Maybe men are only good in 15 minute segments.
Good ***,
compassion,
eye contact,
laughter,
conversation.
Maybe that's all we get.
15 minutes of good,
a lifetime of good enough to get us through.

He said you never laugh anymore since you had the baby.
I said I’m tired, I smell like soured milk, I’m lonely, I miss my friends.
He said if you don’t like your life, then change it.
I said, how, standing there with his second baby in my arms.

He said it’s been six months and you’re still fat.
Lose the baby weight or I’ll leave you.
I said I’ll lose the weight, don’t go.

The doctor said a woman of a certain
age loses the structural foundation of her *******.
Breastfeeding does that, too.
I was thirty-five.
I had fed three babies and was proud.
He watched and was disappointed.

I worked hard and was strong.
I sneered at women with fat ankles and scaly feet,
bad skin and protruding bellies.
I said, they should work harder to keep themselves up.
It’s their fault. They are lazy. They eat too much.

He said, I’m tired of living with sick and crazy people
and ran away from home.
I was tired, too, but my sons were crazy and sick,
and I couldn’t run away.

He sold my home
took my work,  and my garden, and
left me responsible for the ones he ran away from.

He took the future I thought I was building--
grandmother and granddaddy,
holidays,
family dinners,
companionship,
quiet nights.

I am become the women I sneered at,
round, lazy, and disrespected.
I say I know now that they were young once,
that their skin was clear, and their bellies flat.
I say, don’t think that how I look is who I am.
I am smart. I am kind.
I understand. I lead.
I listen. I laugh.
I write. I read. I explain.
I learn. I teach.
I know.

Who I am is not how I look.

I’ll buy my own house and paint it pink.
I ‘ll have a small Christmas tree
and a huge family table
and as many friends as the house will hold until they spill out onto the lawn.

I will sew and read and bake and smile.

I will have women for lunches, families for parties,
and students for all the meals they can eat.
I’ll serve grits and eggs,
sausage and biscuits,
tea and hot chocolate
and popcorn.

I will celebrate my children’s lives,
and welcome their friends into my home.

And when I am through with the past,
I will walk into the future.

Boston Police Dept.        ✔ @Boston_Police

CAPTURED!!! The hunt is over. The search is done. The terror is over. And justice has won. Suspect in custody.
5:58 PM - 19 Apr 2013

In the dark
my dog and I walk
quietly across their lawns
down their roads
around their corners.

In the dark
we see vignettes
in the windows
hear the voices
loud or soft.

In the windows
we see tv flickers
lifted hands, but not to praise
hands that raise
against another blow.

In the windows
we see light and laughter
soft embraces
sleeping children
quiet peace.

On the lawns
are men smoking
holding drinks
talking sports
and children's birthdays.

In the dark,
my dog, we wonder
when will we be
loving family
and quiet peace.

I don't know if I’m good enough.

Oh, I can string the words
like silvery, satin, wild-caught pearls
along a silken line...
I can foment strong, heavy words
like boots that march in ****** mud
or hot, shivering sand.
I can sling words like silent razors
slicing swift and clean.
But every day...
every day when the word count rises
when writing’s the thing and not the play,
when words must stick together in factory formation
to add up, to bring forth, to produce...
maybe I’m not good enough for that.

I loathe him.
I like the sound of that one.
Loathe. It stretches out the tongue and draws the lips together.
Loathe. Webster's says that it expresses utter disgust and intolerance.

Execrate. I execrate him and all he stands for.
"to declare to be evil or detestable"
Sounds ******, just like him.

I abhor him.
Abhor--to regard with extreme repugnance.
Abhor has that hard air sound in its middle like the sound made when
preparing to spit.
Yes. That works.
Except he's not worth spit.

Thirty three years we go back,
Of course I think of you when I hear it.
Thirty three years of listening, questioning, understanding...
Of course I think of you.
My mind isn't a spigot I can turn off  
and forget the water that flowed through.
I think of you when I was proud to be your wife,
proud of your accomplishments.
What does she know of those?
She doesn't know      you.

She doesn't       know       you.

