Think about the hardest thing
that’s crossed your path this year.

Then, think of someone in another sphere–
Compare to one or two out there…

Was it really hard or just a blip,
a hurdle, an insult, a busted lip?

If ultimately the toughest parts
reigned in your mind or around your heart,
You’re not alone–I’m right there, too
The pain, no doubt, feels rough and true
Infusing good with doubts and ache
Masking real with something fake.

Feel your hurt, calm the strain
learn what lesson songs refrain
Call a friend and cry aloud
Look for linings in the clouds.

He stood atop the fortress wall
And looked out across the middle class
And found a little hamlet
To belly up and blast
For having too many peasants
who worked both night and day

“I’ll have to take away those rights,
and cut your pension, too–it’s what
so many others want; it’s what we have to do.”

So Peter peasant packed his bags
and headed for the gate,
“I’ll have to move my family some
because teaching here has cost
me far more than what I make.”

It’s the middle of February
which actually means
that spring creeps closer
as twigs turn green
And new clothes for children
who’ve grown an inch or half
And cabin fever gives way to
tulips, allergies, dainty birdbaths

School heats up as days do, too
Swimming pools filled with bluest blues
Fresh starts and cowlicks and purple balloons
All signal springtime, rebirth and boons.

He threw a snowball once or twice
She ducked beneath the growing ice
She tossed one back; it hit his face
He threw another; this bitter toss
Was a little harder and found it’s spot
She ran back in; she’d had enough
But he kept coming-no longer fluff
“I give–what’s up?” she tried to say
But he pursued her anyway.

It’s all on him, he would not quit
So when the other boy got hit
He tossed a rock right at the boy
Then hit the mark–but a different boy
Then angry, too, the next boy stopped
And found the largest, shiny rock
And threw it at the noble friend,
who took out the shotgun. The end.

Why are you shooting at me now?
I wasn’t even home.

Who decides who the victim is?
If she steals my car, then on her the shame
If he breaks the vase, I’ll point the blame
But if he tells me I’m an awful louse
Am I? Well, that’s what victims are all about.
I’m not a louse, not fink, nor rat
I’m what I think I am–that’s that.
To play the victim forever long
Is such a dull, redundant song.
Give power to only that which is true
And amazing grace will guide you through
dark, dark days and troubled times.
Enrich us all with joyful minds.

It seems the harder I try
the harder it gets.

Is that possible?

In terms of gravity, it all makes sense.
Push that rock up old Sisyphus’ hill.

The more I care, the worse I feel

The more I love, the worse the pain
The more I cry, the worse the ache
The more I see, the worse the rain

But try I will, just keep trying today
Tomorrow promises a better way
And every hurdle remains behind
Onward, I’ll try the peace to find

Those who want redemption seek and find
The other third strive to stop the climb
I’ll try again to reach the peak.
I’ll try again however meek.

Sweet and simple, simply sweet
That’s what little kids think of Valentine’s treats
What they do not know–sshhh– It’s the parents’ secret stash;
Valentine’s is the day when Mom and Dad’s clash
Over who loves Bre a little bit more, and who loves Bruce
despite the Jersey Shore (hee hee Brucie!)

Drag out the hearts
and the chocolate, too,
That little notation that I love you.
And tell your kids while they can hear
That love is doing, it’s being near
And when they choose to venture on
They’re the muse of your heartsong.

Leaning sideways on the borrowed path to goodness
He leaps to avoid the charging tortoise and stumbles
headlong into the badger hole where three wee little
critters stare strangely into his soul.
“Have you seen my map in here?” he asks expecting
no reply.

“A map?” squeaks Tinsdale, the runtiest vermin
as if he’d never heard that word before-
“Yes, by golly, a map indeed,” he spoke in unbelief,
Then knocked his knuckles against his temple
“And how is it you talk to me?”

Then Big Boy Badger, his name ironic,
nuzzled up to mister man, and with a knarly,
knowing laughter, looked at him
Like a knowing badger can.
“Talking’s not only a human gift; for sure, they mess it up
more times than not. A badger can command
A tongue, as every living creature can,” Big Boy
paused a moment more thinking about the wayward man.

