• Stormy Days, a poem.

    Introduction

    There’s something cozy about when the skies turn gray and the darkness closes in. The midnight hour comes at noon and we watch as the sky lights up with brilliant white streaks.

    It isn’t so much the weather, as it is the warmth of feeling safe and protected while water pours from the sky raging in Mother Nature’s lair knowing I have the provisions to weather this storm – food, water, shelter, warmth, electricity, company.

    Above all the company reminds me I am safe, and even if safety is threatened, I am happy, because I am not alone. We will go through this storm together. We will feel the feels together. We will ride it out together.


    Living alone.
    I found myself shuddering
    in great fear beneath my stairwell,
    trembling with the might of a woman
    who feared harm to self
    or animals, all while listening to the trees
    falling down around my home. The wind
    carrying it’s own burden along the path
    of tornado alley. Choking on my heart
    I barricaded the stairwell - locking dogs, cats,
    myself within a the closet under the stairs
    while contemplating why I bought a house
    without a basement in the midwest.

    Today, the storm rages within
    rather than without - hail pelts
    my heart bruising my arteries
    as I watch the cloudy sky for
    signs of danger, seeing none,
    leaving nothing to chance.

    In the next room, I have
    something different. Something necessary.
    I have people. People who care.
    People who do not feel the storm
    as it wars both within the walls,
    and without. People who look
    at the sky, and see clouds, not
    the violence hidden within.

    People.

    People who remember the storm
    is just a storm and not just an ending to
    your story.


    Final Thoughts

    When I was younger I liked thunderstorms. The invincibility of youth kept me safe and braver than I should ever have been. Somewhere along the way I grew up and learned we are not invincible. People die. People die from horrible things. Our loved ones die. Now I look at the storm differently, as a wild, uncontrollable thing that threatens our safety. What once felt peaceful, now becomes terrifying. While having company around helps, the fear is real. While peace is hard to find in the thunder these days, I do have people. People who don’t feel the fear I do, and that helps. Sometimes that helps a lot, other times I sit in my stairwell and tremble.

  • Therapy Days, a poem.

    it is difficult to remember
    what to tell the counselor.

    what story to share –

    what day was had –

    when you open your mouth
    and find the words
    you babble like a child
    forgotten are the good times
    embraced are days of dark
    the therapist gives you a technique
    that you nod encouragingly over,
    in agreement with the plan
    two hours later you have forgotten
    what you were supposed to learn
    and are wondering how
    you got it all so wrong

    it is difficult to remember
    what to tell the counselor.

    sometimes the words roll off the tongue
    sometimes we blunder through a session
    sometimes were scared to tell the truth

    we don’t like to hear
    something may be wrong with us
    we don’t like to know
    we are just like everyone else
    we don’t like to see
    our life’s reflection
    shining back at us
    in someone else’s eyes

    it is difficult to remember
    what to tell the counselor.

    But it’s harder to live life alone.

  • Sunday Vibes, a poem.

    Spending a moment outdoors,
    to feel the sun on my skin,
    breathing the fresh dew in.
    Natures humidifier.

    Absorbing Cary Grant movies
    on Turner Classic like
    the cleaning rag soaks up suds.
    Meanwhile – I am avoiding my chores.

    I sit in my bed, crosslegged,
    blanket in my lap,
    I muse.
    I read.
    I write.
    Sometimes I scroll.

    I think.

    My body releases this week’s tension
    leaving the sun to heal the skin
    and my bed to heal the rest.
    The bathroom may remain dirty,
    but my soul –
    it has been cleansed.

  • Moody Days, a poem.

    Buried behind the clouds,
    as I am buried in blankets,
    humidity runs high and the daylight
    stays muted even with the rising of the sun.
    These are the moody days.
    When the Earth hasn’t figured out
    if it is waking up today. A burst
    of depression covers the fields,
    the forests, the lakes, and I emerge
    from my bed as if in dream state
    painted in blues and grays matching
    the picture outside of my window.
    These are the moody days.
    These are the soft days.

