Ode to Beer (A Poem for National Beer Day)

Did you know there’s a National Beer Day? I didn’t, but I do now. And yes, of course I’m celebrating. Here’s a silly poem to prove it.

For you, O Mighty Brew,
libation of
mighty warriors
and
humble monks
alike,
we celebrate this day.

Quencher, and friend,
foe, and consoler,
partner in pleasure,
in sadness,
and (sometimes, perhaps) in crime
(we won’t speak of that now…),
you are a time in yourself,
a moment of fizzy bliss,
of foamy joy.

You, Oh Ancient Potion,
are powerful, potable,
volatile magic.
You make us brave
(but foolish).
You make us wise
(for a while).

To you, I tip my hat.
And then drop it.
Thanks for that.

Bones (A Poem)

I carry it with me,
this bag of bones,
of broken down building blocks.
These I have gathered,
these moldering bits of a million little memories,
times and places and people,
thousands over the course of a life,
tucked away for safekeeping.
It drags behind me,
clatters and clacks in a diabolical cacophony.
Always I carry this calcified collection,
but only a few can see,
and those few know the weight of it themselves.
They carry their own
bones in sacks, dangling from weary hands.
Why is not the question.
It is when.
When to open it?
And which.
Which to choose?
And how.
How to fit that one fragile bit into the puzzle just so.
Oh yes,
the burden is heavy,
and every day it grows.
But for those who carry the bags,
curate the bones and create new skeletons,
there is no greater treasure.

To the Women Who Came Before (A Poem for Women’s History Month)

To you,
the women,
the warriors and weavers and
witches and wanderers,
the brave and bold
who came before,
I promise this:

My light will magnify your light.
I will shine because
you reached for the sky
and grabbed the sun and moon and stars
to fight the darkness.

Your words,
your courage,
your heart,
your home –
the one you made with your own hands –
will live on in me.

I will stand and speak.
My voice will carry as yours,
over the mountains you climbed,
across the sands of time
and the pillars and platforms you built.
I won’t make myself small
just to fit into the corners
of a world made and sustained
by mothers.

I cradle your wisdom in my soul
because you carved a place for it.
I will keep that place
sacred and whole.
I will nurture the fire you lit
and pass the eternal torch.

In Like a Lion (A Poem)

Leonine you are, we say,
but today, only light –
winds,
clouds,
gray, mild sunshine,
and a breezy chill in the air.
Perhaps you’re saving energy,
waiting for better prey –
a colder, wetter, wilder moment,
a time to truly roar,
to give a little more of your royal self.
You’ll pounce then,
claws and jaws and teeth and trouble,
and surprise us all.

A Sort of Love Poem

*I had planned to post a sweet song for Valentine’s Day yesterday, and then a poem today. But time got away from me yesterday, as it so often does, and well, here we are. So, here’s a sort of love poem, and a video of me singing some Gillian Welch by the fire. I hope you enjoy both! And if you’re in the US and in the line of fire – er, ice – with this latest winter storm, stay safe and warm!*

Dear Someone,
I don’t need you, but
I’d like to meet you
nonetheless.

It might be fun, Dear Someone,
to see where things could go,
but no, I’m not waiting for you.
See, I’ve got other things to do.

It’s a big universe, after all,
Dear Someone,
and who can say who meets who
and when.
Though I hope we do,
eventually, some time, someday,
maybe.

And so,
Dear Someone,
whoever you are,
if by chance we stumble across each other
at some party or in some bar,
I’m open to the possibility.

Practice Makes Perfect (A Poem)

One, two, three
Chapters
Lines
Cups of coffee
Thousand words

Not quite done

Write it down
Write it down
Work it out

Find the phrase that
Makes it perfect
Over and over
Then and now

“Time, time, time
See what’s become of…”

My work
My mind
Too much
Or much too finite

Practice, practice, practice
The difference between:
Talent
And
Mastery

Patience, patience, patience
Is a virtue
Is a struggle
Is the space between
Good
And
Great

Not there yet, but –

Almost, almost
Always almost
Forever so close

Keep it up,
Keep it up,
Keep up the fight

It’s the plight
Of the creative soul:

To make it beautiful
But know
It will never be whole