Emmanuel
All these years
I didn’t know
that Emmanuel means
God With Us.
Personally, I cringe hearing Christ Christ Christ Christ
Our Lord and Savior, King of Kings and Redeemer,
as these titles mesh with powerful men
in suits and the American flag
and singular views of Correct.
I mean, eugh. Gross. No thank you.
But an ordinary person?
Amongst us? With us?
Please use that thinking emoji for this one,
Maybe the heart one too.
With us. From the start.
If every newborn has that newborn smell –
you know the one I mean, it’s real –
then Jesus must have also,
and his mom must have felt the same way we do
when she touched her nose to his head
and inhaled.
Omg. Moms. You know what I mean.
Mary…. You know what I mean.
Kind of wild that Mary and I know
the same something,
millennia apart, worlds apart.
A tiny ball of wrinkly baby against our breast.
Exhaustion and joy and gentle noises
and that newborn scent. The same. With us.
I remember the waiting room full for our baby,
cheers and tears and embracing with jubilation,
So it’s not hard to imagine
that scene
hundreds
and hundreds
and hundreds
of years ago. Cheers and tears and embracing.
Sure. It seems plausible.
Of course, life grew complicated
as life often does, no shortage of grief and trials
And did you know he became a carpenter? Honestly,
I wish they wrote of this more
Because building with my dad is also
as magical as water into wine,
boards into tables, stumps into bowls,
orange crates into bird feeders.
He too, created small marvels.
God with us, okay.
The smell of lumbar and the sound of a saw.
No matter how far, or not, your beliefs go,
He did live, and he did die, and he did
change the world,
But before that
at the very beginning…
Someone held him and breathed in
newborn love
as he lay on their chest.
Emmanuel.
Solid and warm and crying and hungry and curious and scared and sleepy and swaddled.
There’s not much holier than the feel
of this in your arms
And what a striking reminder
with our evergreens and candle circles and steady songs,
that God is not a mega church,
but a baby born among the poor and tired,
who felt sacred hope
when they held him.
October Dogwood
Teetering between
gratitude and angst,
when hardship and doubt
and uncertainty lurks and looms,
heavy as a heartache,
But so does the overwhelming sense
that it’s perfect- this life, these people, this earth,
the humans that are ours, becoming, and
back and forth the mind goes
swaying from beautiful to bleak
And then
That morning autumn light, you know
what I’m talking about,
the way it quietly hits the rusting reddish leaves
on the October dogwood,
and that hazy glowing light just-so
taps me over the edge
to the overwhelm
of perfect.
Seventh Period Orchestra
They’re still babies, really, in their t-shirts
and grubby shoes and mullets and routine days,
these odorous teens bouncing
through shiny linoleum hallways, constant
slams of locker doors, shouts across the way, bells and
chaos, a cacophony of slang; they sling
their worn backpacks beside their chairs
unceremoniously,
one whose face is beat red from the mile,
another quiet, mostly hidden by chopped bangs.
And suddenly, this random clump of kids
are unearthing glossy instruments
from bulky black bags; they are
holding magnificent cellos,
cradling violas underneath their chins,
straightening their stands and sighing,
like a mother with a toddler on her hip.
They are setting up, like they do
every day in 7th period,
and they have no idea
how miraculous it is
that they know how
to birth music from these strings.
Songs, real songs, cascade aloud.
They decipher notes and follow cues
with little to no amazement,
shoving their folders back in the bookcase
after class, talking about games, homework,
who is cute, 6/7, and the nonsensical such.
Incredible,
that these quasi-formed humans
-noisy, muddled, impulsive –
so casually orchestrate
swells of harmony and mosaics of melodies
together.
Incredible, that this music
is not the most astounding
part of their day.
Incredible, these creators,
(they are beautiful)
oblivious to their own beauty.
Fireworks
I find it difficult
to wear red white and blue
and celebrate democracy
when the rules are shattered,
when children’s bellies are hungry,
when the old must pay for groceries or medicine
but not both -god forbid a hospital stay-
and we in the middle
have lost our voices
from screaming
into a void
to stop
the madness.
