Swath of asphault and concrete; black/gray

driven lumpy by heated pauses miraged

Punctuation mark stripes; gold and white

ribbon familiar patterns of guidance; STREDOP!

The greenway is still damp with dewy prisms

freshly mowed with dull blades, tips khaki

A solitary snowy moth flitters dainty on green

It square dances with the breeze lilting lavendar

The timer changes time; a horn honks orange

The dainty beauty slithers to the sky blue

The bus squeals to the stop hissing silver


Angels don’t always appear

With wings unfurled,

Golden gliding

Their halos don’t always gleam

Polished perfection

Brightly blinding

I bear witness to apparition

Willing giving

Blessed binding

Scarred and battered

Beauty born

Souls a’sliding

The Tender Heart

A tender heart gives love like breath

like clinging to a mother’s breast

flowing freely falling fast

love is born to last

too last

But also is the bite of death

that cracks the shine of granted health

broken hearts are staples

for those that are truly able

to give

to love

to be

all in without fear

regret only for not having more time

but loving while remaining blind

to the inevitable end

The girl in the attic

When I was little, I was made to be small.

My voice was taken, shaken, and broken.

I was told murderous lies

that forced silence

locked me away floating

above my body

in the dark corner

witnessing the streetlight

that bled my windowsill orange

while he crushed breath from my lungs

with the sour smell of stale beer,

spicy sour pine,

and putrified cigarettes

I was confused why they screamed

but I was forced to not make a sound

no matter how much it hurt

no matter if I couldn’t feel my body

no matter if I got lost in the night.

I prayed, one day,

that I’d be small enough,


to disappear altogether.

Today vs 355 Days Ago

Today I watched an emergency vehicle roar

followed by a chorus of five more

the hymn they sang was not for me

but I found myself unable to breathe

I started to panic, filled with fear

as if they were suddenly going to stop here

I wear her shirts and her ashes

as if those would conjure her

breathe, ironically, life back to her

to us

to the moment in time where we were

all of we, together, being happily.

It was a feeling of holy

a feeling of communion

as we broke bread together

The laughter we shared

reciting our ancient tales

filled us faster than food

She just at fifty, me at 49

We’d spent a love-time of life

but never enough time

The chaplain at the hospital said,

on the day Bean really died,

Maybe you were the face of God

she had to see before she could

finally be at peace.”

It was the most comforting words

because I often think of them.

I often think of Bean’s face in that same way,

the face I needed see before she went home

Devoted Spirit

I know you.

I know you are here.

I honor that I am blessed with you.

You feel every beat of your life belonging within me,

with me,

surrounding me

I know that your loving breath is my purpose for being

That your tears are my grief because we are one

That your smile is my laughter so loud it leaks from my eyes

That your silence is the peace I have only known with you

What you can hold, I am but weak

What you can give, I am ever poor

What you esteem, I am earthly bound

Yet you shower me with treasures untold

You cherish my heart and my spirit

You renew me despite each stumbling,


crumbling error

Restoring me to the finest temple where together we abide

For this boon,

my heart is ever yours

to fill and guide as you will.,

A Polaroid

He lounged on the end of the tea house sofa with a glass of wine in his hand

He smiled a shy smile, looking up from under his hooded eyes that sparkled with pride.

He spoke of love for the sweaty hippie girl that plodded a hill

Probably wearing braids.

He knew he wanted to embrace love,

He knew she would: be love, mother love, personify home.

When he speaks of his longing, it’s not of home, but for her.

He blesses her with words that only poets understand.

He begs for belief in his worthiness of her wonder, her coffee brown home.

I imagine her smiling at him, shaking her head with wisdom.

She knows. She understands. She sees. She loves this man.

I see the words he thinks of her, and I know he “gets it.”

He believes in her, trusts in her, and prays she understands.

I know she does. That he doesn’t, makes him want to work.

It makes him think of that woman he’s always loved.

That he will always love, that is worthy of everything because,

He’s never seen a mother that was willing to be as home to him as she.

She is his beloved