“Maps are manmade tools. Men need them to find their way.
We, God’s ‘lesser’ creatures, need no extra guiding tools.
We have noses, ears, instincts, even spirits that guide
us onward and back again. You, good Stanley, must have lost
the access code to smell, hear, feel, and sense.”
Then Big Boy turned to curl up again to out wait the winter
chill; he peeked back at the staring man and offered one last
gentle slam: “Go and find your way above, but don’t think
a GPS will help. What you need to know you have inside,” he chortled.
“Even a rodent knows no need to yelp.”

Moving carefully through misty midnight mountains
He feels the lovely lurking of her ravished soul,
Can not decide whether nighttime napping or forward
Moving will enhance his chance of softened woes.
Onward through the forest of feathered ferns he presses
Unable to shake her eerie presence, her lingering.

Wooded glens, damp with morning dew drip
With her scents as perfume droplets alight his skin
He passes trembling trolls, creeping through on his way to clarity—clearings
Openings of sun and mossy lined edges of alpine grass,
Fawn imprints near mother doe’s trail lead him
And she follows, longing for a forever-tether to his now ambling stroll.

Heading deep within the woodland, cast in rare moonlight rays
Silence warns him, moves him closer to river bend
where the spirits come unhinged from one another—floating
Freely, finally, to the valley floor. She, wailing, calls him
He, unmoved, advances to the moment of the unpinning.
They stop just short of the undoing spot.

Circling round she pleads for time. Slow, retracting footsteps,
Breathless moments waiting. Will he part the final boughs
Severing the bind twixt him and her or could she whisper something
Sweetly before his final, lasting stride split their union forever twain?
“Whiuuu,” the wind wraps round his shoulders, flutters, furious
For a moment more.

Then, as light takes dark away, he moves around her dreaded portal.
She thrills, whirls elated, bound forever to his love—and he, wandering
On past the woods and dales moves unworried to the shore.
Ships await him and he will board as soon as she unwraps his heartstrings
That wind around her and another love.

He made a mistake
Then did not own it
Tried to blame it on
someone else–entrenched his
error by committing another
Dug his hole without much help

Why on earth do some folks wander
Out across the frozen road?
Why not take the lifeline offered?
Must they drown or drift afloat
Forever napping, wayward boat?

Cross the span.
Even for a minute I get a little bit dizzy,
A little bit duller; cross the span-
Even for a moment I get terrified of water
I need a second to breathe before I
cross the span.

Grip the rail, even for a moment
close your eyes so not to see the height.
Grip the rail, even for a time
I fall away leaving nothing but tomorrows
behind.

Light the way, the fog of yesterday may truly
be the veil

And the bridge rises upward over the
raging waters, and sweeps us away
down asphalt paths toward home.

She says with utmost humility–as if the others really were
I haven’t quite figured out what this writing is all about
Clearly, I’m the only one who gets it, the poetry, that is–
my poetry. It could just be the musings of an idle brain
or the ramblings of procrastinating prevaricator, lonely lass or
introverted ignoramous. Aren’t those words fun? No? Really?
Have you thought of why you do what you do? Are you caught up
in the economic motivations of your efforts so much so that you’ve
lost sight of the consequences of it all? I’m happy to report that
I have not. Forgotten, that is. Forgotten about you or you or you.
And, if “Charity never faileth,” then we should all give at a try for our
own ironic sakes.

Sealed in over the door
The sun’s come through
With the wind whipping hard
This doesn’t seem to be
A let down
A ruthless letdown

You better not have those mental lapses
Those moments when
All those things can be tricky
Those different phases
We all go through

Have a look at the mark
Try to go forward, one, two, three
Do the hard work
Collect yourself
You better collect yourself
And seal the edges

And try not to die from
Carbon Monoxide poisoning
Caused by talking to yourself
When no one is listening
And the room is airtight.

She did not see you today–
or yesterday
but she saw you a thousand times this morning
and laughed at your silly rantings and yawnings
your impossible wishes for something better.
Then Washington crossed the river and
the Potomac flowed forever east
While she lay waiting for the moment
when getting up would cause you
to disappear into the bathroom light
washed away by the incredibly slow-warming water
siphoning away the last glimpse

Now midnight cold reminds her
of outer darkness spells,
the horrid, languishing tease–
quieted corners of fallen men
who felt as she did once

before sunrise warned her
to be careful.

I thought I’d write a poem or two about a life with nothing new
No content here to fill the lines; no wisdom sure, no stuff of rhymes
I thought I’d wow them with a comment of the times but could not think of what I’d heard or what, if anything, had occurred.