I find it difficult
to celebrate lining the pockets
of rich white men, too much money to count,
while families seeking hope are imprisoned,
masked men snatching mothers,
a modern-day holocaust,
of soullessness.
I find it difficult
to celebrate today.
But your America is not my America,
My America, she does not care for you,
greedy blinded fools so far away
from the frontlines of humanity.
My America, she still hopes
that the land of the free
that the home of the brave
will one day be true.
Waves
The sand had shifted, creating a small drop-off
where little bumps of waves suddenly rose into a crest
sharp and tall and awakened,
before crashing eagerly into the shore,
its shimmering aqua blue bursting
into tan sand tumbling in its wake.
My ten-year-old, once timid of bubbles and butterflies,
wrapped herself into a ball as the ocean pulled into a tower
hovering and curling above her, and then CRASH
plunging plummeting exploding into sea water and froth,
my daughter covered and tossed and flipped and turned.
“Bria!” I called in alarm, warning, concern.
She found her feet and looked up, eyes bright.
“You’re right where it crashes!” I yelled to her.
The next wave slammed into the taut ball of limbs
she’d quickly curled herself into for the millionth time,
and she popped out of the wave’s ensuing chaos in victory,
a joyful smile as wide as the Atlantic behind her.
“I KNOW!” she yelled back.
Dear Fear,
Of course you are frightened
Afraid.
This world holds horror, disturbing,
evil is existing, loudly.
the worst case is happening
every day
to someone
who won’t see
their loved ones
again.
Dear Fear,
Of course you want to protect us,
Because who can shoot us
in a room
who can crash into tragedy
tucked away safely
who can feel terror
when you close your eyes
and ears
and heart.
But then what is the point,
dear fear.
Without eyes, what beauty
will your soul drink in,
What surprises
can this floating globe share,
What surges of hope and burst of joy
shall your heart pump through
that reminds us
life is worth living;
this messy world is worth loving.
Dear fear,
I hear you. I understand.
Come lay your head
on my shoulder.
Hold my hands,
And we’ll walk this earth,
for that is the only way
to actually live.
The Wind
Of course
that is the place,
the being, the essence
you would choose:
music of the earth,
among the trees and
green and branches and
birds and sky and
critters and storms and stars and
seasons and steady shores and
gently swaying forests and woods
and mountains and creek sides
and Us.
Loss is
a sharp edge of
sorrow and grief.
The wind comes
and I turn my face
as though you will
come strolling unhurried
around the corner, your laugh
following
like it always did.
To Savor Enough
Could it really be autumn,
frost already swept across
the shadowed slant of roofs
shingles now glinting
in the cold morning sunlight
melting later in the wayward
afternoon warmth.
Green treelines smirk
against the horizon,
mischievous, changing
leaf by leaf, tiptoeing,
slipping
into October.
Slow down,
I beg the vibrant orange
creeping through the maple,
dogwoods quietly rusting,
ginkgoes radiant
impossibly afire in a golden glow,
while the oaks grumble,
crumbling into forlorn brown
among its peers’ wild hues.
It’s fleeting; it’s fleeting-
the horah of foliage in the wind,
and the leaves one by one
floating lazily to and fro,
as though conducting
the softest symphony.
Wait.
I want to look at you,
drink you in, gulp your beauty,
before you’re gone
and the trees are bare
again.
Webb
Webb. Bright walls and collages
cardboard boxes become caves
and books become adventures
shoulder to shoulder, nestled
in the nooks of learning.
Milk jugs and hot wheels
and twisted applecado trees
come to life, hands messy
with dirt and grins and pride.
Sparks of knowledge
and connections across classes
and badges every child wears
that say SCHOLAR –
worthy of the title
and time
and love
given to them here.
Birthday surprises and
sideline cheers and
the most intentional
building t r u e community.
Unafraid to march
down tangents and tackle
the questions and truths –
world truths, rights and justice,
wants and needs and generosity,
character, respect, courage
heroes and 5th graders
who still remember the words
to keep moving forward.
