Part way through a poetry anthology,
I congratulate myself silently
for the connections I have made,
the revelations unfolding,
the new poems minted from inspiration,
wet ink in my journal.

But today,
I stopped short —
the poem unintelligible.
Perhaps the simple title, “The Word”
fed my inflated confidence.
I forged ahead,
looking for inspiration
but each line
left me deeper and deeper
in the woods.

Reaching the end,
I sat back, confounded.
Where is my easy access?
My quick connection?
My flowing pen?

In the end, I let my confusion
lead the way,
a bit humbled,
but willing.

Poetry is
a taut form of communication,
an economy of words
that open doors,
just not always
the doors we imagine.

When the friendship was new,
we marveled at our luck.
Clearly,
the universe had a plan.
Every conversation charged,
revelatory,
original.

We knew we would
pass the years together —
late night dinners would turn
into walks with children,
trips abroad.

Our youthful exuberance
confident in parallel lives ahead,
unaware of the power
of time
distance
loss
ennui.

I think of your smiling face often.
Life did not give us
the paired path —
houses next door,
dogs from the same litter.

I wonder how you are —
I think about the children you raised,
the marriage that ended,
your joys, losses, victories.

As I age,
I realize you remain
a great joy I carry.
Weren’t we lucky?
To have such magic
for a time?

I must remember to put
each glorious gift of friendship
in my pocket
to savor
in those moments I am alone,
when I really need a friend.

Flown off course,
the plump pearly white goose,
has become something
of a celebrity.
Daily Ebird alerts ring out
to birders across the region.

The Ross’s Goose,
who breeds on the Arctic tundra,
usually migrates
from Victoria Island
and the Northwest territories,
down past Saskatchewan
through the Rocky Mountains
to the marshes and lakes
of the American West.

Except,
here swims one lone Ross’s Goose
across the river from the Nation’s Capital
among a flock
of larger Canadian Geese.
Smaller by half,
the Ross’s Goose
stands stark white
against a sea
of brown and black feathered Canadiens.

Little does the bird know
its choice to eschew
the beaten path
is teaching us humans
it is just fine
to go our own way.

The lunchroom is hectic today.
A deep freeze overnight
makes the head table
a hot spot.

First to arrive are
the house sparrows,
a chatty bunch
with little use for others.
They swarm the table,
searching for the best bites.

Next to arrive in the
long lunch line
are the mourning doves,
in no hurry,
the doves often
sit for extended periods
contemplating the choice,
much to the chagrin
of noisy Blue Jays
at the back of the line.

Blue Jays
can be the bullies
of the bunch,
pushing, pecking,
squawking to get their way.
How amusing
to watch the unbothered doves,
who eventually move to the side
puffing, ruffling feathers
as they settle at a table
in the corner
to watch the commotion.

Almost unnoticed
a tiny, auburn-tinted Carolina wren
darts in for a bite,
back out before
other lunch patrons
have time to complain.

Bringing up the rear,
a majestic cardinal
draws all eyes.

Crimson against the feeder,
the cardinal knows
he is class president and
quarterback rolled into one.
The crowd parts
as he sits alone at the table
reveling in his uniqueness,
certain the lunchroom
belongs only to him.

“Attention teachers and staff,
the army is short a few —
illness, family commitment,
exhaustion have taken a toll.
Please consider
where you can help,
perhaps take a few students
into your raft
as we weather
this storm of a day.
Remember,
the 1,000+ students
will not be mindful
of your extra burden.
In fact,
the needs are greatest
when the resources
are strained.
Good luck today…
you will need it.

Sitting at the kitchen table
in a yellow wallpapered kitchen,
my father reads The Washington Post
cover to cover.

My mother,
floral apron donned,
delivers half a grapefruit,
ruby red, sections cut
for easy scooping.

A refilled coffee cup
followed by soft-boiled eggs
round out the meal
as my suited father rises
to head for work.

