

i hold a life in my hands
in my headset
and if i could put myself
in between my units and danger
i would gladly

but sometimes all i can do
is listen

i don't have a lot
of things

i had always wanted
a birthstone ring
and one was gifted
once upon a time

it was my most
prized possession

but when my eldest
daughter
started high school
i noticed
she needed something

i gave the ring to her

the gifter did not understand
how i could give away
the gift
if i loved him

and today my youngest
going through
some old jewelry boxes
noticed how
i give things away

and looking around the room
i realized all the tiny little things
my grandmother gave me
growing up

my most treasured things
made me feel loved

*i don't have much
but if i love you
it is yours

When my kids were little
And climbed in my bed
Complaining of a headache
Or a stomach ache
I would wrap my arms around
The problem
And just about the time
They were cured
And drifting off to sleep
I would feel it.

I have had a few successes
In my life
The way I understand success
anyway.

My mother obsessed herself
With breast cancer
Until she finally had it
Then looked to me
To take it away.

I think she would trade
My life for her own.

it isn't my place
To choose.

I wonder though
At the eternal admonition
"Physician, heal thyself"

My pain
Is still very present.

when I began to write
poetry
all those years ago

I was amazed to find
that I even
had a voice.

It was a gift
that I never
hoped for.

I only shared light.

There is too much
darkness.

And then
little by little
I had to write
about the monsters
in the deep.

And my writing
got to be
unrecognizable.

Those couldn't be
my words.

Don't bury me
in a grave
in a big old box
I've known too much
darkness.

And so here I am
trying to balance
injury
with hope for a new future

That may be called
healing.

I keep planting
My hands in the dirt.
Keeping the weeds clear-
Making the garden grow.
Repeating the thought that
There is healing there
Maybe even for me.
I never wanted to be buried
Under ground.
I have already known
Too much darkness.
But there are days
When I have to wonder
If I planted this old set
Of creaking bones--
Would something more beautiful grow?

She’s not as genuine as cubic zirconia

or Christmas tree tinsel.

Her life may be one large web

littered with duty and lies.

But she smiles convincingly

and attends to the avoidable

and carries herself

as if all is well under the fragile façade.

Don’t ask her for honesty.

She could no more move the moon

than she could tell you the thing

you wouldn’t want to hear.

Don't think she doesn't grieve

when someone pulls at the scab of her reality.

There are, after all,

two sides to every story.

And if she wants to be a chameleon

in a changing, scary world
shouldn't we pretend like we can't see?

just me
and the little dog
and a headache from hell

dishes
are done enough

laundry is put away

too hot
to move

and no rain
in sight

Time to pick up
all the shattered pieces.

Cement the colored
fragments of memory
and voice

with hope
and something new
that resembles
confidence.

A new day shines--

I will emerge
brilliant
as the sun.

there are differing opinions
i would guess
and i am not a scholar

a wise woman once said something
about
feeling as if no fire
could warm her
and it is still true

how do i know
when it is art?
when no matter
where i am
a syllable escapes from my heart
oh

maybe loud enough
that my supervisor
asks if i am alright

because sometimes
dams are meant to break
if not by a crash, bang, boom
then maybe by a barely
audible
"oh"

they tell me
i saved a life
once

it felt like surgery
self-inflicted

the incision widened
day-by-day

my reluctant hand
reached in

i cut my heart out
to save a soul

and here i sit

grieving

all the pretty

lives lost

this morning

seems that was
the battle cry
for some movement
pushed out of our minds
by more insistent
and newer news

maybe it is the weather

maybe it is
some mid-life crisis
afflicting me
at the mcdonald's
while I use the free wifi

whatever it is

I will win
this battle too

just like
every other one
so far

I was a poet, a healer and a woman
once
a dreamable woman
who got behind his eyes

I learned about flying
too

I still dream about flying

so ****** pragmatic these days

Afraid to write

Afraid to fly

He said my wings
really stoked the fire
once

And now I remember
why I am afraid to fly

He thinks I'm magic
as if my voice
has power
to pull him from
the dark abyss.

I think it must be trickery,
sleight of hand,
magnetism,
trap doors even.

These hands
hold no enchantment.

This heart
knows no spell.

Still, I would beguile
the moon from the sky
if heaven's light
would guide his steps.

I would bewitch
the thorns that crowd
his path.

