secrets can change lives
sharing them can, too
choose carefully
which secrets to share
which to hold close
which deserve a new story
each choice has its own value
choose carefully
Written in April 2018, many months before the Supreme Court nomination hearings. My poem was written as I thought about family secrets and the
way lives can be changed by them.
What I’d give
to smell your aftershave
to touch your hand
to see your face
to taste your mouth
and hear you laugh again
I detest jealous bosses,
hateful gossips,
and the routinely late.
I like old graveyards,
flower-filled window boxes,
and secret doors.
I cherish
sitting for hours
talking with K.
My poem Likes and Dislikes came up as a Facebook memory today. It was posted on September 23, 2012. Although six years old, I decided to post today because it still rings true. My talks with Kay are more often on the phone these days instead of in person, but our talks can still be hours long.
a crow’s cry cracked the silence
Sidra emptied her cup
even in this dark space
she saw that
the calligraphy was tinged
with red wine
a strap
bound the ancient text
she wanted to tap the secrets
of this fragile manuscript
to have her name
placed on the pages of history
Writing again with The Sunday Whirl. I used all the
words in some form in my story poem. The words are:
cup, calligraphy, bound, name, strap, cry, tap, space,
red, cracks, dark, tinged. It is my joy to write a wordle!
The photo is by SusuMa in Pixabay.
desiring a new place
to set it down
to set me down
could I see my old place
with awakened eyes
with a new story
does needing a fresh start
require a new place
or would a divergent story suffice
Written in a workshop (Exploring Epiphany) led by
John Fox of Poetic Medicine. We were to take inspiration
from a line in Fresh a poem by Naomi Shihab Nye.
I chose the line And set it down in. We had about five
minutes to write a poem.
looking through my kitchen window
I notice my fig bush has grown
several feet since last summer
I can no longer pull down the top limbs
to harvest the ripe, brown fruit
when contemplating my figs, I usually think of
Middle Eastern markets, hillsides, and biblical stories
but today, I think of my mother
and her two great fig bushes
she canned fig preserves
delicious on her homemade, buttered biscuits
even the butter was homemade
when we lived on the farm
but the fig bush I thought of today
was the one behind her well house
on the barren place we bought
after selling the farm
when lightning struck and killed her fig bush
she never planted another
to my surprise, she said she was allergic to the bush
and would get figs from friends
now it comes to me
I know what she meant
I’ve learned to suit-up with long sleeves
and long pants when I pick figs
not only sensitive to the leaves but also
the scent it spreads around itself
still, I never fail to don my clothes and harvest
the bounty of the bush’s summer sweetness
standing in the yard, I eat my fill
straight from its limbs
thinking of
by-gone-times and far away hills
his stomach knotted
as he recalled the pattern
his thoughts tightened
as he climbed the graveled path
he had trimmed his plans
to keep them simple and low-key
the ocean spray calmed him
as he walked the cliff’s edge
suddenly, he spread his arms
to soar
Writing with The Sunday Whirl this morning.
The whirl words are simple, trim, knots, gravel, low, spray,
path, edge, spread, tight, climb, and pattern. I used all the
words in some form in my poem.
what’s so?
life, energy
it was here
long before humans
and will be here long after
we are gone
assuming another identity
I walked from my office desk
to Atlanta’s tree-lined streets
in every kind of weather
escaping is why I relished
my private detective work
An old photo from my years of detective work.
My position was in accounting, but I took undercover
assignments when a woman was needed for the job.
My sweet puppy’s name was Shanhe, a Ihasa Opso.
He was a tiny baby then.
Written for The Daily Creative Practice Summer
Solstice Creativity Challenge. The theme is Secrets.
meditating on the front porch
late afternoon sun, bathing all of me
I’m mindful of sounds in and around me
to my left just off the porch
the soft rattling of a bird’s call
the comfy purr of a black cat rubbing my right leg
in the distance, the flowing hum of auto traffic
an airplane high above, barely audible
and the hiss of my tinnitus, always with me
One of two ferns that hang on either end of my front porch.