    These are the days we contemplate
    former lovers, past indiscretions, soak
    in ceramic tubs filled with bubbles, painting
    our fingernails pink to find a spark.
    The Saturday mornings that never end.
    These are the moody days.
    The days of lost loves, memories,
    bagels with cream cheese, and
    forgotten dreams.

  • The Quiet Noise, a poem.

    Screaming in silence
    sounds a lot like
    writing poetry in
    the local cafe where
    the coffee is black,
    or sweet and creamy,
    and the words are hushed
    between clusters of patrons
    who have no idea that
    the silent one in the corner
    is breaking down barriers
    they didn’t even know existed.

  • Evening View, a poem.

    The Setting:

    The soft whirr of a fan blasts
    a cool breeze my way.
    I let the mind wander
    and I embrace the noise
    found within. Buzzing with
    anticipatory joy for tomorrow,
    plans of making art
    after a brief hiatus
    plans of healing from an
    unwanted virus, plans even of
    obligatory chores yet to be done.
    I can still taste the red
    popsicle that cleansed my palate
    I can still feel the warmth of
    the floor lamps golden hue.
    The mind paints a song
    brilliant with color, and I
    hold the brush in my hand.

  • A Dose of Reality, a poem.

    Today I thought of you,
    not in an obsessive, sad way,
    in a way that I looked at the facts
    Of you. I thought about how you live.
    I thought about how I live.
    I concluded –
    you are not my type.
    We have little in common,
    I have no reason to love you.
    No reason at all
    to love you
    so much-
    so long.

    The heart doesn’t listen
    to my brain, I can only mute one for so long
    before the heart slips up, like a virus that takes hold
    and temporarily makes me insane. It’s okay,
    because I am growing. I am learning,
    the heart doesn’t have to be right,
    I am healing.
    The infection is coming to an end.
    I can feel my heart beat again.
    I can feel it becoming mine again.
    The vaccine is working.
    Just another dose of reality.

  • Afternoon View, a poem.

    The Setting:

    The soil turns black as rain
    pelts the ground, making it both
    fluffy and rich, a place where
    the thirsty hydrangea can prosper
    and the common yellow day Lily
    will bloom. I seek my sanctuary
    within the warm walls with subtle light
    casting its yellow hue across the pages
    of my books. Blankets and pillows crowd
    me and I snuggle amidst their beckoning
    words which seem to whisper, “Stay.”
    And so my body folds into a cradle,
    arms carefully squeezing me tight,
    and in the softest whisper I can muster
    I quietly respond, “Okay.”

  • Morning View, a poem

    The Setting:


    Honey drips from my lips
    as I bite into the buttery biscuit
    seated in a plush recliner
    dogs bark wistfully outside
    while laughter is trickling in
    soft bacon melts in my mouth
    and I open my eyes wider
    as the sun peeks over the window
    warming my legs temporarily
    as I know rain is on its way
    thoughts this morning are deep
    reflective thoughts of morning’s
    golden light and I realize I am
    dreaming with eyes wide open
    perfectly satisfied in an unsatisfactory world

  • Sanctuary, a poem.

    Light, wispy, brown and gray hairs tickle my cheeks
    as the cold whoosh of the fan chills me. I can still
    taste the bitterness of the cold that flew in,
    sitting as if king, upon his throne in my sinuses.
    The muted noise of the television barely graces my ears
    as my runny eyes seek the bookshelves adorned lovingly
    with lights, foliage, paintings, and sculptures.
    Rich with the colors of the earth, green, blue, rich browns,
    this bedroom feeds the mind even while a
    virus courses through my system. Alas, I am
    seated in the comfort of my bed, wholly one
    with my sanctuary, allowing for the pretend
    luxury of my surroundings to carry me off
    into a hopeful healing sleep.