A soft shoulder to lean into
like small koalas and tree frogs
and little ones who grow best
when held on the lap
during stories.
Challenges and hard work
and small shoes growing
but always finding their way
back for their hug,
where it began.
Because that voice within
that tells them
You are strong
You are smart
You are kind
You are joyful
You are unique
You are wonderful,
It began
With you.
Webb.
Eclipse
. . .
The moon
and sun
and earth
are aligning
today.
A string
of light and life
and unknown
neatly placed
in the heavens.
The universe
is a bit of a wild place
so this little row
of three tidy orbs
in a vast cosmos
seems both
quaint and powerful.
If our glowing moon
already pulls oceans
and magic
and our bodies within;
And the earth
holds our whole world
in one sacred sphere,
And the sun’s light
travels 93 million miles
to create life;
Then surely, when
this moment happens
and they align . . .
we’ll feel it
somehow, right?
Or could it be
the reason
my heart
already
has been feeling
Everything,
like the galaxy
is within me,
starlight
and shadows
in my soul.
Outloud
White hands folded neatly,
needing permission
to throw them up, whoop it up,
cry Amen and Alright Queen and
anything else I’d like to yell out
but don’t
because we come from quiet
and still hands
still bodies, stiff
and supposed to.
and I couldn’t help
but wonder why
we’ve held back
our joy
for hundreds of years.
I am not Black
and sometimes I’m envious
for are you born
with that rhythm
that freedom
in your soul?
Percussion, its power,
drumbeats bursting
a collective heartbeat
in fireworks of fierce fury
and strength and sound.
It moves within you….
….but the call of a Celtic
fiddle and drum and winds
also whispers to something
within
me, and so does a humble guitar
a rambling voice,
strings and a story,
So I guess really
it’s just music
that swells
like a wave
inside
But wouldn’t it be nice –
if the power
of what we witness –
moves our spirit,
calls to our soul
we could all
just
cry out
Amen.
Mr. Dan
“Feel free to use the hill
Behind my house” our neighbor said
Mr. Dan, the kindest man
who lives by himself,
his wife has died and
daughters are grown and gone.
And so we did –
Wild cacophony of squeals
and yells and “WATCH THIS”
and neon plastic scraping rough on
the edges of frozen-over snow
wwwuuuurrrrr ssshhhhhhhhooooooom
crunch crunch crunch
No longer a blanket
of perfect winter white
serene and gentle against the trees,
but boot stomps and sled-tracks
criss-crossing in chaotic
patterns of crashing and running
and sliding and rolling
down the great hill.
I worry about our messy presence
“Don’t be too loud; be careful,”
I try to remind
my now-feral children
But at the same time
my phone dings
and Mr. Dan has sent
a short message
“It does my heart
good
to see children
playing
in my back yard
again.”
The Cat
A cat is stuck in our neighbor’s tree.
Addie spotted the orange face meowing
Eyes wide, looking down, while our necks bent up
And did you know fire trucks don’t rescue kittens,
A myth from curious George (like how easy it is
To grow an avocado tree, I might add) and everyone said
It will come down on its own
But poplar branches are very spread out
And she’s so high up there,
And my girls asked what if she doesn’t?
I said she might not make it.
They froze and asked what I meant.
Shit I thought.
Maybe I should have lied,
Told them the cat got down in the night
and let their minds forget
Their hearts to release the grip of worry
One has towards sorrowful eyes begging for help.
Why didn’t I think to lie?
Maybe it’s because we’re five days into a virus
We’ve been wary of for the last two years
Maybe it’s because my head hurts from coughing
And trying to be a good parent
Or maybe it’s because the world is a mess
A war abroad, bombs dropped on schools
And here in our country grandparents
Were shot down in a grocery store
And fourth graders torn apart by bullets in their classroom
And that was only one week
And everyone hates each other
And women don’t own their bodies again,
And racist men in fur vests are getting away with
Murder – of democracy, of decency, of ideas
We thought were true but maybe aren’t
And all the while
Our planet is dying dying dying
So maybe none of it matters
And maybe the weight of all of this
-Which I try to keep from the dreams of my babies
For now
While I can -
Made death too ubiquitous to ignore,
And if my kids had to accept something horrible
A cat seems manageable
Until you hear its desperate meows
Reaching from the tree
Where you stand on the ground
Helpless.
