Empty wine glass
Stale pizza
Cold naked toes
Sun left me lightless

Fridge is road-trip distance
Further to the sock drawer
Light switch is moons away
Remote earns its name

Where is my alacrity,
my willingness,
my zeal?

I’ve misplaced all my fervour,
ardour,
gusto,
warmth,
and spark

My promptness
and avidity
are now in
blue lividity

No relish,
bright celerity,
or genial rapidity

Just me
and stale pizza
--lamenting

Gone too soon
My lost sparkle

“Are you okay?”

Sweetheart, I write poetry
And some kindhearted people said I write it well
…
That can only mean one thing
My mind is an unescapable hell

“Yeah, just tired”

We were like two ships;
passing in the night—
except,
we weren't passing each other at all,
we were circling each other,
over,
and over—
swept into a whirlpool,
strung along for a relentless cycle,
until we reached the pit,
and we sank to the bottom,
forgotten,
as if the ships never set sail.

Almost two years ago my grandmother died of breast cancer. She was the strongest woman I knew, she was beautiful, smart, steadfast, faithful, generous, funny, she was light. When she died a part of me died too.

A little over a year ago I had my first miscarriage. I saw a positive pregnancy test on March 17, 2024. I was so excited. Three days later the tests came back negative and I started bleeding. I was distraught.

Then five months later I had a second miscarriage. August 29, 2024 I had a positive pregnancy test, same thing as last time. I lost it a week later.

Losing my grandmother, losing my babies took some of the light out of me. I’m still looking for the light but it’s coming back. One single drop at a time. Sometimes I feel hopeless. Other times I feel grateful, excited and motivated to get started on something new. But I have this dread in the back of my mind. Nothing good lasts forever. And if I get too excited about something it’s going to slip away. “It was nice while it lasted” I tell myself. every. Time.
What man meant for evil God has meant for good. Joseph spent 7 years in a prison cell betrayed by his brothers. He didn’t lose faith. Jesus was beaten so badly he was unrecognizable. He died the worst death anyone could go through. What man meant for evil, God meant for good. And Jesus Christ rose from the dead, and now we are all saved through him.
The Lord is telling me to be patient, steadfast, and faithful. “Wait while I do a good work in you.”
I’m waiting God… I’m here, waiting.

The bent legs
carelessly dangling out of the chair
as the ants come
whom she welcomes with open arms
Her voice would shake
and choke up
passionately when debating
the stubborn and beastly injustice
How her freckles
were spackled onto her nose
from hours spent
chasing the endless sun
Criss cross applesauce
spilt onto the lush grass
limbs bent at unattractive angles
a book filled with ambrosian letters
precariously teetering
the tightrope of her kneecap
Makeup and artificiality
was foreign to her,
alien intruders,
the only known home
provided by the trees and birds
sheltered by the blithely positioned cloud
And the Spirit,
the Spirit that yearns to join the ladybug
dive deep deep deep
into the clear chalice of water
accompanied by airy eagles
To run until her chest aches
capacious lungs gasping
Along with the Soul
the Soul that clings to those she loves
cries over the blissfulness of the dove
is sickened by the smell of new leather
and patiently listens to the water in the drain

all of these make the divine feminine.

The voice, the bell-yellow
voice of the sax plays on.
Under the mind like a layer
of canvas lie the brushes
and strokes, the arms and legs
of memory.  The arrival on the
skin of sound is the moment
of love.  The unfurling of
the pallette.

You say, listen, the wail of
breath on brass is mine.  No,
it is yours.  The voice, no
longer alone, even when
unaccompanied, falls from
the blues of evenings or the
reds of afternoons, approaches
with footprints in sand.  We
are castled in music, our
colors unfurled.

Our fingers on the keys.  We
see the archetype of design in
the sound of the sax, the
movement in the fabric of
stripes.  The sound’s colors
draw us to each other.
Listen.  The wail of breath
on brass is everywhere.
Listen.


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