I would conjure
the smile
that melts my heart.

if only I could
curl
up like the armadillo
when i'm sleeping

there would be no soft underside
to be pierced by my nightmares

and maybe I would wake
without
pain

if I could forget again
all the things
that I have remembered
and all the things
that I have not remembered

maybe there would be
no nightmares
in the first place

looking back at me
from a 16th century painting

Count Alborghetti of Bergamo And His Son

it was your face
your hair
your eyes
your hands

i never had a photograph
of you before

i searched
until i found
the artist and the subject

holy ****
you really shouldn't
sneak up on me that way

i remember
being married to you
a thousand years before
and a couple of hundred
years after

but this image
is a shock to me

I find myself in odd moments
repeating a nursery rhyme
out of the blue
complete with the hand movements

Crazy, you say
for a 41 year old woman
to be singing about a rained on spider
without a small child
anywhere near?

I was starting to think so.

But then I realized
that it has been a season of
spirit drenching rain.

One catastrophe biting
at the tail of the next.

So my inner child came out to play.
Smile, she said.
the sky is blue, she said.
The rain brings new life, she said.



*. . . and the eensy weensy spider went up the spout again

for weeks and months after
john passed from this world
i told anyone who would listen
that my words ran away when he did

but that wasn't really true,
was it?

wandering back through my poetry
from beginning to end
i notice that inspired
tends always
to come from conversation

my poems all have faces
and voices
and i had closed those gates
long before john flew away

the one i loved
felt that inspiration shared
was a betrayal

he didn't want to share
my passion

and even after
he went away
i kept those gates closed

it is time to see
if i can still fly

If I were to write you a poem

I might appeal to your senses

Tastes and smells
That trigger comfort
And satiety

Images that make a man
Stand taller

There would have to be
A mountain
And some tall trees.

If I were to write you a poem

There would be a hand to hold
Shining eyes
And communication without words

One day soon
I will write it

Sometimes I wonder

if I even survived
my childhood.

Maybe some part of me
is sleeping
up on the hill.

One of those
Nightmares
That I couldn't escape
Carried me off
In its jaws

and so maybe
I am planted.
Looking down
At all the people
I can't remember.

I hope that I am ashes.
I never wanted a stone.

I've worked so hard
to blend into the woodwork
I knitted myself
an invisibility cloak
and I wear it
everywhere I go

because if they can't
see me
then they can't hurt me

one of these days
when my nightmares
stop killing me

maybe I will begin
to reappear again

watching me
in my dream,
my old ghost

and i am not
going
to call you out
just yet

but you should
probably know

that i can see you
too

i mean i had always known
when a man was
just about to kiss me

and he was different
that kiss
caught me off
balance

and he seemed surprised
but
i thought he was magic

because
how could he do that

and i thought about it
for almost a year
and

one day
i realized
that he never even
thought

there was no mind to read
no early warning radar
he just kissed

and i wished
it was magic

I have no gift for you.
My hands are empty.

These hands
that would build a mountain
for you
rock by rock.

That would climb
that mountain
to carry you a smile
    an embrace
        a reticent bloom.

My heart is full for you.
I have always been
    yours.

on good days
I carry a trash bag
around the yard
and pick up messes
others have left

I have a hole in my foot
where I stepped on a nail
and my hands are torn
my shoulder
is complaining loudly

but it is close to
growing time
my windowsills are filled
with dirt covering seeds

a few more fires
to burn the brush
and my neighbors
should be prouder of me

And I sit reviewing my week

I dyed my linen petticoat
With cherry bark
And iron oxide.
I have five colors now.
Almost enough
For a box of crayons.

I pulled weeds
And planted garlic chives
And two kinds of gourds.

Hoed the garden
In between rains.

Baked biscuits
Twice.

Picked old Bob
A bag full of kale.

Spun some yarn.

Ground corn meal
With a big stick.

Pulled more weeds.

Started cleaning
And drying
Chicory root.

And more stuff
I can't remember.
No wonder I am
Tired.

someday
when i've left this realm
and come back back again
i want to be a tree

you think i jest

but my goal has always been
to stand taller and be more honest
and what could possibly
be more honest
than a cedar
standing tall through all the seasons

his bark is peeling
and his green is prickly
but the birds all light
in the tallest branches
and sing sweet tunes

his roots run deep
and his arms reach wide
i used to think i wanted wings
so i could fly toward heaven
but maybe i'd rather be a tree

I will heal you,

he said.

My words of grace

will ease your aches.

My inner light

will guide you home.

My patient hands

will soothe your spirit.

I am all that you need.*

But I wonder

if his words have grace.

And I wonder

if his hands are patient.

And I wonder

if his light will shine.

And I wonder

if I am all that he needs.