She hasn't loved you through the rages and disappointments,
through the utter giddiness of new fatherhood,
through your father's death,
your mother's pain.
She didn't thrill with each promotion,
plan homes,
plant gardens,
hope for thunder,
dance in the rain,
live on  bagels for lunch,
play badminton in the dark.  
She hasn't dried your tears over a son's illness.
She didn't play bridge with friends
or know their son who died,
the tow -headed little boy who made us think of becoming parents.
What comfort can she give?
She doesn't know you.
She knows this creation you've become
in Hollywood jeans
and weekend hikes without attachments.
She knows your daughters as  bait--what a great dad--
your sons as accomplishments;
your wife as an anchor
who held you down, held you back
when all along I thought I was your support.

She doesn't know you.

And neither do I.

in the brokenness of his words.
He knew the words
before his brain began to die.
He spoke the words
before his brain began to die.

I hear my father's heart
in the skips and starts,
the stuttering frustrations
of his voice.
The voice that scolded and teased,
that soothed and laughed,
the voice that prayed gentle prayers
and loving blessings.

I hear my father's heart even
when the words don't come.
He tries to tell me that he's proud of me,
that he's proud of my husband, that I've been
a good daughter,
a good wife,
a good mother.
I know this is what he's saying.

I know my father's heart.

I’m looking for a gay cowboy.

I was married to a straight-up ******* for 30 years,
so now I’m looking for a gay cowboy.
One who wears spurs on his boots and
chaps on top of his jeans
with flannel shirts that still have sleeves so
he can slip them through
the arms of a brown wool vest.

I want a gay cowboy who smells of air-dried laundry,
who will compliment my color-coordinated outfits,
clean the lipstick from my teeth,
tease my hair into place,
laugh at my jokes, but
tell me kindly when my jokes fall flat, then
pat my shoulder to let me know it will be okay.

I want a gay cowboy with
a well-trimmed beard and
silvery hair that he can pull into
a pony-tail beneath his cowboy hat.

I want a gay cowboy with
a body that gives evidence that
he’s done the hard work of life,
but I don’t care about six packs unless
they’re in a cooler on the beach.

I don’t care about the color of his eyes or
how tall he is or
if he can use a grill or
vacuums or
empties the dishwasher or
sews cute little throw pillows for the benches in the barn.

In fact, as long as he enjoys clever wordplay,
porch swings,
chickens in the backyard
and people wandering in and out of the house day and night,
he doesn’t even have to be gay.

when he said he'd filed for divorce.
I thought I'd lost the need to breathe.

He took thirty-three years of my life with him
and I thought I'd lost them all.

But now, now I'm breathing
and smiling and laughing
and making plans
and cooking meals and wrapping presents and
smiling and laughing.
Now, a year later,
I'm breathing again.

And breathing feels good.

I want to see Jesus.
Not the storybook one in the white robes with the blue eyes,
the dark-eyed Jesus, brown-skinned and stained.
I want to see Jesus the man who was God
the man whose feet were *****
whose sweat dripped as he sawed the wood with Joseph,
whose hair fell into his eyes as he bent over his work.
I want to see Jesus whose lean back was muscled from years of hard labor
whose hands were rough from handling raw timber,
who could have fought the soldiers and won because he was fit and able
but who didn't because that wasn't the plan.
I want to see Jesus strong, respected by men, honest and capable,
used to negotiating prices, smiling and confident.
I want to see Jesus the man who loved his mother
and followed her instructions even when he would have preferred not to.
I want to see Jesus the man who was God
when he walked through the crowds who loved him,
disappeared from those who would harm him
and strode across the water as though it were land.
I want to see Jesus the man
who gave up his healthy, well-liked, successful life
to become the savior of the world.
I know God--
invincible, maker of heaven and earth, almighty, omnipotent, omniscient, always with us.
I want to know Jesus
who came to earth
just because he loved me.

I miss the sound of his voice,
the low timbre, the quiet growl
spoken softly into the phone,
into my ear,
that puff of breath
that tickles with each hard consonant.
I miss the heat from his skin
through the fabric of his shirt when he held me close.
I understand, now, the songs which croon
of one last time,
of once before you go.
I wasn’t offered that last kiss.
that last lingering mix of warmth and salt,
of pleasure and tears
that says goodbye.

tears fall
trace the lines
and planes of faces
hurt
pain
shock

like dark, wretched storm
screams rip
sobs cry
fear wrenches

ohmygod
ohmygod
ohmygod
not again
not again

Oh, God, the longing I feel
for those misty mountains,
cold in the morning light,
dripping from the midnight's rain.
I long for the tree-shaded darkness
against mid-day sun,
for wet, warm hours.
I feel the calling, the drawing home
across the sea,
to a time before,
a place known only
in soul's memory.

