Poem

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Shoebox Poetry: Blurry Eddie

You carve our names “E+K”
into the ancient oak behind
your daddy’s church in hopes
I’ll see, but I’ve grown 
tired of playing your endless

games. My drawers overflow with
your teeny-tiny top-secret 
messages penned on newspaper scraps—
“I miss you,” “meet me
behind the old Bulto Market,”

and “kiss me, dearest Kate,
I’m dying for you.” Just
words. I need more than
blue-eyed winks and brief
hidden embraces. My love needs

sunshine—warm, bright, radiating fire
so vibrant it can’t be
stoppered or hidden. Explosive volcano
love, running thick down our
bodies. Popcorn love, loud hot

buttery passion devoured with both
hands. Instead, you give me
your blurry photograph standing at
301 Caroline Street, our secret
kissing place. You write in

sweeping curvy letters “this is
not very clear, but it’s 
still me. Eddie.” Blurry love
is what you offered, thinking 
I’d accept, but I deserve

someone who wants our love
to be broadcasted, shouted, screamed
into the streets. Bullhorn loud
love. Free to be me
love. So, I chased you

onto the old bridge, calling
out through hot tears, “choose 
all of me or none 
of me.” The bright moonlight 
stretched my dark shadow so 

it covered you entirely as 
you walked away without looking 
back. My young love never
wavered, but yours wasn’t brave
enough to fight. It’s funny

now, finding your thoughtless dare
scrawled in ink, “see how
long you can keep this.”
I kept it forever, blurry
Eddie. Not for you, though

for me.

I stayed in focus.


Shoebox Poetry: This is the second poem in my series based on an old box of photos I inherited when my grandmother died in 2004. I don’t have any idea who Eddie was, but I wanted to rewrite a possible old love story as a moment of empowerment for my grandmother. She was a fierce woman and I like to think she kept this photograph as a reminder of her strength. If someone out there happens to know Eddie, sorry. This is pure fiction and I’m sure he is/was a lovely man.

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Shoebox Poetry: Sunday Pose

pictures on sundays
wearing pure white
pearls, flowers, smiles

but not before

we wash in the family tub
first dad and then my ten brothers
then mother
then me
        cold
        dirt
        shame
        s i n
it absorbs deep into 
        my   soft skin
        my   thick blood
        my   frail bones
leaving me scabbed
broken apart
dirtier than before
but mother covers it all with white

smile, she says
but I’m thinking of willow trees
carving my name with a sharp knife
pomegranate juice running down my chin
screaming at the stars

straighten up, she says
but I’m thinking of foggy forests
walking barefoot through mossy earth
honey dripping from my fingertips
bathing in the moonlight

be sweet, she says
but I’m thinking of roaring waves
sunlight on freckled shoulders
seaweed stuck between toes
salt water taffy kisses

be quiet, she says
but I’m thinking of throwing things
messy hair and dirty fingernails
cadmium yellow, ultramarine blue
painting my own life

but not before

pictures on sundays
wearing pure white
pearls, flowers, smiles

Shoebox Poetry: Last week I rediscovered an old box of photos I inherited when my grandmother died in 2004. This poem is the first in a series of poems using those images as inspiration. Today’s photo is of my grandmother as a young woman. There is no date, but the sweeping handwriting on the back says “Kate, Gill St.” And yes, she told me her entire family bathed in the same water every Sunday before church. Can you even imagine?

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Poetry: Softness

my body does not understand
reacting with sharp vibrant stabs
singing fight or flight ballads
—do or die chorus numbers
where kids say teary goodbyes
under too-far-away stars
under wet weeping willow trees
under rich dark black soil
under sadness turned into madness
—my wounded heart finally stops

no, I tell the flowers
that’s not the real story
not yet anyway, not now
—curving pink petals nod agreement
where hummingbirds take small sips
under muted late February sun
under thick cotton candy clouds
under pale white peach blossoms
under folded tissue paper cranes
—my healing heart grows stronger

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Poetry: Daffodil

sleepy round bulbs wake
as straight green arrows
tipped in bright yellow
aimed at the sky

you ask me questions
teary-eyed, red-cheeked
as sunlight paints stripes
across our bare feet

without answers, I deflect
making tiny clover bouquets—
thankful treasures fit for
all the garden fairies

we hold hands as
spring’s regal heralds rise
unfurling their tucked beauty—
sun within a sun

we dilly-dally dance
dreaming of hammock naps
doves building new nests
sweet lil strawberry babies

we stuff our pockets
with tomorrows and tomorrows
while hummingbirds dart by
and fresh raindrops fall

Our first daffodil opened this week and it inspired this short poem. I hope you enjoyed it.

