The Poetry Marathon

Choices
everything xxxxxxx in a moment. the big xxx in the lottery, the xxxxxxxx car down the highway, the unexpected xxxxx from across the room, the secret xxxxx who shows up at the xxxxxxxxxxx party, the leaping xxxx xxxxx in front of the car. xxxxxxx can be done, but watch and wait, then xxxxxxx, pick yourself up and xxxxxxxx on.

Qualitative Data Collection ~ Research Evaluator

re-search: to search and search again using what you have already searched
through, to see if there may be another way to interpret findings.

evaluation: to evaluate and balance each side of the picture with the other-side of the coin.
If this is true, might that also be true? or maybe not, if seen from another’s perspective.

what does the one on the other side of the fence have to say to the same question?
even if you heard this story 1,000 times, stay interested, engaged and see if there is a new light.

always keep a straight face and neutral tone. no leading the witness. yet remain friendly,
present and amicable, even as they tell you a personal horror story.

validate their feelings, so they feel safe, without agreement or commiseration.
assure them their barring their hearts and lives can benefit others, even as you know

funding is likely not available. or you heard this story 15-20 years ago, still without change.
in your own field know you are low person on the pay and respect scale

all the while knowing the high earners would have little to analyze without your data
collection. ever keeping the hope, someday the people will be heard, helped and validated

Depositories

some homes have no closets. everything is piled upon the furniture or floors.
tossed and scattered, old mixing with new and no boundaries or labels as to whom it belongs.
chaotic seasonings, where things can be hidden in plain sight.

some hearts are rife with hundreds of tiny closet doors, like the tiny shutters
on rocks in Costa Rica, night-time bugs shut quickly so as not to be eaten.
a play space, a safe space, a dark prison. the silent walls are indifferent to one’s plight.

depositories of memories, secrets, kind or evil, but ever our own. forming our world
or at least our perception of it. go back and sweep the detritus clean. scrub the walls.
what once was can never be reclaimed. plant new seeds in the fertile soil of today.

The Ordinary is What Was Extraordinary

the pilgrimage inward is never the same as the voyage back.
everything looks different and the journey seems truncated.
planning to be prepared for the unexpected, itself a contradiction,
is an exercise in trust, for once the gate is open the waters rush in
and anything-can-happen-day reaches a new maturity.

respecting the past, honoring the dead, even as I know
their deaths were brutal and unacceptable, is a delicate balance
of heart and mind. in a history of such monumental proportion
does a child here or there, a baby, teen, wife, baker or an elder

claim more tears than any other? my own aunt, uncle, and grandparents
remain lines in handwritten letters, rarely a photo, barely a story.
does piecing together fragments make their ordinary story any more
extraordinary? will witnessing their possible grave site generate closure?

the road not taken, may be ordinary, but the destination can be extraordinary.

You Tell Me

You tell me you love me,
but you really mean you need me
to know you are lovable, have purpose,
or a host of proofs you did not get before we met.

Others tell me they love me,
but really mean they want me,
to fulfill a desire, a dream, or a vision
or a host of proofs they did not get before we met.

You tell me you love me,
with your eyes, your actions, your
patience, your ever-present acceptance,
or a host of proofs I did not get before we met.

You are the best dog ever! I say patting your soft fur
and breathing in your scent.

Almost Home

Familiar scents and foods could make this seem like home.
potatoes and beets in a bucket on the floor.
the basket of foraged wild mushrooms near my feet.
cinnamon rolls baking in the oven.
the heavy canvas oiled jacket thrown across the chair
while a single lightbulb in the overhead lamp flickers
and you sit by my elbow pouring intently over hand-drawn maps.

4,000 miles from where my hounds patiently await me.
they are my true star. this new land is my origin, my roots
and I have come to learn and pray under the same sky that birthed me.
to feel the earth beneath my feet, give my thanks and
put to rest the sadness, pain and discord
for wherever I go, there I will find me.

Funeral Singers hour 8
credit: Funeral Singers by Sylvan Esso all italic lines are credited to the song

under starry skies I hold the fire in my hand
and stretch to the sky
all my friends are funeral singers

the weight of love is a warm blanket
safe around me, protection from the cold
all my friends are half-gone birds

even the stars will burn out eventually
long before we know they’re gone
all my friends are keeping time

I sing to starry skies about my past
and hopes for the future
words lost in the spitting fire
as a book is aching for the tree

Sunflower Swing

the empty swing beckons whoever will take the risk.
no criteria, no membership, no permission required.
find me and I am yours!

the clear path ends at fields of yellow, pollen shared with bees,
crunchy seeds a gift to birds, oil for your cooking.
flowering faces turned toward the sun, await a new sentinel.

seasons will change, time will pass, soil go fallow.
the earth will turn. new life, new memories will claim the sun

Apparition

peering over the edge of a world I believed I once knew
everything has changed and how do I get my bearings?
evil applauded, kindness mocked, and the innocent carry the biggest burden.

when did caring and sharing become ‘woke’?
what does that even mean? awake to what is around you?
willing to think critically and listen to others?

to accept differences and share resources so we can all be healthy?
perhaps, even all feel loved and happy?
are the animals really only here for our use of them?

the world has become flat. the edge of falling off looms closer.
falling where? trillionaire starships to new homes in the galaxy?
while the rest of us dream of what once was.

restoration, reforestation, rewilding in a new order,
out of the rubble of the past might make the world round again.

Oven Dreams

brown wrinkled and crusty,
row upon row, neatly placed in order.
little potatoes to the back,
the larger ones in the front two rows

the oven is dark, no illumination.
time has cooled the burning.
I reach my hand to the far right corner
unafraid, I pull her out.

biting in and breaking the old tough skin,
mmmm, delicious, I say
my long-deceased father at my side
says, stop, don’t do that!

each dream character, says Jung, is the dreamer
my tattela,* my protector, would never return
but I, brave woman, can make my own path

*father