The boy’s face says it all —
a difficult day for a gentle boy.
A reprimand in class
not easily shouldered,
he does his best to keep his cup of tears
from overflowing.

I am sure he is home now
chatting with his mother,
searching for his cat,
eating dinner.

Yet,
my heart still hurts
knowing days can be hard
for the genuine-hearted.

Over time,
life will build callouses,
layers of thickened skin
to guard the heart.

Such a shame
the world does not value
tenderness
in the same way it honors
toughness.

Delicate branches
sway in the warm evening breeze,
while we enjoy sleep
cherry blossoms dance gently
before a grateful still moon.

This poem is written as a tanka in the Japanese haiku tradition. The line count is five, seven, five, seven, seven. Thank you Irene Latham and Charles Waters for the form idea!

I have decided to live abroad, where languages flow
and one learns to do with less, waking in the morning
to wander a country lane, stopping to greet the
flora and fauna. Revelation resides in the hills
just waiting for me to slow down long enough
to open my heart, soak in the wisdom.

Of course for now, I want to stay put
savor life where I am, appreciate the small moments.

Do you follow?

• modeled after Mary Oliver’s poem, “I Have Decided” in her book, A Thousand Mornings

Don’t forget to capitalize.
You need a comma here.
Reword to avoid confusion.

But,
more importantly —
you are brave.

Here you are
showing up
with each letter on the page.

Writing into existence
your view
on the question.

Never confuse
gentle reminders
with judgement.

Remember,
I see you —
and you are brave.

My mother
finds her roots in
the Scottish moors,
the English lake district.

My father’s
ancestors hail from
Russia, Austria,
Poland.

No blood flows
through my veins
tinged by the waters
of the river Shannon.

Yet,
Ireland has won my heart.

Walking St. Stephen’s Green;
sharing a pint
at the Palace Bar;
reading Yeats, Joyce,
Behan, O’Brien
at the MoLI;
roaming the blustery
shore of Galway;
bowing my head
to honor those lost
in Belfast.

Today,
I ate Irish soda bread
with Kerry butter
and took my heart back
to the green shores
of Ireland.

“My flight’s on time!”

Four states and 700 miles away,
my husband’s voice
rises through the line.

“I’ll be there waiting!

Married for thirty-three years,
the buzz of anticipation
still shimmers.

A quiet morning
walking the dogs,
reading essays,
sipping coffee,
turns technicolor.

Over lunch
at our local watering hole,
we discuss sports,
family, travel ahead.
Ordinary conversations
elevated by the absence.

As humans,
we each walk the world
on our own map.
How delicious,
how lucky,
when maps align.

Bashful
school personality
tucked tightly away
child again – looking for
approval

An elfchen, this eleven word poem follows the 1,2,3,4,1 word pattern over five lines. As one poet noted, the final word is often a commentary or summary word.

An eyesore —
that’s what it is.
Towering, gleaming
foreboding.

Where once stood
an open field,
now a large house
sits guarded by a fortress
of a fence.

The natural deer path
obliterated,
a fox den
exposed,
old growth trees
uprooted.

My mind journeys back…

The young doe,
spotted and tan,
nosed her way out of
dew-coated grass
to greet first light.

Most quiet mornings,
the verdant spot
hosted a fox or two,
a pair of gentle deer
or perhaps a family of raccoons.

Tumbling rose bushes,
creeping lavender phlox,
long, tall grass,
soft white pines
created an oasis.

For the family ensconced
in the newly constructed
dream home,
life is safe and warm.

Not so
for the animal families displaced.
When will we learn?

“As a rule, we take nothing and we leave nothing.”
Mrs. Evert in John McPhee’s The Pine Barrens

Turning down a sandy road,
our 1972 Country Squire
station wagon
bumped and bounced.

Keds on our feet,
wax paper-wrapped sandwiches
in backpacks,
my cousins and I trooped out
behind our grandmother,
Dot Evert.

Botanist Dot
took her calling seriously.

She reminded us,
tending our environment:

Means
knowing names —
Utricularia resupinata,
Calopogon pulchellus.

Means
watching our step,
taking only pictures.

Means
speaking up
to protect
the Pine Barrens’s
43 endangered species.

Dot made no distinction
between her grandchildren
and a Pulitzer-winning author —
we are ALL responsible
she intoned.

I can still hear her say
“Come over here
you’ve got to see this!”

Sigh…
tossing
and turning,
wishing for sleep,
a cacophony
erupts inside my head.
Worries, memories, to dos
flood the neural pathways instead
of soothing waves of restoration.

*Written as a nonet, the nine-line poem begins with a one-syllable line and builds to a nine-syllable line. Form idea courtesy of Irene Latham & Charles Waters from Dictionary for a Better World.