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Poetry: The Man to See

he calls my daughter Annie Oakley
placing a BB gun in her small hands
“you got this, girllll” he croons
channeling his inner John Wayne

bravery shines in her blue eyes
as the line of empty cans fall
he tells her she can do anything

seeing man
the man to see

busy hands covered in silver rings
he builds a house in the backyard
a place for his daughter to play
he hangs a horseshoe over the door

I grow up within the wooden walls
dancing with my best friend
knowing he would protect us

tinker man
the man to see

you don’t leave his house
without a pocketful of treasure
a genuine rock from Mars
jewels and books and toys

each item has a tall tale
he’ll tell you if you listen
with a joke and a wink

storyteller man
the man to see

he taught me to fish at 10
with wrinkled moving hands
years later he taught my son
the same casting tricks

he loved my cooked beans
and always made me smile
I’ll forever be one of Earl’s girls

gentle man
the man to see

This poem is a tribute to my childhood best friend’s father who passed recently at 92. I was only a small part of his long life, but he left a big impact on me and my children.

We love you, Earl.

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Poetry: The Door

Syn stands softly illuminated
in the shadowy doorway
between our worlds. “My
child,” she says soothingly

sweeping stray strands away
from wet cheeks. Tenderness
drips thickly—honey-sweet
sympathy for mortals stuck

between justice and wintery
injustice. Her pale eyes
see what fleeting control
looks like—its slippery

eel texture slithering deep
below angry waters. Desperate 
hands grasping slimy weeds 
pulling pulling pulling toward 

bright metamorphosis or crimson 
death. Knowledge lays within
clear moonlit waves, torn
by ravenous ravens screaming

mine, mine, mine. Ancient
battles. Wood grains worn
from violent pounding, brass
doorknobs forcibly turned. Set

against it, Syn pushes
back. Roaring, she melts
man’s killing machines, burning
trigger fingers, plucking prideful

plumage, tearing it apart
piece by piece. No
mercy for hateful truth
slayers—Syn doesn’t forget

weeping mothers or irate
fathers who hide clenched
fists behind unshaven blank
faces. “Be still,” she

whispers, standing inside cracked
door frames, palms held
in silent prayer. Forever
guarding mortals from ourselves.

*Syn is the Norse goddess of watchfulness, truth, and doorways. She guards the door of the Fenislar (Friggs palace) refusing entrance to those unworthy. This poem is my latest attempt at processing the injustice around gun laws and mass shootings.

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Poetry: Inside the House

through multi-colored glass
down simple carpet floors
white walls turn brass
tears transform into doors

shadow trees grow there
lightening flowers do too
whispers come for repair
howling monsters to spew

creaking boards hold ache
light bulbs illuminate pain
rafters rattle and shake
trauma flows like rain

lose yourself, my child
within safe caring walls
connect with inner wild
listen to phoenix’s calls

for inside healing house
nothing stays for long
come in quiet mouse
leave brave lion strong

*This poem was inspired by a comment left on my blog by Grounded African and is dedicated to everyone attempting to enter a building like this to heal and connect in therapy, especially my darling daughter. May you find your way through the dark.

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Poetry: Strawberry Tree

You’ve lived nestled along
our side fence—undiscovered
until now. Touching your
water-soaked trumpet flowers
I marvel at how

perfect you are. Why
didn’t I see your
blushing bright cardinal-red 
berries as more than
background noise? How could

I miss your intoxicating
honey-rich smell? Ancient
Rome called you good
luck charms, could you
be what I’ve searched

for—an answer disguised
as hidden treats plopped
into my aching hungry 
mouth? Gritty, muted treasures—
arbutus gems. Help me

truly

see.

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Poetry: Bath

I’m an island jutting
out—warm fleshy curves
dotted by bright sparkling
water drops. Sinking beneath

calm seas, breath moves 
as rhythmic ocean waves
I control. My hand
twists through dark, tangled

seaweed while steady drums
beat, beat, beat—soundtrack
of me. Moonlit skies
fill with phoenix song

promising protection from sea
monsters pressing sharp claws
into soft skin. Foggy
dreams dance with wild

wind, whispering gentle truths
sometimes forgotten. I’m an
island jutting out—carving
a place my own.

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Poetry: Grandma Kate

I was far too small 
to reach the dusty glass 
jars stacked on the wooden 
shelves of your garage. I’d
skate by wondering what orange

or yellow or green meant
and if you’d teach me
your secrets. I outgrew wanting
to know before your mind
forgot all the things—including 

me. It’s been 17 years 
since you left without meeting
your great-grandchildren and now
I wonder if my persimmon
jam would fit beside yours.