Don’t get me wrong, there’s something here –like minimalistic art,
Or silent films, or symphonies played on kazoo,
It’s rather like a scavenger hunt for life’s great secret or Dan Brown clue.

Oh, come on now—it’s not that bad—a cheap trick rhyme and a simple gag
Must affect the soul in funny ways; a thought not brilliant nor that profound
Might just cause ol’ Huck to lay his young head down and think of Jim
More than Twain may have done—but cause us all to pause amidst the fun.

We learn, you see, in basic ways; astrophysicist , fry cook, or retiree
Story scraps lead us up the learning tree as we finally comprehend life’s
Planned for tease—that death unlocks the big prize door and what we get
We earned before.

And pOp gOes the
planet.

Pick up yOur trash.

Subtle weaknesses creep beneath
foundations cracking, guardians weak
Stand together, you and I
ward off darkness–

Ply the sky
for inspiration, wisdom seek
from sages past–find a path
to journey through;hike the highway
of forever truth.

Hold on firmly to the faith
That utter goodness will break the pace
and Lambchop and Simba
and we and them
Will forge forward
In spite of your attempts to
make us turn
on one another for the sake
of the bored.

Heavy head and eyelids close
abandon all those heavy woes
for one much lighter dream–
a day in heaven
an end to pain.

I trust not the plastic smiles of suits with legs
that move against us with their tiresome antics.

Look who’s talking!

Don’t get me started!

Bad Idea.

Keep quiet…you know in these cases it’s better to keep
QUIET!

Highway 9 in the morning fog
Greets me moistly through my frosted glass
A critter scoots across the lane–
the last–
the nightly reverie winding down
again.

Redwoods drape their canopy
across the pothole lanes
And I fly down the familiar road
past hurried beauty scenes.

To sustain a life amid the
trees requires just two things–
A love of wonder, green, and cool
and gladness pure and pure.

I’m not quite sure
what to think about this–
They mixed a pig with a jellyfish kiss.
The pig glows green throughout the day
At night it shines amid dark hay
Stem cells from the nocturnal jelly
Give the litter radiant bellies
While all along the lonely squid
Thought he’d missed his chance
As a hybrid pig.

What will they think of next
in messing with our core?
Perhaps a rhino with a horse
creating that elusive unicorn
Or better yet a stem celled
Captain Jack
Who swaggers by with tiger eyes
and pouch for his booty sack–

I’m practical to say the least, so
perhaps a glowing pig roast feast
could save the cost of xray care
it’s all so creepy–dark and deep

Give the pig some clothes.

(Lest anyone think I’ve gone off my rocker, take a look at the photo–In Taiwan 2006, they implanted florescent jellyfish stem cells in the embryos in three pigs and ended up with pigs that were green by day and that glow in the dark. Since then (2009), others in Canada have crossed goats with spiders to creat a silk protein in goat milk, and in the U.S. they’ve created a florescent green cat, Mr. Green Genes, that they hope to somehow aid in the cure for cystic fibrosis by marking the genes. The jellyfish scientists won the Nobel Prize that has led to the increased interest in this field. Interesting science–do you find it disturbing or fascinating? Perhaps a little of both?)

Electric bills
Are way too high
Considering how cold the house is

Man made disasters
ring invariably worse
than natural ones
unless they happen to you

And whoever said
You can’t teach an old
goat to eat trix surely did not
know Mr. Wattles, the dairy-cross boer who
trimmed our lawn for eons.

Of course, I need a raise or a vacation or a new set of
tires.

And it’s not supposed to make sense because
“it’s not poetry unless it rhymes,” said my
moronic tenth grade English teacher.
There is nothing between the lines–
It’s a wonder that I can write at all
given my frozen toes
and poor education.

Went for a ride in the FJ40
Open to the ocean air and chilly wind
With bundled up Breanna
sitting in the jumper seat–
All of us feeling young again.

I love that rule of opposition–
And work is grand
if for nothing else than
to remind us of how good
times are
and keep us hoping for the best.

A lyrical bird tweeted in my ear
that song of yesterday–
“You’ve got to know the good
to understand the bad
You’ve got to be happy to know when you are
sad–it’s called opposition, my friend.
Opposition.”

I really like the glad days.

And stop thinking a poem has to be sophisticated
to mean something worthwhile,
she says to herself
chidingly.

Wrap up your hair on these windy rides
Else knots will be your undoing.