Hundreds of mornings
spent in the yellow kitchen
repeating the well-worn ritual.

Looking back,
I wonder if my mother
chose
to begin her days in service
or
if society required acquiescence?

Eyes scanning a crowded cafeteria,
the teen searches for like minds.
Middle school,
a harsh proving ground.

If only the anxious teen
would allow a glimmer
of true self
to escape through the growing cracks.
The light might illuminate a path.
But,
Social media, group dynamics, uncertainty
make the youth wary.

Please
let them be welcoming,
let them be unguarded,
let them be empathetic,
let them be open
to connections that might ease
the knot growing tighter
at the core
of every,
single
one of them.

*Poet Kei Miller, in his poem “Genesis”, wonders about a book filled with the word “let” . I imagine a world where “let” opens the door to the authentic self.

Poet Padraig O’Tuama remembered an evening watching the Vanbrugh Quartet perform Dvorak’s String Quartet in F. Beside his sister, sitting on uncomfortable chairs in a wood paneled room, he was spellbound. But, he knew if he shared the story the next day, “I’d fail, and in the failing something would be lost. I held the music and the memory in me like a secret.”

Outside snow danced
against frosted panes.
We had escaped for the weekend
to Monhonk Mountain House,
a chalet hotel tucked
along the shore of a small lake
formed by a glacier
on its way to the sea.

Ringed on all sides
by gradually rising stone hills,
Mohonk Lake
is cut off nicely
from the daily trials
of ordinary life.

Our room,
wood-paneled,
compact enough for just
a bed, dresser, chair
and iron-clad fireplace.
Insulated in our lovely space,
we stacked our ambitious reading pile
on the heavy carved mantel
and turned to start a fire.

The small balcony
held two Adirondack chairs
if we felt brave enough
to hazard the cold.

For three days,
we only ventured out for meals,
content to read,
share the silence,
stoke the fire.

No itinerary guided us,
no pressures forded the door.

When we packed to leave,
I knew I would carry this respite
in my heart
like a balm.

The shores of Lost Lagoon
in Vancouver’s Stanley Park
shimmer as water rises and falls
along the sandy banks.
I step off the beaten path
to get a closer look
at a pair of wigeons drifting by.

In a willow overhead
I spy a tiny ball of energy,
a highly caffeinated bird
flitting from branch to branch.
Dusky grey,
the Bushtit is a social creature,
calling companions to join
a sweet high-ptiched chorus.

As my eyes travel up the tree,
a flurry of motion
animates the branches.
Responding to the call,
two dozen Bushtits
now dance among the leaves.

Swept into the company,
I can imagine myself Da Vinci,
designing wings to take flight.

Just as quickly as the flock
descended overhead,
they scatter to trees across the wood,
snapping the spell,
returning me to the ordinary.

Eight months later,
I still return to that summer day,
held in place by wonder,
afraid to breathe
for fear
I will burst the bubble
of acceptance.

*inspired by James Wright’s poem, “A Blessing”.

The predawn quiet at the edge of the woods
broken by the eight-note hoot
a barred owl resting on a pine bough
and the sweet, bright song of a Carolina wren.

Broken by the eight-note hoot
singing sparrows join the dawn chorus
and the sweet, bright song of a Carolina wren
pileated woodpeckers bang insistently above.

Singing sparrows join the dawn chorus
and to my left three deer tramp by
pileated woodpeckers bang insistently above
through the dry winter brush.

And to my left three deer tramp by
a barred owl resting on a pine bough
through the dry winter brush
the predawn quiet at the edge of the woods.


*This poem is a Pantoum, a Malaysian form with four line stanzas and a clear repeat pattern designed to create a musical circular effect. The poem is built with eight lines. My poem focuses on my morning sounds as I spend more time outdoors. The pattern is as follows: 1,2,3,4. 2,5,4,6. 5,7,6,8. 7,3,8,1. (For another example and the inspiration for my poem, check out Padraig O’Tuama’s New Year’s pantoum here.)