I write all these death poems, these grief poems —
and does it really make me feel better? Or am I just
twisting my heart so that I can feel, to remember?
Because I’m afraid that if I don’t feel, I will forget.
Nightstand Journal
Don’t-do-it list
currently i am about halfway through
doing the list of things i swore before
i would never ever do when i got old
Bumpy fright
A nightmare is only a dream that hits turbulence.
The feels & frights of aging
With each passing year, the body turns more prison than shelter.
Two A.M. drops
dancing in the rain
at nature’s cloudy party
Opening night
monsoon winds tell tales
lightning dances thunder sings
rain is main event
Flux
cracks in poetry
are not ruins
but gaps to let
meaning breathe
What 45 feels like at 3 a.m.
Middle age — a stealthy, crafty nemesis.
Leavings
silently but for the rustle of wings
swooping death flies off with its prey —
a feather drifts down from the empty sky
for left-behind hearts to remember by
Weighed down
the scale now shows me
one hundred sixty-eight
but in those simple digits
I see rejection and pain
sugar, laziness, exhaustion
hormones splayed out of whack
menopause ready to rumble
plaque buildup and repressions
anxiety, regret, some depression
the past, the future, sheer panic
tension, disoriented expectations
ice cream, sweet junk addictions
griefs, hurts, disappointments
bad habits, cliffs, fear, falling
the eating of all my emotions
gluttony and gorging ghosts
turbulent raging blood glucose
sleepless nights, too-busy days
nerves, toxins, worry, age
unwelcome rapid-fire change
lack of trying, trying too hard
loss of control, culinary excesses
no longer fitting into my dresses
Final draft
When the poem just won’t come out right, sometimes the best revision is to crumple it up and throw it poetically into the trash.
Carrying
pick out your fears
worries, anger, and hate
from the bag of stones you carry
and love, find yourself lifted by
the wings of featherweight faith
Early bird
That trusty mockingbird —
you can set your sundial by it.