Bent

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

Teaching is a Guest House

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.

Games

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

Pieceful Peace

red-letter day starts
with no meetings, extra plan
and ends with yoga

all baskets empty
week of copies, lesson plans
teacher’s piece of peace

students were pleasant
chess-club-induced quiet house
recharges my soul

soon they’ll bombard me
with high-strung voices of youth
different piece of peace

i’ll take the pieces
fit them into life’s puzzle
each day can bring peace

Catch Me a Moon

before dawn, i walk
full moon of icy danger
to be there for them

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classroom lit, open
first day, students new to me
i set standards high

phones, backtalk, shouting
first impression resistance
shake me to my core

after school begging
for schedule changes, fallbacks
they hate and love me

i missed my girls’ smiles
their good-morning kisses, hugs
to face this chaos?

slushy post-school walk
to their bright eyes, warm faces
lost in built-up play

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then, online ranting
plagiarizing grown student
demanding grade change

why you, and not them?
the question of my moon day
please… catch me a moon

make it bright like them
shining beyond snowy morn
lighting, guiding love

Life. Uncorked.

you’re coming back now
the truth lies behind bottles
wish i could break them

whispers and gossip
that you aren’t ready to face
the rest of your life

how will you swallow
whatever life’s bitter taste
and carry on, safe?

i would walk with you
but i think of empty rooms
how hollow life is

without a family
don’t know if you’re better off
(but i know they are)

all the same, it kills
i worry you’ll die like him
with bottle in hand

to keep it secret
no one will reach out to help
you burden yourself

we all burden this
this fear of speaking the truth
until lies kill us

let’s not speak of death
of morose new beginnings
i wish i’d brought hope

i would uncork it
let its elixir shape you
towards a drink-free life

Cry Babies

realization:
i’m halfway through motherhood
(though it never ends)

ten-year-old letter
brought me back to those first days
late-night crying babes

but ten years from now?
they’ll all be out of the house
i’ll cry, my babies

when i open it
will my heart be sad, or lost
or, at best, hopeful?

will i be relieved
to think of my youngest girl
sitting in my lap?

or devastated
because she no longer will?
oh how i love them

but i’m halfway through
they’re better skiers than me
(and everything else)

no more crying babes
just the lust for lost moments
that hurt us then, now

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Planning. To Not Plan.

what secrets are found
in twenty years of letters?
and what dreams will come?

at sixteen, desperate
first love turmoil, heart crushed
i lived for friends, love

at twenty-six, scared
new baby, husband’s lost job
i lived on blind faith

now, thirty-six,
my life begins to balance
career, family… home??

sleep in which bed, house?
on which continent–east, west?
in whose arms–mine, his?

the letter will tell
my thirty-six-year-old goals
where my heart beats now

but heartbeats have wings
my girls will be all grown up
the world will change

i hope to keep up
with the childlike soul i dreamt
as a young lovebird

while at the same time
accepting life’s challenges
and… i can’t plan them

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Bask. Basque.

Cartagena blues
teasing me with memories
soldier guarding life

here i am, snowbound
(silent beauty winter)
biting cold, warm home

i could take this pic
right there next to that palm tree
basque in Spain sun

but i am here now
family on every corner
tongue out for snowflakes

tasted continents
on either side of the sea
and i am home now

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Write of Passage

our boots squeak with snow
light as sparkling feathers
quiet city streets

middle one agrees
to traipse in winter beauty
so much like her mom

this brings me to peace
from sleepless, sorrowful nights
my words lost, then found

like our snowy prints
only seen from right behind
otherwise ignored

my most precious gift
recorded for all my life
despised by loved ones

perhaps she will walk
behind my wordy footsteps
her write to escape

for now, quiet snow
i accept what i can’t change
and keep on writing

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