Lies
After three nights spent with her,
I can proudly say
She lives in me
She lives in me.
She lives in me.
Does she live in me?
Hour 2 – Ancestors
It’s been a long journey to not
Hate what I see in the mirror but
Now that I have seen what I have, how can I?
How can I hate the long, hooked nose
That is a perfect replica of my grandfather’s?
At least I still have a piece of him left.
How do I dislike the same oversized feet
That have carried my father so far, when
I get to have them too?
My mother’s freckles, my grandmother’s stature,
My eyes a perfect blending of shades.
To hate myself is to hate every person
Who came before me and molded me.
The love and reverence I have for them
Can be turned to me now, to carry them
With me. I only hope that I get to see them
Surface again someday in my children.
Let Us Out
Get your papers in order
Nobody ever get sick
Stay inside, stay in line
Never tell your own story
Believe everything you’re told
And accept it, defend it,
So long as someone makes money
By preventing humans being
let us out let us out let us out
HR 3 – Text Prompt
Write a poem that repeats the same line three times, and then end on a variation of the repeated line. It could be a little different, or vary different, depending on what serves the poem best.
I’m sorry
I’m sorry
I’m sorry
I’m as tired of hearing it as I am of saying it.
I’m sorry
I’m sorry
I’m sorry
Yet here are…
AGAIN.
I’m sorry
I’m sorry
I’m sorry
Sometimes
after so long
a
word
can
lose
it’s
meaning.
I’m sorry
I’m sorry
I’m sorry
Coffee
Coffee
Even if residents wanted nothing to do with me,
even if they despised me coming into their rooms,
cheery and chatting away about my new poetry program
in the activity area, even with responses such as:
“I don’t write. Never have, never will.”
“Will you please close those drapes, it’s too bright in here.”
“What do you mean, I hate poetry. We had to learn it in school and it was terrible.”
“You know I can’t even hold a pen anymore, Amy.”
Then, I would make my final offering:
“Well, even if you don’t participate, there will be coffee available.”
Every week, my stubborn participants wheeled themselves down the long halls
to our gathering, where I wrote out comments from our conversations,
turning memories into poems, dementia or not, laughter
sneaking its way into the heart of a building where residents
know they will most likely never leave.
I gave each of them a green plastic cup of coffee
while we talked, an offering for their bravery to trust me with their stories.
They held those cups like an afternoon on a porch somewhere,
sitting outside in the sun like they once did, bringing back what they thought was lost.
Hour 2, Prompt 1: Invisible Things
May I rise each morning
remembering to wash my face
brush my teeth
and say “Good Morning”
to invisible things
perceiving the subtle shift in gravity
the presence of small birds on my shoulders
firmly rooted feet and a rustle
of leaves as a greeting
Send an invitation to the unseen
write it on homemade paper
with pansies and mistletoe
pressed into the pulp
Sealed with gold wax
And stamped with a honeybee
Cast it into the wind
and wait
for the busy and
barely perceptible hands
to respond in time
When I remember
I am quietly watchful
of the shape of things
buckled brows
the texture of words
the outlines of a human heart
yours and mine
Dissonance is rough on a heartstring
I perk my ear to catch it
and I hear their hands at work
modulating tense tones
smoothing them over
into lightly plucked arpeggios
with dancing fingertips
their arrival is often accompanied
by the absentminded humming
of some tune in the shape of soft love
Bridging the Gap
There i was again
wondering where i was then
knowing now is gone
another long sigh
another long goodbye for
the lessons of youth
as truth burns my soul
i want to once again know
the joy of unknown
Care of the Children
All 
newborns need nurturing.
They are not medals to primp on a breast.
They are human beings brought by love
and shifting them to daycare
for a bigger paycheck is a travesty.
It’s no one’s fault: somehow it is now
the norm in a materialistic world,
where raising children is
a community venture.
But who will really love the children
when they catch colds,
learn to walk, say their first words.
Three years go so fast.
What a shame to let economics dictate.
Hour 3 (2021) ©️
~ [Text Prompt: repeating lines]
I’ve tried my best ~
Aching to see you,
I wonder what could be
the catalyst for your heart
to gently reach for me.
Aching to see you,
I know it’s been too long,
since your mind found peace,
since your soul has reached the dawn.
An aching to see truth,
is where the rest will start;
For the ache is only Glory
— An invitation to see[k] the truth in you[r] own heart ✨
A Deep Olive Shine
The morning Sun splashes its pallid lemon hues onto surfboard shaped leaves.
Their deep olive shine shakes
in the light wind;
the illuminated shades of its Dove-colored
branches reach for the Sun.
A dark Tiatian breast with dusky wings
are still
as they sit deep within this early flush of Summer. The tree is a sunlit decor.