Hoping.
But helpless.
Telling your kids to brace themselves
In case she doesn’t make it.
A Writer
Once, I thought 40 was old,
laughing at expensive face cream
as teenagers do.
I wrote thirsty poems
mostly about oceans
and best friends
and my grandparents.
When I was in college,
my pen poured into notebooks
about love
and music
and who I was
and dreams of my soul.
Those notebooks are long ago
filled up, paper wrinkled with the
trial and error of when
I thought I was an adult.
Now, I buy expensive face cream
[if it’s on sale],
and I write about oceans
and mountains
and my grandparents
and grief and anger and joy and magic.
Once, I thought 60 was old,
but now I wonder
what I will write then
and seventy
and eighty
and ninety.
By then I think
that’s when it will get
really interesting, and
I’ll be laughing about
expensive face cream
again.
Miracle
sometimes I think
the world is dying
and other times
my eye catches
a smooth sphere of dew
resting on top
of a single blade of grass,
reflecting color light sky
perfectly round
a drop of miracle so small
it reminds you
that some things
are too vast to grasp
because otherwise
you lose
what made it beautiful
in the first place
Farmhouse
Farmhouse, chic? Lawd,
bless their hearts.
Farmhouse ain’t chic – clean white walls, minimal and square, it’s
cracks and caulk, crooked doors and bursts of painted
colorful crabs, odes to geese and waterlilys and heritage.
Succulents in every corner? Sweetie, have you seen zinnias from the side garden,
Smelled gardenias and Queen Ann’s lace that my mama used to pull over to clip
on the roadside, and camellias still crawling with ants lost in the vivid pink and deep reds
that burst from the sandy soil, lantana pouring upward and azaleas chest-high.
A farmhouse sure ain’t white furniture with new not-even-real-wood meant to look old,
It’s a kitchen table made from the hard planks of the old pecan tree, black blemishes
like freckles, from decades ago, and the navy blue cushioned rocker that rides low, gooseneck
arms curved under while we rock and story tell after dinner
while fuzzybills buzz at the window and frogs bellow in the yard.
I’ve smelled them citrus candles, but I guess they don’t make candles scented like
collard greens or shrimp boils, when the farmhouse smells like gatherings,
meals too big, and a little bit of old tucked in the nooks and crannies, and laundry that was dried on the
line, a breeze billowing out the sheets, towels rough against your skin.
They don’t get it, that a farmhouse is lived in, worn in, worn down,
a workshop in the shed for what’s broke,
sunsets from the kitchen window while dinner cooks
and generations of little feet and old hands
who growed up loving these walls
and the stories they hold.
Winter
Everything is brown
the trees naked, skinny, casting long shadows
that stretch over dull grass, dotted with bits
of old leaves and muddy patches where
too much rain has left it bare
and brown, and even the sky fades
early to dimmer hues, like the earth
is subdued into a neutral quiet
which can feel oppressively empty
sometimes.
But
Underneath,
Colors
Grow
in deep soil hidden
in the warmth of a fire
in the wool of a sweater
in the lap of a mother
reading to her child
burrowed down
Within
Hibernating
until the green
is ready
to emerge
when it’s time.
The world may look barren,
but underneath,
Her soul is alive.
Yours
Is
Too.
Press your heart.
Do you feel it?
Creekside
You’ve changed, I tell her.
She laughs.
Have you grown? I ask.
It’s not really a question. She has.
You have, too, she replies.
I laugh and pat my widening waist.
Not that, she says with a gentle curved smile.
I know what she means.
Grown? I wonder to myself. Have I?
I’m not the same.
I point out what’s different about her,
since last time.
Her shape — You move differently, I observe.
We all shift, she answers. That’s how it goes.
She shrugs her shoulders this way and that,
Nonchalant. Comfortable. Beautiful.
I’m sorry I forgot to visit, I think out loud.
