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Cut

Posted in poetry, tagged , , , , , , on July 22, 2025| Leave a Comment »

Let your hopes, not your hurts, shape your future. (Robert H. Schuller)

CUT—

The little girl stands

on her imaginary stage

made of ordinary maroon carpet on an everyday Thursday afternoon

sometime in mid-1950. A popular song

drifts into the living room

from the kitchen where Mommy cooks,

scrubs the floor, and complains about how quickly

three kids get it dirty again.

She thinks she may be pregnant with her fourth child. 











The girl mimics the trills, the rises and falls,





and emotions in the melody,





her gentle vibrato promising a





clear soprano voice one day.










Mama appears, wielding her wooden spoon.





So-who-do-you-think-you-are?





Mommy turns away without striking.





Yet, the girl hears the warning





and retreats into the dark, silent spaces





between the lace curtains and window.





The song will not disappear.





She hears it inside her head





and saves the sound for a safer moment.











					
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An Argument With Me

					

					Posted in poetry, tagged , , , , , , , ,  on July 11, 2025|
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An Argument with Me At 2AM





Overactive Subconscious mind, stop.





This is not a suggestion.





Me, I am talking to you.





Eyes close. Now.















Memory and imagination,





you can have the computer tomorrow.





Lay off the coffee and fears,





and I will do what you say.





It is time to sleep.





Know-it-all voice,





it is too late for abstinence.





Ask a storm to disassemble.





I cannot hear you.





You hear me fine.





Think about moments of joy.





Live them again.





Then breathe in and out,





out and in.















Smile. We’ll play again tomorrow.






					
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Fog, Sun, and Hope

					

					Posted in poetry, tagged , , , , , ,  on July 1, 2025|
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“The worst form of injustice is pretended justice.” (Plato)










Fog, Sun, and Hope















Bare, black trees stand out inside a low cloud of fog.





Headlights hide the vehicles they lead





until they arrive close enough to be





seen by other drivers.










In political fogs, fact and factoid blur. Alternative facts,





lies that wear well-constructed masks. Fear wins.





Each lie repeats often enough to be used as a light beam for





followers. The mask asks folk to scoff at non-believers.





And the non-believers respond with taunts labeled as vague





stupidity, inconsistent logic. A no-win war.










In the natural world, sun, blue sky, and clouds reappear.










Sun hides behind the fog. As headlights point out need





can we carry hope and respond with an ear instead of censure?
















					
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Asthma Story

					

					Posted in poetry, tagged , , , , , ,  on June 11, 2025|
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Take a deep breath and let it all go.  Oprah Winfrey





ASTHMA STORY





The word b-r-e-a-t-h needs
more than one syllable when an attack begins,
air struggling to flow in and out, a sudden drying, shallow water. 





I think about free ocean waves
as a passage opens through my nose, out my mouth.
A new power. Whispers could move mountains.
The smallest birds embrace the sky. And I am grateful,






					
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Lost Again

					

					Posted in poetry on June 2, 2025|
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“We make a lot of detours, but we’re always heading for the same destination”
―Paulo Coelho





Lost—Again





The directional app on my phone
remains mute, while the road twists
and my mind twists with it
into lost places I’ve been.





Memories explode bully-style inside
my brain synapses, creating panic.
No sound, but an arrow on my screen says
turn left at the next corner. I remember





the shop with the worn yellow sign.
And space in my head and heart opens.
I know to move through uncertainty.
Celebrate my detours. Consider





the possibility that others hide pain
behind strange, sour, surly behavior.
May peace be made from pieces,
one imperfect turn at a time.





Originally published in For a Better World 2020






					
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Hunger’s Cousins

					

					Posted in poetry, tagged , , , , ,  on May 23, 2025|
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Hunger’s Cousin










When her baby was born,
someone whisked her boy away
and placed him in an incubator
sterile, touch free.





And Mama brought her child home.
They grew, separate and fat,
looked similar yet knew
of each other as strangers.