Ha, he said
matter-of-fact-ly
Ha. Is that a word?
Funny, that Ha.
Amazingly eerie at times-
disconcerting, too.
Do-re-mi-fa-so-la-ti-do
Notice, no Ha.

Maybe don’t say Ha
If you like a person somewhat.
Ha creates ambiguity
Camouflaged in comedy
Spoiling the fun.

So, I read this blog by a documentary film maker.
Angered by someone who didn’t give him the time of day,
He ranted about something along the lines of:
“Treat me with a modicum of respect and I’ll do likewise.”
Wouldn’t the world be a better place if that were adhered to for, say, a day or so-
How about an hour?

He called the woman a “bottom feeder.”
Does that mean she’s a sturgeon?
Those fish grow old and mean
And their eggs are worth a fortune
Caviar, that is.
And they have an external faux spine
There must be a metaphor in that somewhere

Just like a blogger telling the world about bottom feeders
And poets telling bloggers about respect
And you realizing that judgment gets in the way
And name calling doesn’t help.

What happened to all the nice people?
Do they feed at the top?

It’s so
Binary.

I saw a pair of gentle men strolling
down the street today-
one tall, Icabod Crane-ish type
beside him Tweedle-Dumpty
quick-stepped to keep up the stride.
Both dressed in winter twills with scarves
snug neatly beneath lapels
With gloves and adrenaline
to ward off the winter bone-chill air.

I thought of all the types
That inhabit far and near
And thought of you, and you, and you,
All the differences,
All the judgments passed–
And how many delightful people
I hadn’t taken the time to meet.

Perhaps a new resolve I’ll make
To reach out to one or two
And offer her or him a hand
And not let the judgment stand
In the way of being kind.

It only takes a minute
for snow to fill the air
For silent perfect, yet unique
flakes to rest as if by dare
Upon the road, upon the trees
Inspiring each of us to blink–
How marvelous the differences
Between us, yet more alike,
we think.

When the world isn’t right
And the truth isn’t true
When arsenic, cyanide, and slander are spewed
From evil intruders who smear havoc anew
There must be a way to loudly break through.

When smoke fills the air with its death-choking squeeze,
And good folks are brought down to their hard, pleading knees
In times that seem hopeless or crazy like these
Faith in the Goodness and cosmic reprieve
Are all that sustain us and quiet the seas.

If we faced all glad tidings with similar flair
If we celebrate goodness with the same robust, eager aire,
When storm clouds come through, do we weigh what’s in store?
Are we as gloomy for them as we were happy before
Did we say thanks or nothing; at least, acknowledge the score?

In times like these when the world isn’t right
We must work together and fight the “good fight,”
Else all that we’ve garnered or claimed that we knew
Will seem but a farce for the hardworking few
Together, with thanks, we’ll all make it through.

Thanksgiving came and went again

And boys played football in the rain

And little ones spied Santa Clause

Who settled down with tiny Tim

And rectified the unfair hand.

Dealt awfully hard to some, we say

There’s something boyish about this phase

of life eternal, or holidays.

Tie them up, those sneakers, shoes

Brace against the snow and flu

Winter’s here but once a year

And feed the hogs–in slop.

It’s hard to say what I love more
A kid in pig tails or a tennis pro
The man I married or my folks, for sure
Isn’t it great I don’t have to choose?
I love them all; like you do, too.

What rocks the house more than the quake
Is but the minute we forget to say
There’s love enough to go around
Take Eve for instance who loved them all
Cain and Abel and Seth post her Fall
And all her other children, blow the horn
There must have been a daughter born
And down the chain to that one Man
Who stepped up love like no one can.

Quibble not about the faith
It’s time to think of all you love
And that you can—
Now, that’s a plan!

In time for nightfall, silhouettes flee
As twinkle lights adorn the old pine tree—
Fog rolls in over western, coastal hills
While evening creeps along the ledge—heralds winter’s chills,
Escape a minute just for this—a single, thoughtful phrase
“Peace on Earth, Good Will to all”—
Infuse the cooling days.

Oh balmy breath of war’s unrest and nations rent in pain
Lull not those warlords, generals, heads of state
To suffer all the children in lands that nature claims
And bows not down nor moment’s cease to celebrate
The simplest of cures:

Treat each alone with respect and care
As if the answer rested there
And soon the world would find the thing that
Horton heard Sue Who sing—
Not guns, nor threats, nor miscreants
Nor seven deadly sinners’ rants
Escape the ever- growing facts
That men are just like Thoreau’s ants.
Of course, they don’t have to be that dull—
A party thrown in Heaven’s name
With good friends, song, and reindeer games
Might just persuade the darkest souls
To ditch the warlike ideology; in favor of
Our child’s play.

