There is a fine line
between play fighting
and fist fighting.
Two eighth grade boys
poke and prod each other,
occasionally throwing barbs —
all in fun they say.

Until one note strikes
too close to the bone.
A brotherly hug
becomes a head lock,
words are spiked —
pointy enough to wound.

With feelings laid bare,
the boys find the road back
impossible to see,
the path ahead
rocky, protracted.

Fast forward thirty years,
the two boys
reside in places of power.
Long buried anger smolders
beneath polished smiles.
Now
this boyhood hurt
plays out on a world stage.

If we wonder
why conflict
is so entrenched,
we must remember
how fragile the soul is
along the way.

In the morning,
Mrs. McArdle explained how to
walk peacefully through the forest,
how to find a welcoming spot
in the crowded lunchroom,
how to turn off your internal critic
when writing.

At recess,
Mrs. McArdle revealed
how to never feel lonely
when spending time alone.

After lunch,
Mrs. McArdle gave us
a worksheet on how to
gather friends
when you are the new kid.

In the afternoon,
Mrs. McArdle led a discussion
on how to access
your favorite life moments
just by closing your eyes.

The English lesson covered
how to draft a life plan
in three easy steps,
with no missteps.

The math lesson
was the best of all —
how to make your
messy life
add up
to a satisfying journey.


*modeled on Brad Aaron Modlin’s brilliant, “What You Missed That Day You Were Absent From Fourth Grade“.

America is a country at war,
not the “buy savings bonds”
“plant a victory garden” type of war,
but a war against
its own people.
Ordinary citizens
are jailed,
deported
for the color of their skin,
mothers are torn from children,
the hungry are left starving,
the sick without healthcare.
Only the wealthy
can live unaffected.
Hints of Germany in the 1930’s
salt the air
Honestly,
no one is safe.
Eventually,
one’s heritage,
blood type,
height,
religious affilation,
sports allegiance
or hometown
will be a marker
for destruction.
There is no rhyme
to the isolation.
America is at war.

*inspiration: We Lived Happily During the War” poem by Ilya Kaminsky

As a child,
I thought parenting was
finger painting,
peanut butter sandwiches,
bedtime stories.

As a teen,
I thought parenting was
curfews,
Thanksgiving dinner,
driving lessons.

As a new mother
I thought parenting was
wonder,
fear,
connection.

Sitting with my 91 year old father,
I realize parenting is
a road through the forest —
beauty, peace, adventure
married with
doubt, waywardness, loss.

A road
I would traverse
again and again
with love.

inspired by Carlos Andres Gomez’s “Father”.

When I was fifteen
adults seemed to lose their shine.
I saw cracks
in relationships,
flaws in their arguments.
I was sure
I could see things more clearly.
Were they losing their edge?
Were we teens just outpacing them?
Our answers so logical.

Age is a funny thing.
Life teaches us
over and over again
how little we understand
about others,
the universe.

Now,
I am less sure.
I wonder about the path forward regularly.
Waking each morning,
I can formulate
a whole new set of questions,
opening doors
to untraveled paths.
What a bore
is certitude.

Written along side of Yehuda Amichai’s “The Place Where We are Right”.

Regret
can be its own kind of prison.
Words spoken,
promises broken,
friendships untended,
paths not taken,
choices made,
lives not lived,
talents disregarded,
courage lacking…
while there may be
validity
in these reminiscences,
the weight is crushing
possibilities
for here and now.

*title borrowed from Natalie Diaz’s “Of Course She Looked Back”

Last night
my son’s dog came to stay.
Cooper is a frequent guest —
respectful, kind, friendly.
His half siblings,
our two dogs,
have varying opinions.
Max, a year older,
but smaller than Cooper,
loves having a new playmate.
Upon arrival,
Cooper and Max
circle with wagging tails,
long lost companions.
Georgia, on the other hand,
enjoys ruling the roost,
mastering the quiet,
setting the pace.
She will tolerate Cooper
next to her on the couch,
but
he had better let her lead the way on walks,
head out the door first.
This morning
the three dogs
lounge in bright sunbeams
on the colorful rug.
A truce
I hope will hold
for the week.

We debate the virtues
of London at Christmas –
streets festooned with glistening lights
or Dublin –
rife with literary haunts
and local pubs,
maybe Vancouver in summer –
endless cornflower blue skies,
whales breaching off shore
or perhaps Key West –
sun-soaked afternoons
walking Whitehead Street
past Hemingway’s home.

Mid chat,
I look up
to see a Carolina Wren
settle on the bird feeder.
You follow my gaze.

Outside the sun is setting –
sherbet pinks and oranges
streak the sky.
Maybe we should
head out for a walk instead?
Two dogs leashed,
we stroll toward the river –
no need to pack a bag,
book a flight
or board an airplane…
we are already
here.

*Inspiration poem: “Don’t Miss Oout! Book Right Now for the Journey of a Lifetime” by Imtiaz Dharker

The human body is a marvel.
Blood flowing,
oxygen pulsing
lungs expanding.

Every single moment,
the human body
is at work.

At times,
illness lays
the body low,
injury renders parts unusable.

Yet,
time is the body’s greatest foe.

The human body
is not intended
for immortality.
A brilliant mind
continues to calculate
when the body is too weary
to rise.

Memories of mountain hikes,
skipping as a child,
running to a loved one
play on a loop
when one’s two legs
can no longer bear the weight.”

Aging is not gentle for the fittest of bodies.
Toward the end,
it is essential
to nourish the mind and soul,
for regardless the state
of one’s mortal vessel,
the heart remembers.

“I used to think poetry – and religion too – was about describing the transcendent…but these days, I find myself more and more interested in language that pays attention to tangible things.” Padraig O’Tuama

Before sunrise,
I stand
barefoot on wooden floorboards
in a quiet kitchen.
Flakes of steelcut oatmeal
drift into the bowl,
bringing hints of Irish soil.

As the oatmeal cooks,
I rinse ripe, round
blueberries
in a steel colander.

In summer,
fresh picked peaches
drip nectar into the bowl.
In winter,
bright yellow banana rinds
open
to offer thin slices
of soft fruit.

The coffee grinder whirs,
milk steams,
my lucky owl mug
brims
as I settle
at the wooden kitchen table.

Cocooned in my daily ritual,
I open my journal
to write.