It’s been a strange month for reading and writing.
I started a new job. I moved into a new house. I learned that a flue and a flute are two entirely separate things and that when the first is blocked at all it’s a health hazard but when the second is blocked strategically it’s music.
Still, I didn’t finish the newsletter I had hoped to write. The idea feels half-baked, the prose pedestrian.
So, I’m going to sit on it for one more month and hope something more interesting can materialize. Sorry to keep you waiting. I know you’re on the edge of your seat.
Instead of the usual, I wrote you poems. Some new, some old, some published, some never to see the light of day past this page. And while I just said they’re for you, they’re really more for me. They’re an attempt to capture a feeling or an essence or an idea, and sometimes all three.
That said, they’re only attempts. But for today, for me, (and maybe for always and for you) that feels like enough.
Thanks for reading this far.
I am from hardwood floors and handmade bunk beds,
From long countertops and oversized dinner tables.
I am from scrapbooks, family portraits, "artwork" of horses and dogs
And the vague memory of painting lessons that didn’t quite stick.
I am from baseball bed sheets and cowboy wallpaper,
From shared rooms and small closets.
I am from kale before it was cool and off-brand cheerios,
From bulk purchases and fend-for-yourself dinners.
I am from "Shouldn't you be in bed?" and "If mama ain’t happy ain’t nobody happy,"
From "Wait until your father gets home" and "Separate rooms, now!"
I am from middle names when you're in trouble, dreaded spanking spoons,
And wearing multiple layers of underwear to lessen the sting.
I am from faster last laps and hands up on defense,
From 4th quarters won and undefeated seasons.
I am from "Did your mom help you with this?"
And "Put away that book, we're not going over that in class today."
I am from sound advice and the man of the house,
From patience, wisdom, generosity, and faithfulness.
I am from the person who knows what's best and what's right,
From the winner of arguments and the loser of P.I.G.
I am from persistent patience and a quiver full of arrows,
From kindness, gentleness, meekness, and love.
I am from the person who knows multiplication tables and multiple
recipes,
From the lover of her children and the fighter of her children's enemies.
I am from summers at camp and Christmases at home,
From games on a board, table, and court.
I am from matching pajamas on Christmas Eve
And wearing anything but those pajamas on Christmas Day.
I am from overly-active vacations and lazy nights in,
From every night is movie night and, “No, it’s my turn to pick.”
I am from something everyone can watch and fun for all ages,
From sharing blankets and pillows but popping your own bowl of popcorn.
I am from “trust your gut” and “you’ll know what to do,”
From advice that I’ve solicited and encouragement I have not.
I am from matching tattoos that we may one day get
And phone calls that continue from wherever we last left off.
I am from one of nine, then ten, now eleven.
From the more the merrier, or at least, the more the louder.
From an unlocked front door and an occupied back porch,
From the fullest of houses and a nest that will never empty.
How I Would Paint Temptation
First, I would paint
One ruby-red apple
Hanging from a tree,
Two candy-colored packs
Of cigarettes unsmoked,
Six bottles of merlot
Sitting on a shelf,
And twelve unspread legs
Standing under blood-red lights.
Then, I would paint
Crumpled all-black clothes
On sneaky satin sheets,
Half a dozen corks
On a marquina marble counter,
An unclear crystal ashtray
Full of charred remains,
And one ruby red apple
Sitting in your hand.
Do Not Depart
Do not depart
From this world all alone
For in it you’ll find
the ones you call home.
The people who tell you to…
Do not depart
From the place you dwell in
Without saying goodbye to
the ones still within.
Instead, let them know that you…
Do not depart
To get away from them
But to seek to find safety
In the surest adventure
The modern indenture, an undeveloped picture.
Work.
Someone Else’s Seatbelt
Someone once told me
that if you hit the brakes too hard
the seatbelt can cut you
because you were going so fast
it has to hurt you to save you.
Someone once told me
that living is like driving
with stop signs for your mind
traffic cones for your heart
and speed limits for your soul/
Only I can set them up (or not), they said.
Only I can choose to obey them (or not), they said.
Swiping scrolling searching, they say, is just speeding swerving screeching.
The cliff is right there, they say, waiting to kill me.
I don’t think I’ll fall off, I say, but I don’t look up to confirm that.
Part of me wants it—the long drop, the deep breath, the realization that my brakes are out from lack of use and this canyon floor is all that could have ever stopped me.
Can you put a seatbelt on in mid-descent?
Will it cut me when I crash?
Will I feel it if it does?
Fear and Love
To fear is to face the unknown.
To love is to know that you are known.
Fear is a tight chest and clenched fists.
Love is an easy exhale and open arms.
Fear wonders whose house this is and what’s behind that door.
Love knows the key is under the cactus and that’s the pantry.
Fear starts in the head and goes to the heart.
Love starts in the heart and goes to the head.
Fear is like standing on the edge of a cliff.
Love is like standing on the edge of a cliff.
Fear pins your feet to the ground.
Love holds your hand and tells you to jump.