Happy holidays to you and yours
Lights blink ever frantically
And Merry Christmas most of all,
As prayers for peace remain the plea.

He says, she says, what’d they say?
Exhale now before you burst
Stop the anger, halt the hearse
People, calm your nerves–

It’s Christmas.

Lay the tracks, step aside I’m headed out the door

Call freedom’s ride through purple hills and amber

Morning skies

Cross Rocky Mountain passageways and Pueblo lands

And Samuel Clemens’ Hannibal where culture seeps

In Mississippi eddies

The diner and the road side stop, the Walmart and the

Ihop all bustle with the rural life

I look for in my literature

The irony of education, and educating

Comes to mind—

I’d rather be a farmer and a writer in my mind.

Cross the Appalachian carpetway and head straight

East indeed

Independence Hall awaits with promises and steed.

Gallop onward, horsepower of modern man

Lead me to Philadelphia

So different, oh, so new.

It’s not the state I dream of

All that I have obtained

The birthright of a native born

The rock, the hill, the swain

The redwoods—slumbering giants there

Outside my castle door—

Oh, Philadelphia, I’d flee to thee

If home I’d come for sure.

Strike through this line; not needed now
pinkslip sent priority mail
job canceled–report no more;

arbitrary cuts with human tolls loom
while judges wax pitifully about their own woes
then feed their children fresh greens in the winter
of another’s doom.

“Don’t worry, there’ll be another job,”
in ten or twenty-two months time,
After tuition due dates pass
and wedding bells toll silently,
How hard the news stikes.

Blow it up
Just one more time
and let the rebel hang.

No room or throne awaits
you now; the gallows only
hear the sound of
Guy Fawkes sinking down.

Think on him in all your plotting.
Don’t give in, and we will all
be honored.

Wait a minute, Terrorist!
You mean it’s nothing new?
Oh,”Rock of my soul in the bosom of
Abraham!”
Hunker down, the fun begins

Load the cannon

Celebrate the capture of Guy Fawkes’.

Paddling up the Kenai,
Traipsing through Denali’s majestic peaks,
Then on past Fairbanks’ boundaries,
He, toward the Arctic Circle, seeks….

Dali sheep and grizzlies, a moose and grey wolf, too
All greet him on his northern path,
Strewn with frost heaves swollen mounds.

Apollo sits in wonderment of yet another soul
Looking for salvation in the northern lights and gold
Of Alaskan spruce and tundra, glacial water running cold.

“Swim with all your might,” he shouts to the Sockeye, Coho, Pink
“Each day may be your last,” as fishers line the brink
Then on past Chatanika, to question, no, to think.

The further north he travels in a search to find the truth
The further more away he moves from discovering what he knew:
A million miles of Arctic cold or ribboned skies of blue
Mean nothing in eternal vastness, nothing. Nothing new.

“So, follow me to Whittier,  see the crystal hues,
of deep harbor lanes and rugged men, who dream of
warmer sloughs,” he looks at them then looks around
And ups the ante still. “Pack all your things, return with me,”
To the cabin in Synecdoche–I’ve learned a thing or two.
Give me your heart,  I’ll repay in part with tales of Arctic wanderings,”
Sure they bit and off they went hook, line, and sinker.  Fools.

Stay home today and think about that wunderlust of yours.

Chiseled granite cut through by rain, wind,
cormorant bills–
cracks, falling quickly into the surf, destroying
vistas etched through the eons, mocking time
and inevitability–and the photograph
can no longer be taken, the pose
no longer memorable, the explanation
complicated.

Mountain forests ablaze for days
Wildlife scattered, searing embers smolder,
Lingering haze licks the nostrils and sickens what will soon be
New homesteaders, rebirthing the landscape
To one day burn again—and the cycle,
Uncomplicated though it be,
Kills and nourishes—complicating the message
Of why.

One hundred daily prayers float up
and bounce against the ceiling fan
then spin around and hit the ground
before relaunching into air–
There is one there for my Aunt Sue
and Bruce and Alex, too. And sister Chris
and my girl, Bre
And yes, of course, for you.

