You cannot have a drivers license anymore.
I want to get a five-acre parcel—
I can’t just sit down and get inspired.
They can change on the fly,
It’s just more condensed.
His heart was already going another direction,
Texting me at 5am.
I slept all day yesterday.
I’ll come find you in your office after lunch.
I’m gonna have to get used to him first,
Which is really sad.
I’m good on the prose.
It’s wet paint
It’s an artifact at the science and history museum
It’s frosted birthday cupcakes
A piece of candy on the floor
A dead mouse
A hot pan
Rows of glass on the dishware shelf at Target
Electric fence
Sand art
Don’t touch that!
It’s a fight about money
It’s a friend’s anger at God
It’s a memory that twists my stomach
A mother’s embarrassment
A father’s shame
A hospital bill
God as feminine
Donald Trump
LGBTQIA+
Don’t touch that!
It’s a papery hornet nest
It’s a snake sunning on a rock
It’s a spiderweb
A cup overflowing
A polished concert grand piano
A fragile seedling
Perfect place setting, with folded-napkin swan
“Emergency Call” button in the elevator
Picnic leftover, buzzing flies
Don’t touch that!
It’s weight gain
It’s addiction
It’s a black eye
A cousin in jail
A protruding (pregnant?) belly
A brother-in-law in rehab, again
Extramarital affair
Ex-girlfriend
Was grandma “saved” or did she die an atheist?
Don’t touch.
Breathe. And not just
during the contractions.
You must be well-oxygenated
to care for another human being.
Give up. And not just
once. Keep at it.
You must release your grasp
before your muscles cramp.
Laugh. And not just
when it’s funny.
You must include sadness and shock
and exhaustion in your mirth.
Tell the truth. And not just
to yourself.
You must tell the other moms,
and listen to their tellings.
Accept your new self. And not just
the nurturing and brave parts.
You must accept the anger,
the desperation, the invisibility.
And remember to breathe.
Blessed are You,
Lord our God,
Lover of the Universe,
for this cardamom-orange latte,
moment of perfection
in a fretful day,
soothing my lips,
hospice for my tongue,
comfort in my throat.
Blessed are You
for the beans and the heat and the hands—
makers of this,
and for the joy You feel seeing me
sit and sip and sate,
and for the peace I ingest
seeing You seeing me.
Blessed are You,
Lord our God,
Lover of the Universe,
for the zest of orange,
the comfort of cardamom,
the sensuality of taste,
the weightiness of being held,
always held
by You my Lover.
I saw a tractor throwing dark earth, and
A field of cosmos—pink, purple, white.
I saw a hedge, large and tall and perfectly green, notched at the top like a castle,
And a grave with balloons on it.
I saw a small, black travel bus with the words “my party bus”
In chunky white letters across one end.
Rows of perfectly spaced deciduous trees at a nursery wore fall colors, and
Weeds decorated the aisles between.
Neon-green skeletons perched on a wire fence,
And a navy-blue Tesla followed me for miles.
I crossed a mirror-still river,
And passed under two branches, touching
Like outstretched fingertips above me.
I saw tractor-crossing signs, deer-crossing signs, political signs, and
Line after line of baby trees and shrubs, only a foot tall,
Every shadow in perfect formation across groomed dirt rows.
I saw horses swishing their tails,
And clouds, dressed for a slumber party.
I saw metal buildings, colored by rust, and
Old, wooden farm buildings painted rust-red.
I saw a stream in an overgrown meadow,
Water profuse with delicate, floating plants.
I saw pumpkins combed into rows—no vines, just orange fruit for acres,
And the long shadows of a fall afternoon.
Even a candle has seasons,
A smooth-topped beginning,
Wick white and waxy.
First burst of flame,
First melted pool.
Midlife of a candle
Suggests service.
It is seasoned, available,
Each lighting a faithful burn.
The candle wanes.
It’s fiery moments are numbered.
Uneven wax shows age.