I forget how much easier I breathe near her.
She hears me and the sound of her voice
still welcomes me in.
I know, she answers. But
you always come back.
I say I need to bring my kids more
so they can know you.
Find comfort in you.
The bark is rough against my spine
as I watch her, thankful.
She rolls along, her waters always moving,
casting light this way and that
curving around the bend
wrapping around the weight of worries
and washing it all away
until I’m left,
just me again.
Little Brother
She pushes an empty swing,
counting out loud
by ones, fives, tens
because counting by twos is still a little bit tricky
but counting is among her favorite things to do.
Are you pushing a pretend baby?
her teacher playfully asks.
No, she answers. It’s Abram.
My brother.
She doesn’t know that when he was born,
his feet were impossibly small,
only slightly bigger than a twinkling light
like the ones on strands wrapped around
our Christmas tree,
which now glows
as I write
and remember
losing him.
But she knows he was loved.
She doesn’t understand
stillbirth
but she understands
what it means
to push a swing that looks
empty
while in some world, her brother
can feel her sturdy hands on his back,
-does he hear her counting,
the sweet silliness in her voice? –
his feet bare and shaped
like his dad’s,
toes framed against
the other side of the sky.
Clams
It was surprisingly comfortable
Belly on the sand, looking
into the small pool we’d just made
where a purple and white clam shell
my son had named Mister lay
while our noses hovered over
the clear water, everything
a little magical underneath.
Only if you wait and watch,
a small being peeks out enough
to catch hold of the sand
and inch down, burrowing,
tiny movement by tiny movement
eventually nestled
between grains of sand.
And for a while, we laid there
a calm while we waited
content while he dug
the simplicity of witnessing
a small creature live.
This one was published in 2021 Crosswinds:
Anger
Gardens are overused metaphors,
cliches stitched on pillows, printed
on hand towels for grandmas;
Certainly too obvious for poets,
distinguished and refined,
their sowing of words more unique
than a mere shovel and some dirt.
But I am not distinguished nor refined,
So perhaps I can wonder which plant is
my anger.
An obvious weed or maybe just something
ugly and useless.
And then I wonder, maybe it is not a plant
but the disease that crawls up the bark
like the bore of our ash tree,
its canopy dwindling,
heavy limbs like Halloween silhouettes,
slow death to what was once green.
Saved only by a kind tree guy
who talked to us in the rain
about intravenous medicine
which could save its growing branches
and generous shade
and rings written within.
Could be.
Or is anger the autumn leaves
that our wise trees simply let go –
weightless once they are released,
back to the ground
to make room
for the next season.
But I look at the yellows and oranges,
the intricate lacing of red through a maple leaf
and think no,
this cacophony of colors cannot represent anger.
I decide that questions and answers often
blend anyway until they become
what we need.
My garden may not be a cliché after all,
rather a space around and above and under
me, a place to wonder
where and how I will put down
the weight of anger.
An Ode to Season’s Change
Blossoms bursting out in pinks and purples like
my daughter on her first day of kindergarten
as if to yell flamboyantly I’M HERE, BABY
springing fresh life into our gaze
that had been hungering for it
through the grey
and brown
and cold.
I really don’t love country songs, twangy
mostly matching melodies about
sun and sand and swimming holes
and beer and red white and blue
but I do love fireworks and
an evening that smells
like the grill, fireflies
and the ocean, waves
of cool peace.
But god damnit it’s the end of October
The heat still beating on the streets,
steam rising after only five minutes
of rain, and I just want that chill,
that crisp, the feeling of needing
to put on a sweater.
When the air isn’t so thick,
not so heavy or humid,
And change whispers
at the edge of leaves.
We’re all craving that cool morning,
The kind that doesn’t melt an hour later
But lingers and deepens to frost,
encourages a fire in our hearth,
Maybe a soup for dinner,
A reassurance that we’re all
about to ground down
and hibernate, just for a bit
Just while it’s cold.
But mostly I’m nervous these cravings are fading
to nostalgia and hindsight and sorrow,
While our planet burns
And fall does not come.
