choices

Bent

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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

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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.

Faces

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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.

Games

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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

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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

Twists and Turns

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silent overturn
of a fragmented first day
shocked apologies

after thirteen years
of hearing broken English
poetry sounds bright

written by freshmen
whose voices i’ll discover
with this twist of fate

Catch Me a Moon

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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.

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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

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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.

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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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