An American’s Poem

We are light and dark. 

We are trapped in between

and 

Yet my country still stretches from sea to sea,

the rocket’s red glare gleams for you and I,

the pledge is to the united states

for all 

and 

“this is where I am.”*

 

An American Marriage by Tayari Jones

 

 

 

 

Mary Oliver’s Woods

I’ve never been to Mary Oliver’s woods.

The woods that wrapped her in words

that she spelled out in spilled ink

so that we might read,

and, in a sense, walk with her

and her dogs, loving and leading

the way in a place that literally

has changed the world.

The Way Will Still Come

If I ever lose my way,

the moonlight paths

will come again to show me.

Each night the way is made clear.

Even if I lose arms, legs, eyes, and teeth

I know that there is a path to tomorrow,

even if the path is sometimes shadowed by the worst,

the way will still come.

Halcyon Days to Come

The sweet cottage snuggled deep

in a lethargic treeline, strange as it sounds.

The smoke from the chimney curled lazily in the evening sky.

The fireflies not yet visible slept deep in the wildflower

clumps just waiting to zoom about in the dark night

but now they slumbered, unaware of the hot porridge

made, the bottle of sweet syrup close by, the stocking feet

resting on a knotted rag rug, made from the masks

of Covid-19.

Emoji Love

Protecting myself and I am proud of me.

Walking my own path, even if it means being alone.

The flowers and even the seashells call me, remind me of my lucky

life – full of hot drinks, books, clothes, the trappings of an existence.

Grounded in a life-giving bread and sweet fruits,

I can escape the worm and blossom into my own beauty.

The Season of Jack

My son Jack is a phenomenon unto himself.

He blows in and out,

this way and that.

Brilliance in a flash.

Brown eyes beaming

dimples gleaming.

“It’s awkward to talk to flowers,”

he says, moving my wildflowers

from his sight line.

He notices, fixes and builds the broken.

A detail, no-detail man.

Purpose-driven for reasons

only he knows.

This boy. This passion.

This wild child, this curious dreamer.

This season of the senior.

So many unknowns

still to conquer.

So batten down the hatches

the season of the Jack

is really just beginning.

Ideally

Ideally my steaming mug of rose tea

would be brought to me

and sweetly served.

The steam would waft lazily above the

flaky croissants bathed in a liquid honey bath.

The sweet, pink bouquet would smile cheerfully

and fill my room with pleasantries that please my

smell and my soul.

Sunk into plush pillows and buried under

colorful, flannel-backed quilts, the dulcet crooning of

“As Time Goes By” drank in every drink sipped.

a tender kiss given

that taste just

like butter

and warming me

just as well as the cheery sun’s rays

casting light whimsically and well.

Sycamores

 

Yellowed leaves dance in mournful fashion

on sycamore branches that reach the sky.

Lost in a canopy, an intricate pattern of leaf and stick

towering high above.

Soon all the branches will be bare, stark

A brutal truth that comes for us all

and a reminder of greatness for those who

dare to grow beyond.

 

 

Picture This – My Officer, My Son

I last posed with you for a picture at the airport

177 moon sleeps ago.

I had to ask for the picture, but there we are in

our winter coats, time escaping too fast

my heart racing below the layers because

for the first time I didn’t know when

the baby I had born, now a man,

would return to me.

A call that few answer to serve and train

against dangers seen, my son, a Marine,

taking charge of other mother’s sons and daughters,

who said yes to “The Few, The Proud,”

Words etched in our hearts and waking moments.

So we save the pictures that come  –

a glimpse of  purpose, proof of life –

A sign that destiny is unfurling and a mother

who had the courage to say “go and be”

in certain uncertain times

while she too sleeps under a hopeful moon

dreaming of the next time she stands, arm around

her grown child, posing for a moment of proof.

There is A Day Coming

In a world where humans don’t see humans like themselves.

They don’t see men who bleed and breathe the same.

They don’t understand systemic chains of oppression

They just know their life. Their struggle. They think

Their stories could be similar but they don’t see

what some have come to know.

 

There is a day coming

Where hope breathes true

and the sun rises for all.

 

Questions push the edge, offering a lifeline

but fear mires progress, drowning in drifts.

How could he and be like me?

Yeats said it best when he said

“the centre cannot hold.”

Desert lives crack and cry,

gasping for air tainted with tumbleweed commerce, sandy greed

and stubby personal gain – equality wanes.

 

There is a day coming

Where hope breathes true

and the sun rises for all.

 

So grab my hand, let’s fall on our knees,

open wide our hearts and eyes, receive the rain.

Sew up divisive cud with the sweet cream

of humanity’s purpose and fall into

a time where there is room in our oasis

for all humans. I believe

 

There is a time coming

When hope breathes true

and the sun rises for all.