(an acrostic poem)
Redesigning the future expands your heart
Excuses are a poor substitute for clarity
Start small, keep going with all your heart
It’s safe to ask for what you want
Let things take time (but help them along whenever you can)
It might be scary, but it’s worth it
Eventually, forgiveness will find you
Not all desires require action
Choice is everywhere
Every breath is like coming homeSometimes the most subtle cry for help
is a direct cry for help.
It’s as if we’ve erected blinders
against the words themselves:
“I need help.”
As if the truth they contain
and the pain it takes to utter them
are more than we want to bear witness to.
As if hearing them spoken so directly
renders us helpless ourselves,
and afraid.
As if we have nothing to give
to the one courageous enough to ask.
As if we could make that choice for them
by pretending we don’t hear.
The wolf is real.
I would not be crying otherwise.
heartbeats loud as hooves
something always pounding
fast and furious
barreling down behind
don’t turn around
it might catch up
just run
Is this what womanhood has come to?
We romanticize the struggle,
find solidarity in shared hardship:
“I’ve been there.”
“You’ve got this.”
We normalize the pain,
take for granted the fact
that nothing in life is easy,
that we’ve got to keep pushing on –
do our best anyway,
show ‘em who’s boss.
Seriously?
I’m tired of “in spite of it all.”
For once in my life,
can’t I just accomplish something
Without being a hero for it?
Who am I to believe
that rainbows show up just for me?
That the precise play of light on cloud
is an invitation for
my eyes alone
to glimpse the heavens,
if only for a moment?
I am the one
whose eyes are open,
whose heart is ready
to behold wonders.
I am the one looking for them.
(a somewhat sassy sonnet)
Come on now, do you actually believe
some knight is going to show up at your door
in shining armor, on a snow white steed
and “rescue” you? Puh-LEEZE, girl, say no more.
It’s twenty twenty two, my lady fair;
“Await the hero” is a bloody joke.
Let’s catch you up to modern times – I swear
you’re better off without the stupid bloke.
You badass mama, you – don’t write yourself
into some story where you don’t belong.
That fiction has no place upon your shelf –
you see, you were the hero all along.
So don’t you sit and pine for Mister Right –
‘cause after all: There ain’t no fucking knight.
now I lay me down to sleep
instead of dreams, my soul shall keep
the loveliest of quiet hours
its fancies free of golden towers
I’ll wake again with morning’s sun,
another day – begin at one
and see how close I get to ten
before it’s time to sleep again
Night Poems
Some nights I feel as if
I could lay my head down
and let the poem go,
just this once.
But I don’t.
Poems want desperately to be held,
nurtured with dusky whispers
and coaxed into the light.
They may feign aloofness
but, really,
poems are sluts for attention.
Let a poem know you are ready
(but not too eager)
and it will practically pounce
on your attention,
wrestle it to the page
and bat your words around
until they fall in satisfactory order.
It is not your job to question
or to claim ownership;
just to play,
and give the poem
all the credit for being.
Who holds the needle
that spliced the tethers
of our hearts?
The knot too hastily tied,
the tails of thread
left dangling
for anyone to catch
and tug.
Who will be first
to unravel?
The geese on the water
eat algae near shore.
The man on the rocks
feeds the gulls, who want more.
The kids on the beach
throw themselves at the sand.
And all of my dreams
just want someplace to land
