small signs and short legs
blue sky memories of faith
some fear is slipping
but in children’s eyes:
perfect for play and joy
humanity’s rainbow
if we could all climb
to the top of the goal post
his dream would come true
not just a Marade
a gathering of lost souls
hoping for what’s right
with their eyes, see it:
the world he wanted. Here.
not a shot fired.
we’ll never be friends
i mean, she’s just too damn rich
(she’s so nice, i think)
but conversations
that end play dates in our ‘hood
put us in our place
it’s finally done!
it took so long to finish!
now the kids can play!
(unrelated: us
two basement woes, money lost
to floods and landlords)
million-dollar homes
do not need finished basements
but she won’t see that
and we’ll never talk
beyond the superficial
(it’s kept underground)
now the kids can play
1000 square feet: more space
between us and them
why do i hear bells
far-off church in my bedroom
while i try to sleep?
is it divine light
keeping me awake at night
or stress, magnified?
(i recall the bells
ringing love in Michelen–
Belgian waffle day
chocolate, Belgian beer
no words for: straight from the source
and the bell college
chiming through the square
an echo i can’t forget
haunting, pleasing me)
this isn’t Poe’s poem
oh but the bells, bells, bells, bells!!
chocolate for my soul
dreaded decision
of a home no longer ours
that’s not worth selling
with caution we’ll choose
the path that sets in motion
the rest of our lives
please, a pinch of luck
for the money pit shadow
bought by newlyweds
bring it under light
to shine on our new knowledge
of how the world works
middle girl yoga
next to me in our small space
sisters couch cuddle
breathe into the night
find the pose that suits you best
family namaste
i won’t give in here
too early, too adamant
a long semester
they need the structure
in walls unlike those at home
where they’re free as birds
they’ll hate me for it
but learning is needed more
than a text message
but how their wrath wins
with flippant parents’ lose tongues,
lack of discipline
my daily fight ends
with bickering daughters, cries,
skipping yoga class
table talk of love
afterward: apologies,
coloring, and peace
i will give in here
love lies deeper, lasts longer
flies free as a bird
a mental illness
keeps his secret behind doors
his goal: expose her
but she’s not hiding.
this stigma needs to end. Now.
no more closets, please
she needs compassion
a face grinning with the truth
not a pack of lies
you see, she’s unpacked
the weight loss feels amazing
and eye-opening
if he could see it
he wouldn’t stigmatize her
rather, open doors
yet whispers bend us,
the burden of exposure
too oft hard to bear
if his berating
bends her toward the bottle now
he’s unforgiven
no handsome smile
can bend me back to his side
may her freedom sing
Modeled after “The Guest House” by Rumi
This teaching is a guest house.
Every morning a new arrival.
A surprise, a sadness, a frustration,
some momentary celebration comes
as an unplanned visitor.
Accept and accommodate them all!
even if they are a crowd of admin
who violently sweep your classroom
empty of its whiteboards,
Still, treat each guest respectfully.
he may be preparing you for
some new adventure.
The homeless student, the refugee, the defiant ones,
meet them at the door with a smile
and let them know they are welcome.
Be grateful for whomever enters,
because each has been sent
to make your life more than
a forgotten promise.
Modeled After “Cut While Shaving” by Bukowski
Faces
It’s never quite right, she said,
The way people judge,
the way they are two-faced,
Bright smiles for your face,
Nasty words behind your back
It’s never quite right when the stars don’t shine,
when you are stuck behind a swath of clouds,
when the only sight you can see is the nose in front of your face
It’s never quite right, she said,
to take the easy road of lying,
to be a spy, to blurt and feed lies on either side of your tongue,
to be the unreal you
I walked away from the mirror
onto the icy streets,
Faces everywhere,
too afraid to look at my own.
he scored seventeen
has a scholarship waiting
asks to leave class now
the minimum score?
twenty-one for survival
thirty-six: perfect
not even halfway
to the level of knowledge
for college-bound kids
but he’ll play football
that’s all that really matters
money, money, greed
meanwhile, i teach kids
who spend hours reading words
that will take them where?
the depth of a poem
the silence of acceptance
knowledge lost in games
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