When calling out the names of those who
often come to mind, a peeping sound
whirls all around a thousand hopes abound.
“I hope he’s safe,” “She’s such a pal,” “Where is that friend of mine?” “Please bless them all and keep them safe, and bring them peace sublime.” Simple, yet sincere from me for student, niece, or rhyme.

Does it really matter, a simple prayer from me?
Of course, for those who don’t believe,
It’s just a vacant plea– Chide me not; I like to think
a thought is worth the dime, so call me up when
time allows–or when I come to mind.

Those hundred simple thoughts go up
and 99 are thine.

Burnt my eye with pepper oil
Cried a tear or two
Laughed at my stupidity
Then cooled my love for you

Thought about it just this once
Concluded for today
Pepper oil in the eye
Is burning gone astray

Hot with chemical fire
My soul rejoices new
Washed with soap and water
The spirit warms me through

If Jalapeños make me tear
And love hurts all the more
Then take me to the border

Of Canada, near Elroy Berdahl’s shore.

Squirt that tongue
in double time
snap the gnat
instantly
eye the everpresent
dew
climb through
fawning ferns,

peek-a-boo.

Been waiting for a word from you
And counting blessings all the while
Calling home and asking God
If maybe I could skip a few
Trips to see the other me,
The one who works and tries to
Breathe, in order to stay home from you,
The one who helps me see this through.

With ear to ground and all around
The silent echoes turn me down.
I smile at those I pass in hopes
That this would be my last replay
Of former, calming, carefree days.

Such pathetic longing—
A word or nod or simple sound
I dare not say, a sign—
Might ease the awful pain
But don’t message me tomorrow
Or the day after that, for sure.
I need to walk in faith for now
Man, I wish I could.

I left the house at five forty-three
Winding my way through the valley trees,
Hit the highway without alarm
Then merged left

I did not see it standing there
Waiting to bolt across the lanes
A frantic look as he stared at me
The buck stops here

It’s not the car, despite the cost
It’s not the job, despite the loss
It’s not the trucker who didn’t stop
It’s not the cement wall I kissed.

If I had driven off the cliff instead of
Into the divider
The deer may have lived—
But goodness, I might not have.

So darkness brought that scary image of
Busting nostrils, and antler daggers tearing out
The Volvo’s green blood
And tossing the rear view mirror into oncoming traffic
And leaving me with a dangling, yellow turn signal,
A crumbled hood, fender and doors
A stack of ungraded papers
43 college essays to write
and a headache.

Good evening. Despite the title of this poem, no unfriending is required. Actually this is not a poem. Or maybe, it is. It took everything I had to not put quotation marks around the term, but since I heard recently that the word unfriend was chosen as the word of the year by those that be, I feel obligated to treat it as any other work. It only makes sense. I just spoke with my brother who wanted to know the trick to unfriending certain Facebook visitors he’s collected because he hadn’t set up his privacy screens yet. Clearly, his rural life has him lulled into believing that Internet traffic would not cause any problems; much like his habit of never locking his front door because he lives so far off the cliched beaten path. Anyway, (forgive me now so that I don’t have to keep asking for forgiveness when using the transition anyway when I want to change topics), I liked the idea of pairing this word unfriend with the Lady Macbeth line, “Unsex me here,” because I think that in the past when women asked to be considered for their humanness, like Lady Macbeth does, it was almost certainly a call to be unfriended by far too many people. Maybe it still is. I find all of this ironic because I’ve never once felt less than, or unequal to any of my male counterparts in education, my career for the past 19 years. At least not until now. I’m not naive. I know about inequities and sexism and slave trades and discrimination and Seneca Falls and Sojourner Truth. Eternal optimism, however, has been my guiding light for eons, so I rarely contemplated the gender issue because of my outlook and my sexually privileged, white, middle class background. So, what has brought this all about now? Oh, it’s really a local issue about school politics. You see, I’m a high school teacher, a frumpy middle-aged woman who teaches English. I’m married to a Marine Corp Veteran from the Vietnam era who suffers from diagnosed post-traumatic stress disorder and who is also a raging sexist. Don’t worry, I remind him that he is sexist on a regular basis, and because I can and do speak about it, I can live with him that way. What’s really gotten me, however, is the tone of the politics at school. In the last two years, I’ve sensed that too many of the strong women with whom I work have stopped talking. They’ve stopped contributing to the dialog of change. Right now, I think it’s because the administration is focused on building athletics. There’s a lot more to say, so I’ll get back to you soon.