Mama stands now at a deli.
She orders three pounds of ham
and 24 ounces of cheese.
Two women behind her snicker





at both her and the chubby child.
A third woman mentions
the shade of her worn blue coat.
A weak compliment. Mama fakes a smile.





Then another customer says she recalls
the date and hospital where the boy was born.
She recognizes her son’s name.
Mama gasps and the woman smiles.





I took care of your son in the nursery.
For 47 days. She touches both Mama and her boy.
And prays for a miracle. She knows
Mama and son live hunger of a different kind.






					
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Birth, an Imagined Memory

					

					Posted in poetry, tagged , , , , , , , , ,  on May 5, 2025|
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The two most important days in your life are the day you are born and the day you find out why. 





Mark Twain





BIRTH





Swollen, toxic, ignorant of motherhood,
you lie in your post-World War hospital bed,
and wonder if you’ve heard lies.
How can a newborn, untouched
by her life source, be fine?





You see, hear, touch, smell nothing but
bleached sheets and ward antiseptics.
The baby develops away from you
in a nursery. You return home. Without her,
cord leaked into your severed womb.





At home, baby grows fed on evaporated milk
and rules made of rules. Should-be’s without question.
The child reaches for you, to break the barrier, 
but not until long after she delivers your grandson.





Does the touch feel real?
By then your weakness has led to the inevitable.





Your great-granddaughter finds your photo in an old album.
“That’s my mother,” your daughter says.
“You would have loved her.”
The chasm finally closes.
For no good reason at all.






					
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Dear Me

					

					Posted in poetry, tagged , , , , , , , , , ,  on April 28, 2025|
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“Once you choose hope, anything’s possible.”  Christopher Reeve





Dear Me





Hey, let’s stop for a moment.





No need to hurry.
The wind isn’t blowing anywhere.
Except inside you.
Disorder magnifies chaos
when your memory revisits trauma.





One thought, one step at a time.
Savor the inside of your being.






Your coffee says it is perked and ready.
It wants to open your spirit.





Memories awaken whether you want
them to reappear or not.






No. You cannot roadblock fresh thoughts
because the subconscious can’t control itself
on the immediate level.
That comes with choice.





The next step.
We will get there.
It may take two Tylenol and
a few moments of rest.





Then again, it may take a moment away
with nature, art, or a close friend.
The next moment exists.





Look forward to it.






					
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Computer Argument

					

					Posted in poetry, tagged , , , , , , ,  on April 21, 2025|
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“A computer lets you make more mistakes faster than any other invention with the possible exceptions of handguns and Tequila.”
― Mitch Ratcliffe





Computer argument





Is it me or is it you, HP laptop?
Because we are not syncing this 5:49 AM.






We need to find a solution before
our disagreements lead to disaster.






My neighbor’s system must stop before
it touches our brick wall, thank you.
That name, labeling our working territory, isn’t mine.






At what age does a computer system reach senility?
Is your mechanical memory failing, like mine?






Can I help you in any way that technical
parts understand? Ah! You are responding.






I never knew you had pride like my fellow humans do.
Good job. Now, find a word that rhymes with orange.






See, I can be stubborn, too.






					
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Picking Clothes to Wear

					

					Posted in poetry, tagged , , , , , , , ,  on April 14, 2025|
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The only thing worse than being blind is having sight but no vision. Helen Keller





Choosing Clothes to Wear to Help a Blind Woman





Why do I linger
in my familiar closet
as I match shirt and pants
for a visit to help a woman
who won’t see me?





A delay? Or
a wish to be more
than I am able to give.





One sigh and an answer
arrives. Be who you are.
Let the sense of fabric
on skin lose importance,





because my friend needs a ballot,
to fill in the blanks,
and sign with an X.





I witness her mark.
She smiles.
“I see the sun all the time,”
she answers, “On the inside.”





From her window I look, and observe
windblown branches swept into
a patch of darkness.





Next question.
Who is ministering
to whom?















written March, 2020











					
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