I’ve built my house,
on a bed of dreams,
a million little hopeful timbers,
with nails made of joy and grief.
Life takes hold of us that way,
you know –
the sweet made sweeter
by bitter loss,
the loss made better by
the time that came before.
Funny, that I didn’t even realize,
how the building and building
never felt like a chore.
And now, my house moves
with me wherever I go,
but also stands
forever at a crossroads,
a perpetual choice between
this and that
or that or that.
And though it doesn’t matter,
I wonder:
How many lives have I
not chosen?
Poetry
Good Morning, May Monday! (Thoughts, and a Poem)
It’s a new week, and a new month! I’ll have a short story out on Wednesday (April’s, just a little late), and in the meantime, I’m playing catch-up from our weekend with family (which was lovely and, as usual, too short). It’s looking to be a busy week, and you know, I’m really fine with that. I always feel like I have more energy and more determination in spring. It’s like watching the earth come alive again makes me feel more alive, too.
So, onward! And here’s a poem to get the week started. 😊 Happy creating, y’all!
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Lady May (A Poem)
Crowned in flowers
and robed in sunshine,
Lady May walks now
from slope to valley,
forest to river
to field and pasture.
And in her dewy wake,
she lines them with color,
paints them green and blue
and pink and white,
bright yellow and regal lavender,
and leaves behind
the joy and hope of a world
come alive once more.
A Perfectly Good Reason (A Poem for the Cat People)
You see, I told the cat
that we have things to do today.
And what did he have to say?
Nothing, because he
is still fast asleep,
monopolizing my lap.
Priorities…
So, I suppose the work can wait.
After all, what’s a little
procrastinating
between feline and friend?
Reach (A Poem)
For whatever it is,
no matter how far,
keep going.
There’s more than enough
sky up there
for all your dreams
and then some.
I Am Somewhere Else (A Poem)
You’re talking to me,
I know,
and I sort of, mostly hear you.
See, I’m not quite here
(though not quite not) –
I’m somewhere else,
far away
right in front of you.
It’s not one place,
so I can’t tell you where,
or when,
or exactly how I came to be there.
Or even, truthfully,
when I might be back.
You’re frustrated,
I can tell,
but just consider this:
How wonderful to travel
without tickets
or borders
or worries about time and money
and a place to stay.
I’m lucky, I think.
Now…
…what did you say?
The Clock (A Poem)
How funny,
to race against
a stationary object,
as if time cares
about our projects
and our deadlines.
The clock ticks and tocks –
it does not see
or know
or participate
in the too-fast days
of our lives.
And really,
we build them that way,
don’t we?
We fight with the
never-ending turning of the globe,
like boxers in a celestial ring,
but the ring is empty,
save for us
and all of our to-do lists.
Wouldn’t it be nice,
then, to just stop –
not the clock,
but ourselves –
and insist on a slower pace?
And why don’t we?
I mean, seriously,
who ever made the rule
that busy is better?
I’d rather not be,
thank you.
I’m not mad, exactly,
but I do think this is bad.
See, the work will
truly
always
be here.
But I won’t.
Ready (A Poem)
All around, I hear it:
The hum of new life –
of growing things,
buzzing and flying,
a gentle flap of beating wings,
the stir of wind through the blossoms –
this song that each year nature sings.
It seems that here,
in a season and a blur,
no more than a blink,
we are suddenly,
all of us,
ready for spring.
Trivia Night (A Poem)
I mean, sure, of course
I want to win.
But, it’s just as fun to lose
when losing is still learning
and learning is knowing
and knowledge is power.
And when I think of
how much I know now
that I didn’t know before,
I’m happy that my hobby
is a trivial kind of pursuit.
The Quiet Moments (A Poem)
And sometimes,
friendship
truly feels as simple as
sitting quietly
together
(waiting for your humans
to drop some food
on the floor).
International Women’s Day 2023 (Thoughts, and Two Poems)
It’s International Women’s Day! Unfortunately, I’ve been feeling under the weather, so I haven’t done much to celebrate, and my brain feels too foggy to write something really good. So, I’ll just say this:
I’m thankful for the amazing women in my life, and the strong, brave women who came before us. I’m proud of the women who dream, and who love, and who go on when it feels impossible. We are heroes, rock stars, the glue that keeps this broken world together. If I had to choose a million times, I would still choose to be a woman, even when it’s hard and unfair. I carry the universe in me. All women do.
And I’ll share a couple of my favorite poems I’ve written in the past. I hope you enjoy them! And I hope that you tell the women in your life today – and yourself, if you’re a woman (yes, ALL women) – just how wonderful and unbreakable and valuable and worthy and loved they are.
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To the Women Who Came Before
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.
************
Eve
A story we’ve heard:
The first of us all
(to fall) –
help-meet and wife,
made and prized,
then punished,
removed and reviled.
The woman who
became a warning.
And history became
both judge and jury,
gave us no choice,
no voice.
The story became ours,
but it never belonged to us.
And before, and now,
down in our bones
we know it.
We know:
It is human to fall
and rise again,
to seek,
to learn,
to live in curiosity.
And so,
can we reclaim her,
weave her story anew
and see her,
this mother of mothers?
Blood of our blood –
can we finally love
(not blame)
her?
A Virginia Writer's Diary 