Ask her one more time
and she’ll have to tell the truth
She’s just about to break into
dust-sized pieces of herself
When all around, the earth
readies for the fall–
feasts of happiness and joy–
and in her heart the pain of a wretched soul
weighs so heavily down that
escaping is the best she can hope for–
better than stopping eternally
or quitting the race before the end,
Because another angry word
or simple shout may break her
into nonexistence–if there’s such a place–
And who would think there is anything worth
that price
Except the noble-hearted soldier
or the miserable hag
Who would rather die than confess a lie.

A good thing someone is born every day
to make up for those who leave too soon.

“Oh, it’s really not that bad,” she’ll say
when of course, it’s worse. But courtesy
speaks with tempered tongues
so the dying smile will not reveal
the broken heart or worse–
the befuddled soul.
Please, don’t be surprised
or even ask again.

There hasn’t been a single newsworthy event today
Except that perhaps…
No, who would care about that?
Or maybe the little…
Nope, it’s highly unlikely anyone would read
About the great …..
Of course not, that would not turn a head.
But tomorrow the headlines promise
Not much different
Because no one reports on
Beautiful things
Like the little boy who left
All his money on the porch of the poor man
And the mother who took another job
So her daughter could go to college
And the veteran who loved his country
More than himself—and didn’t die,
But suffered
And the magnificent melody
Of the chickadee chickadee-ing about the yard
On this fully fall day of rain.

How many emails does it take to convince you
That no conspiracies exist
To overthrow Scooby Doo
That communication is vital
in deciding between green beans and corn
That some men are nicer than others–
say Francis Nurse as opposed to Iago,
and that all have the capacity
to be better

And how many text messages will determine
Who our collective favorite singer might be,
What movie we should go to see,
How to vote on election day,
If the Giants will win the pennant race?

How many calls will be placed
To order up the bridal cake?
Pitch a parcel tax or senate race?
Tell the insurance company to hold their rate?
or tell them that they might as well shoot us now
to spare the expense of the inevitable.

How many prayers must fly up
Before the prayer giver realizes
that he must act–not just wait
Before the peace will come
Before the prayers will include thanks
for the chance to grow

90 to go.

How many

SupperShuttle me off to Neverland
Don’t let me go back…
Well, home is fine
Just not work. The tension
slithers across my shoulders
foreboding trouble even when
waiting for a ride at LAX…
this spasm will crush me…

Snap!

They really don’t know how good they are
The few who care to care
They plod along with happy despair
That the world somehow doesn’t recognize them
When all about them are the eyes of the past
Slowly widening as they blossom
Into what they were bound to become
All along—but their peers don’t quite see it
The old ones do-
The teachers, at least those who care, do
They see the universal contract signed at their
Birth and which only they can break

And joy oozes out of them
Because unbeknownst to their
Friends, they have been nurtured—even courted
To reach their potential—
And some of them actually do—
And then the old ones
Sing Biblical praises and heathen
Chants to their greatness
Knowing all along that this one
And that
Secretly possess the It—
The beautiful, unasked for, the no-denying-oneself
Factor
That the rest can only gaze at through the
Fuzzy atmosphere of mediocrity

Drats! Judgment killed the wrong soul
Because the kindergarten teacher wrote it down
In little Curley Hurley’s file
Instead of in the prodigy’s notes—
And Curley grew to be a an amazing leader
But the other kid—he went unnoticed
By the very people who thought themselves
Impartial—despite his genius

And the cure for everything remains elusive.

Just below the surface, a hundred miles deep
a giant marine creature lingers, waiting silently to creep
into the hollow shell of the carrier that rests
below the ocean battering and hurried, wind-swept crests.
A corpse or two must pause for care and quickly turn away
as little cleaning stations fill the hull and bay—a hundred tiny rasps
scour the backs of turtle A while turtle B
takes on the burden of keeping other fish away.
The metaphor for what’s to come
tomorrow or the next –examines how we live our lives
from one moment to the rest. The world is
full of creatures lurking well beneath the sea—
but that’s not all that life’s about—see I wish
that you could see the surface is where air is hid,
where light comes flooding through
so getting out unscaythed is worth a thought or two.
I’ll check my fins at pier edge or dock twenty-four,
then I’ll muster up the strength to disappear

through blue’s enticing door.