Poetry

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poetry: transmogrify me

i’ve been to this beach before
but i’m thinking of that one
time when i cried into the wind 
begging spirits to save my trapped
soul and something answered. not mermaid

goddesses wrapped in shimmery light, but
a sea hag draped in foggy 
sadness. “you want out?” she hissed
through cracked lips. i nodded feeling
the air leave my lungs. slippery

quick, an eel through water, my
knees buckled as knarled hands placed 
a rotted seaweed crown upon my 
matted hair. “i deserve nothing but
pain,” i managed to say. manic

laughter roaring with the waves, calling
me a liar. red-bearded pirates
pointed rusty blades at my pale
neck. i ran. and ran. for
years. and years. jellyfish growing fat

within my belly. sharp spiny barnacles
grow under my breasts and between 
my thick thighs. ice forming heavy
around my heart, protecting soft
starfish memories from spilling. but now

oh now

my seaweed crown is slipping. walking
in my old footsteps, i sing
“you are special” under my breath
wondering if i believe. a lilting
voice joins mine and I follow

into a narrow rocky cave. here
a siren gently whispers seashell songs
which vibrate through my body, rocking
me like golden sunset waves. warm
fingers find my face. “you are 

loved,” she sings. “time to forgive
yourself.” salty tears fall from hazel
eyes as slimy seaweed slips onto
the cold sandy ground. i see 
not her beautiful garments nor her

phosphorescent glow, but feel her spinning 
me around. and around. strong hands 
pluck hardened crusty foulers from
my body and smashes them hard onto 
the uneven stone walls. powder turns 

powerful. light burns brighter. i shudder
as the foggy vines the sea 
witch weaved deep within me unwind
faster. and faster. healing. releasing. forgiving.
without a word, the siren leaves.

lavender flowers fall around me. “goodbye”
i say under the golden sky.
four sandpipers watch me walk across
the beach. lighter. they don’t run
but i do. time starts again.

sandpiper friends.

my cave.

the view looking out from the inside of the cave. do you see the siren?

Note: I celebrated my birthday today by spending hours wandering the beach taking photos and writing poetry. I hope you enjoy this poem of healing and that it helps you too.

The song I was singing is “Special” by Lizzo. Watch the music video. It will do your heart some good.

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Poetry: hi, mom

he climbs tall swaying trees
all the way to the top. i eat
handfuls of unsalted almonds
with bites of banana while reading
book after book. sun-kissed, my
toes press into the soft green
grass. freckled shoulders out. “hi 
mom,” he calls. i wave back
all smiles. my naive trust
easily covers fear. i lean into

full moons, rainbow wishes, fairy
protectors. i believe my love
will shield him from harm. but
it doesn’t. once. and then twice.
i drink sugary coffee in hospital
rooms while staring at tiny bright
screens. shoulders slumped. “hi
mom,” he calls beneath many
bloody bandages. with a fake
smile i tell him everything will

be okay. home. darkness. healing
comes. i sneak candy nightly
hoping it will shrink fear. it 
doesn’t. my body swells. aches. 
i pull away from everyone. hiding
panic with manic activity. secretly
building giant blame barriers. “hi
mom,” he calls but i don’t hear
him. i don’t want to. walls protect
right? but i am lonely in my padded

cell. sunshine bursts through swaying
trees. they miss him too. but fear
stopped the climbing. we circle
each other arguing. forgetting nose
kisses but not bloody faces. time
moves so fast. too fast. his blue cap 
and gown sits on my dresser. “hi
mom,” he says. i listen. we eat
seedy crackers while our shoulders
touch. can trust regrow after fear?

Note: I’m attempting to use poetry as part of my healing process. I will return to short stories and the Shoebox Poetry series soon. Thank you for reading and supporting me during this transition time. It’s long overdue.

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Shoebox Poetry: The Field

what if the calling crows think you are
a makeshift scarecrow built for chasing
them away from their dreams? will they
peck at you with sharp beaks so far from
my grasp? will I be able to run fast enough
to save you? the shifting rice tells me
to take a deep breath. this isn’t a cornfield
and the cranes won’t hurt you. but grey
skies mean trouble so run to me anyway
my boy. mother needs you in her arms.

Shoebox Poetry: This is the fourth poem in my series based on an old box of photos I inherited when my grandmother died in 2004. The back of this photo reads “Gary in rice field Nov ’53.” It’s a photo of my dad, but it made me think of my own boy. He turned 18 in December and is finishing high school in a few months. This poem poured out instantly along with some tears. I guess I have some feelings.

Here are the other poems in the series if you missed them:

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Shoebox Poetry: Spring Flowers

I am dancing yellow flowers
moss growing on a cracked boulder
dragonfly battles waged through cattail forests
sleeping rocks tucked beneath rotted boards
wide-winged hawks quietly circling prey

I am daring spring sunshine
fields of green miner’s lettuce wet with dew
twisted trees reflected in muddy puddles
colorful floral crowns skipping around a maypole
teeny tiny frogs in a toddler’s hand

I am dandelion fluff wishes
bubbles caught in a spiraling spider web
fat white clouds pressing through a rainbow
afternoons spent reading in a hammock
soft rabbits hiding among wild buttercups

I am lively starry jubilation
moon struck open-armed happiness
deep water thick-boned delight
galaxy swirling sweet poetry madness
freckle-faced daisy ringed freedom

Shoebox Poetry: This is the third poem in my series based on an old box of photos I inherited when my grandmother died in 2004. I love the joy in this photo and I hope my words match its beauty and grace. Happy first week of spring!

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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: First Friend

We don’t have an origin
story, for we met before
memories form. Two little girls
living across a curved court

named after a man. Pigtailed
dancing dolls, we played through
seasons until one day you
moved and I learned heart-

break. Although I saw your
plane fly away, I looked
in all our hiding places
for you. I’ve never stopped

looking. Time has brought us
together over and over—but
we always lose each other
in the mess. Will this 

time be different? I need
it to be. You see,
I’m tired of playing pretend—
saying I’m okay when broken

bits of me want only
to be seen. You hugged
me tighter this time—do
you need me too? Can

we take off our masks
and find our old hiding
places again? Can we swim
together in secrets and show

each other the magical ways
we have survived? Grab my
hand yet again and let’s
run toward the setting sun

together.

*This was written after seeing my childhood friend at a funeral last weekend and never wanting to let her go. Thank you for making sure we made a date to get together. I can’t wait.

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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.