I wonder
is he embarassed at all to show off a new wife
when they knew the old one too?

Does he think about it?
Does he wish that he could remove the old one from history
so that he could introduce the new to the people they once knew?
Oh I forget. He did that. He took the new back in time
across the continental divide and showed her to the people
who knew the old. He did erase her in their minds.

Only the old is embarrassed to be replaced.
Only the old thinks of these things.
She is not busy being new
and so remembers.

But old and new are such common occurrences
that no one thinks anything of it now.
It is how it is.
That’s all.

When I finish reading,
could you not do that old beatnik thing
where you snap your fingers to show
your appreciation?

How about you hold your breath

while you digest words and then let it out
slowly with an ever
so
softly
mouthed "wow..."

Dont just listen to the words.
Inhale them as you might the fragrance
of fresh cut grass on the hottest day.

Or breathe the words in, then spew them out
as though you've driven through
the musky sweet fog
of dead polecat
two days old.

I have passed the gauntlet.
I have run through hell.
And now I can stand on the other side
and breathe.

Standing here,
hell cooling in the distance,
I think it wasn't so bad.
Like labor pains are forgotten
in the first flush of love.

I have come through the pain
and the labor and I am
New again.
Stronger.
Happier.
Scarred but not scared.
I am ready.

I want to take a vacation,
road trip like we used to,
get in the car, drive till we're lost and
find our way back again.

But there's no point.

It would just be me and Joy.
And while we'd have fun,
we wouldn't have loud singing
and Clay fretting
and Patrick wheezing,
and Cole staring at his gameboy
and Anna Li staring out the window.
and you wouldn't be there.
We wouldn't have slamwiches.
We wouldn't drive as long
or as far away
and I might not find
our way home again.

I fight the screaming, the fear, the
embarrassing stupidity.
I don't give in but.
Sometimes it wins.
Sometimes I lose
who am I,
I lose the ability to
form to form to form
sentences and thoughts wi
which don't repeat
the ability to form
the ability to form
sentences which don't repeat
in circles in my head.
Sometimes the little faceless man runs
screaming
in circles
and I
can't look
directly
for fear they
might see him
running
screaming.
I can't open my eyes to them
can't open my mind or soul
in fear they might know that
I'm faking it.

I know they know
anyway.
I know they hear it. I know they talk.
I know they wonder where I went
why I can't hear them
the noise, the noise in my head
won't let me go.
It
won't
let
go.
I try.

All this wasted time
this wasted life
destroys me.

old checkbooks
sales receipts
gas bills
insurance cards
love letters
college transcripts
repair estimates
project ideas
garden plans
teaching certificate
resignations
copies of copies
greeting cards
collection letters
red light ticket
pencil drawings
broken dreams
rental agreement
prescriptions
church bulletins
life

I'm going to throw away that ****** little mirror
that shows me the crinkles, those ****** little wrinkles.
I'm going to rip down the closet doors which haunt
me with truth each time I pass by.
In my mind I'm
old enough to know what *** is
how to make the most of it,
and attractive enough to make it worth his while.
And how I long for those hot, panting sessions
of athletic pleasure.
But that ****** little mirror reminds me
that I sit here in my grandmother's body
trapped by weight
with bad eyes, bad knees, rough skin
knowing that it's over.

I saw you coming with your prissy dog
and I moved my solid dog twelve feet away
from the sidewalk where you'd pass by;
But you came my way anyway.
You brought your little sofa dog
three feet away from us and upset mine.
He jumped without warning, wrapped his leash around my knee,
sliced the tender back of it with the nylon webbing,
threw me into the tree that stopped him from running after you.
Did you even take the cell phone away from your ear?
Hey, hey! Watch where you're going with that dog!
"Not my problem!" you yelled back.
Right. Next time, my dog won't give way to your expensive
rug rat. Next time, you can fall into the bushes.
Not my problem.

You speak of death
and change
and hope
and anxiety.
You beg for recognition
in rambling,
poorly allusionistic spoken words.
You waste these early morning hours
in a drunken smoky stupor
pretending to be adults.

Which of you goes home to sleep half
a day on your mom and dad's dime?
Which of you works
to buy the liquor and the smokes?

Leave this concrete stage by the
crashing waves.
Go home. Sleep it off. Get a job. Volunteer.
Grow up.

Idealism does not feed you.
It cannot shelter you.

Words don't change anything.
What you do
What you do
changes you.

