headstand of success
to top a sunny work week
filled with teenage grins
plan for our future
money’s tight, love is tighter
let’s let loose the strings
all of my children
wrapped in a challenging pose
namaste, my soul
motherhood
Doors
absenteeism
shuffles in a class bully
to begin my day
meeting turned sour
by news of favorite students
choosing other schools
(but i don’t blame them
after my reception here
and structure-less rules)
lunch: a cruel email
brings sixty minutes on hold
all for eight digits
if i had those numbers
for what i should earn each day
this wouldn’t matter
dean’s accusation
ends my locked-door afternoon
loss, theft, and questions
at home, door swings wide
my baby with arms open
smile bright as birth
we draw skating paths
multicolored chalk, sunsets
stress melts into love
Super Sunday
icy wonderland
perfect for dolls and yoga
warm inside Sunday
wrapped up for movies
stovetop cinnamon popcorn
cuddles all around
this is what love is
the everyday joys measured
with quiet moments
Mother to Daughter
Modeled after “Mother to Son” by Langston Hughes
Well, daughter, I’ll tell you,
Life for me hasn’t been an easy download.
It’s had loading time
and viruses,
and malware warnings,
and hard drive crashes,
and places with no wifi at all—
dead.
But all the time
I’ve been surfing along,
and reaching social media,
and writing blog posts,
and saving work to Drop Box,
and sometimes going through the Google maze
where ten million links can’t answer my query.
So, girl, don’t shut down.
Don’t you give in to the start menu.
Because when you find it’s hard to wait
you know the pinwheel of death will stop spinning
And I’m still surfing,
I’m still keeping my screen on,
And life for me hasn’t been an easy download.
Climate Change
winter rollerblades
spray-bottle paths formed by girls
with no snow in sight
a sunny walk home
January thaws… nothing
worried hidden joy
oh but their smiles!
the earth is dying, but them?
they’re just having fun
i skate after them
till the sun escapes the day
tuck sorrow to bed
we all have our paths
formed by small hands and big hearts
climate changes us
Stopping by a Mansion in my Neighborhood
Modeled after “Stopping in the Woods on a Snowy Evening” by Robert Frost
Whose house this is I think I know
His wealth is in his business though
He will not see me nosing in
Or what news I’ll take when I go.
My little girls must think it odd
To stop here, so detached from God
Where money rules the heart’s desire,
To darkest greed he gives a nod.
They pull my wrists and ask to leave
And wonder why it is I grieve
The only other sound’s the truck
That brings his gold out to his sieve
The house is lovely, tall, and grand
But I will not lose where I stand:
With them I have the upper hand,
With them I have the upper hand.
Evening Prayers
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
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
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
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
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
