The Cyclist’s Dilemma

he will not forgive
shuns me in once warm places
i will not forget

in tears, she begs me
just get them started–i can’t–
grief bursts into halls

all papers graded
i read Spanish in silence
wait for final bell

a windy walk home
trailed by one-car dilemma
my cyclist shines

headlamp, gloves ready
January? my mistress
cycle through my stress

my peace offering:
the book he wanted to read
(he puts me on stage)

humiliate me?
i crave the Spanish smiles
he doesn’t know me

a windy ride home
cold clings to my clothes with hugs
cheeks on girls’ warm cheeks

this brief moment here
is all i’ve seen them today
my cycle spins on

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

Sobriety is Counted Sweetest

Modeled after “Success is Counted Sweetest” by Emily Dickinson

Sobriety is counted sweetest
by those who never drink
to never know that poison
would allow you always think

Not one of all the drinkers
would admit that this is true
The devil’s tongue inside the drink
is what gives them joy anew

But if you’ve saved your soul
and avoided all the bars
You’ll have a peaceful life
and not toast your soul to stars

Sunday Sundae

January sun
makes summer out of winter
joyful ice cream stroll

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Ski Time

wind and commitment
to ski, to time i don’t have
(nor money… either)

grumpy beginnings
end with every ten feet stops
and i want to quit

but then i’m alone
and make this my mountain home
if only a day

their end-of-day grins
make me rethink my lost time
lost heart, yes… now won

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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.

Burdened

other than starving
(because yoga doesn’t work)
my solutions fail

her comment stings
the tail of disappointment
snaps back at my truth

five pounds is that clear?
how hard i carry the weight
of words i can’t lose

That Moment

Modeled after “The Debt” by Paul Laurence Dunbar

that moment of giving in
when you know it is a sin
you taste the sweetest nectar
though it makes you a liar

too soon the taste is sour
all because of one hour
exalting joyous moment
will always be monument

then, it washed away your pain
hidden joy was found again
now, the pain’s here forever
if you’d known… you would never.

Marade

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.

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