Hour Twelve: Older and Wiser

Older and Wiser
Closet. Buffet. Vault. Wardrobe. Repository. Sideboard. Ambry. Bin. Locker.
No matter what you call it, I don’t use it.
I don’t hang up my clothes.
My whole life I’ve been a piler.
No matter what my mother said or did,
I made a pile in my room.
When I got married, I got the big closet in the bedroom
and I made a pile on the floor.
I am older now.
I know better.
I am wise.
And I have respect for the other person in the house.
Now I use a laundry basket.
One for clean clothes and one for dirty.
Closet. Buffet. Vault. Wardrobe. Repository. Sideboard. Ambry. Bin. Locker. Laundry basket.
That’s better.
The painting is not complete. I’ll finish it in the next week or so. But all twelve poems are contained. It has been such fun. Good luck to all you 24ers out there!

Hour Eleven: Just Eggs, Please

Just Eggs, Please

It’s sunlight
that catches me off guard

Two eggs on a counter
waiting to feed my morning belly
nothing extraordinary in this daily routine


sun peeks through the window

just a ray
just a touch

two eggs on the counter
rivaling Vermeer

just being
just communing with the sun

on a ordinary day
nothing extraordinary



Hour Ten: What is Love?

What is Love?

Nib. Nibs.

If you know, you know.



(I needed a break. My butt hurts and I want to finish strong in the half marathon. See, I can’t do the full marathon anymore. Hee. Hee.)

Hour Nine: Pockets


In the bucket
under the carport
is a lightbulb.

She placed it there
so she wouldn’t forget.

In her jacket pocket
she kept a jar of “cinnomen”
as she called it, this woman from the bayou,
to keep away “the bad.”

In the other pocket we found
a shrivel up beet.

And the hole in the elbow
of her jacket was a testament
of her everyday ceremony,
drinking her coffee
on the porch
with her elbow
on the arm
of the wooden rocker her
grandfather made
and no one ever

She told us stories of elk
in the meadow where she
moved to raise her children.

They said it was a tremor
that took her.

And in the quiet
as I drink my coffee
leaning on the arm of
the rocker my great grandpa
crafted and no one ever refinished,
I feel her hugs,
this woman of the bayou,
in the jacket I wear with the
shriveled beet and the cinnomen
in the pockets.

Hour Eight: One Last Breath

When there is just one breath left may I remember the gentle night breeze under Moon’s gaze blessing me with tides to cleanse light to guide the way crickets near and coyote far even in the suburbs when there is one breath left may I remember your smile laughter the music you made in all ways possible and your kiss blessing us when there is just one breath left may I remember your soft fur and protection your playfulness and your insistence when there is one breath left may I remember your friendship and silliness when there is one breath left may I bravely graciously step into my next being having been filled here blessed here loved here and in my breath anew may I spread all that I have been because of you



Hour Seven: The Knitter’s Lament

The Knitter’s Lament

I followed the directions
with the promise of perfection,
rows counted and decreased,
and counted once again.

If I did what was written and if
I followed the directions,
It was guaranteed.
So I did.

Or I thought I did.
Increasing, decreasing,
I followed the directions.
I would do it all.

In the end it was its own.
Not what was promised, but lovely, still.
Somewhat like me, because that’s how
I followed the directions.

Hour Six: Possibility


Flat is an either or.
Round is possibility.

Flat is boring, stilted.
Round invites discovery.

In the straight and narrow
I am only aware of the musts,
the have tos,
the only way.

But in the round
I see a belly bursting with life.
I circle back to employ what I learned.
I come back, acknowledge my mistakes
and apologize.
I eat lucious gatherings from the Earth.

I ride the universe
on an orb of wonder.

Hour Five: Iron

I walked the line
along the tracks.
Two iron straights
connected by wooden slats.
The end would bring the answer
if I kept on the straight and narrow.

No turning back.
No veering off.
Just straight and narrow.

In the end, though, it was my hands,
not my feet,
that found the jewel.

At the end the answer
dug deep into the soil,
scratch and scraped,
fingernails chipped,
bones crooked from age.

Dug deep into the soil
to hold dear,
no matter the weight
or pain.

No judgements.
Just digging.
Then holding.
Not walking.
Deep and near.

Straight into the
iron of my heart.

Hour Four: Tilty

The loaves weren’t perfect
like the ones on Instagram.

Smooth, even
twins of one another.

One had a bump
on the corner.

The other,
a little tilty.


All came together
in ceremony
to create one.

one is one.
The other,

And nourish
just the same.

Hour Three: Patinated

He sits under lime green leaves , a sentry covered in armor.

I expect him to protect me with his cast iron body and patinated shell.

His cold hard self still, not able to move in the shade.
Scented  lilac permeates the leeway.
Crickets call in the Moon.
My tongue reaches for the rain starting to fall.

He is just a decoration.

I wait for the air to quiet into gray.
and yet, Athena would shed her soul for Tritonis.

I saved my tongue for proper use. 

Did I ever want him to save me?
Certainly not a simp as a savior.

A garden lizard, hardened and stern
as my savior?


Say it isn’t so.