It’s weight is diminished.
Then, the last burn—
The light, the heat, the flicker.
Perhaps it pops and sputters
Until its pulse is gone.
It, too, has passed.
Every lighting was a beginning,
Every extinguishment an end,
Every burning a symbol—
Every thing has seasons.
I am going to start living like a monk,
though I have no brown robe or penis.
What I have is a love of silence.
“Be still,” You say
and I am moved.
You have seen straight through me.
You have revealed my desire
and answered it with abundance.
It is enough to hold hands in the silence.
I am going to start living like an artist—
comfortable clothes,
maybe a paint smudge here and there.
I will print my soul on paper,
allow it to be read.
I will notice the way leaves grow
and petals fall,
and I will study the delicacy
of a spider’s web
and the beauty of a human hand.
And You will be nudging me and pointing,
for always there is more wonder.
I am going to start living like a mystic
disguised as a mom.
The paradox of my children’s sass
is the perfect—daily—invitation
to discard right answers.
As I haul a bag of right answers
to the trash bin by the garage,
I smell how clean the air is,
and I hope when I return to the kitchen
the kids will smell it too—
life-giving molecules
dancing all around us.
Thanks to Christine Valters Paintner for the writing prompt that set me to writing this poem—from her book The Artist’s Rule.
A mom doesn’t know
if nursing her baby
will be bliss or misery.
She doesn’t know how many weeks,
months, or years will pass before
she sleeps one whole night.
She doesn’t know if the bedtime boundary
is for the kid, or for her own sanity, or
who will be scarred by it 15 years from now.
Is crawling “early” a good sign?
Is learning to talk “late” a bad sign?
Is she spoiling with too many snacks,
or not offering enough?
Is it best to let the siblings fight it out
or to coach them through conflict?
Has she said “no” too little, or too much?
Does letting her daughter spend the night
at a friend’s house foster healthy independence,
or increase the likelihood of sexual abuse?
Does curating books and movies and music
benefit her kids or teach them to be
afraid of the world?
Moms don’t know
how their prayers will be answered,
their cooking remembered,
their mistakes retold.
They don’t know about the people
their grown child will feed and teach and hold,
or the nights he or she will go to bed early
because they know how to stop and rest.
Moms don’t know the impact
their love will have after they’re gone.
Moms just don’t know.
It’s not (technically) spring yet,
but the first warm days arrived this weekend,
and northerners weary with winter
woke up.
We trimmed shrubs and pulled weeds,
started lawn mowers and plunged trowels into the warming earth.
We went to parks all over town
with our kids and dogs and blankets and guitars,
and we sang and walked and let the sun massage vitamin D and peace into our faces.
We picked daffodils,
chose outdoor seating at coffee shops,
and skipped church.
Even the odd ones who don’t care for sunshine came stiffly out,
and antique cars shook off dust for the first drive of the year.
Love is in the air—turkeys strutting, people kissing, dogs sniffing, squirrels flirting.
The earth is pulsing alive and we feel the anticipation—
joy radiates from crocus blossoms and forsythia.
Hope again surprises us with its quiet turn from black-and-white to color—
paintbrush poised to anoint fields and forests and gardens with life.
As we bask in today
we take a collective deep breath; we’re okay.
The sun and soil are alive; all will be well.
Are babies new,
Or just recycled?
Does baptism make
A person new?
The Bible says
God’s mercies are
New every morning.
What is a
New mercy like?
How’s it different
From old mercy?
What is better—
New love, or
Old, wrinkled love?
Today, they say, begins
A new year.
It doesn’t feel
New to me.
My kids are older
And I’m older
And the world is older
And this feels
More like a “keep going” than
A “start fresh.”
But that’s okay.
I don’t need
To be a baby again.
With age comes
Wisdom, and it is the adding of
All my years
That tells me I can
Do this year.
I’ve done 38 years before,
And I know
I don’t need new resolutions
As much as
I need old love.
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