God I'm lonely.

Here’s what a divorce does:

Divorce
Takes a remnant of a family from the house they moved into 10 years before
when their family numbered 6
then added a 7th

Divorce
Takes them from the house where a new daughter came home
a new Marine came home
the first daughter-in-law came home
the first grandchild came home
the newest daughter to be came home
where we battled illness and survived
where we laughed till we cried.

Divorce
Takes them from the house where friends have gathered to celebrate
birthdays
bonfires
a prom
a dinner dance
a wedding.
Divorce
takes one away
puts two in limbo
makes three leave
four-legged family members
who can’t live
where they are going.

Divorce
shatters family
abandons dreams
mutilates memories
condemns the future.

Divorce
only helps the one who wanted it.

4/13/2012

"the encompassment of these words is stunning; existential angst in a fruit, or section thereof hurtling into space. makes sense though, if i lived in a runaway time capsule, i'd want fruit too, perfect or no. nice poem"

Say what?
Take a noun and make it noun-er.
Take philosophy and dress it down.
Take a fruit, an orange, section it, throw it into space, then agonize over its rightness of being.
Thee musn't feel that one's overuse of semi-archaic phrases and punctuation lessens the actuality of the expression being made. Indeed, it serves only to encapsulate the soundness of thine understandingness and thine expressions of agreement-oneness with the effervescent  bubbliness needed to attract one's readers to continue with their reading of one's liturgy of the meaningfulness of the outerworlds and innertimes. Throw in Gaia, underworlds, swords and flames. Trees with names. socks with shoes. Oftentimes these travel through the continuum side by side, yet unencumbered with knowingness of the other, unembraced by the unembraceable.

Where I live,
there is always noise.
A thousand feet from my back door run
ten lanes of roaring tractor-trailer trucks
piggy-backing double loads,
and Japanese crotch rockets shearing eardrums
with high-pitched whining
and three hundred thousand cars and trucks every single day.
My neighbor says the drone reminds of her the beach,
then she smiles expecting me to agree.
There is an ebb and flow to the sound
from dark rumblings to singing growls.
The sound is incessant like the waves that lap a beach.
But ocean waves are powerful.
They cleanse the sand of footprints and cigarettes.
They leave behind a promise in the smooth,
unsullied surface of newly wet sand.
But those cars and trucks and motorcycles and
mammoth, 18-wheeled beasts leave nothing behind
but oily grit and noise.

Where I live,
there is always sun.
It is an angry sun,
white-hot in lonely, blue skies bereft of comforting clouds.
It is a brazen sun
blinding drivers on their way home.
There is no rain.
No mist.
No fog.
There is only
heat.

People who live in wet climates say, "But it's a dry heat, right?"
They don't know that day after day, unrelenting heat
***** every drop of moisture from my skin
and dries my throat until talking is difficult.
They don't know that it roasts my skin
and boils the tears in my eyes,
that it saps the life out of my soul.

Here,
in the bitter wind,
alone on the wide front porch,
I remember the heat
and absorb the cold.
I inhale the sharp, frozen air and try to forget
the acrid odor of traffic.
Here,
I see soft, blended landscapes covered with pure white
and dotted with blue trees.
Here,
the mountains are white and blue and grey.

My mountains are brown and seasonal.
In the winter, when the haze and smog is blown to the sea,
we see majestic peaks tipped in snow--
but when the winds change,
my mountains disappear completely.

I need to go home again.

I will go home.

I will leave behind the peaceful greys and blowing snow.
Next week I'll stand in my backyard
and count the tumbleweeds rolling down
the shallow canyon behind my house.
I'll watch the wind pick up the sand
and whip it through the air like dry snow.
I'll listen to waves of traffic a thousand yards away
and try to remember this week of winter
when the snow kissed my cheek.

I’ve written words since I found out that those graphite sticks
could form them and wrote my name
on the top of a kleenex box
when I was four.
I’ve written words since I learned that each one
held a meaning I could hear in my head.
I’ve written words since I realized that writing
releases them from my mind,
so that I can hear myself think.
I’ve written words because numbers run away from me,
just out of grasp, teasing me with
their teamwork and rigid cooperation
and parenthetical expressions.
I’ve written words never read by anyone,
words which embarrass with their frankness
words which I’ve burned thinking they would die.
I’ve written words which I longed to share
because they fit together better than numbers
and made my skin crawl with their
deliciousness.