Poetry

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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: Roots

*trigger warning: mentions self harm

Cover her new scars
with your hand. Softly
remind her of monkey 
bars—how she magically

turned fear into calloused 
palms. It all seemed
simple then, tending those 
wounds. Band-aids, hugs, mommy

kisses. But you can’t 
help the same way—
palms have grown. Stars
have shifted. Instead, tell

her about rooted madness—
about pulling yourself free 
from ancient bloody soil
with trembling fingers. How

hope once flowed away
from you as fast
as a river, but
you didn’t drown. You

survived. Give her crystal
pools of fresh moon 
water, whirling seed pod
wings. Give her permission

to root herself differently—
for her path doesn’t
have to resemble grandmother’s
or great-grandmother’s or

anyone. Kiss her wounds
still. Let her sink
deep into your safe
ground and fall into

your familiar warmth. Sing
honey songs—bumble bee
whispers, fairy wings. Believe
her. Touch her scars

with sacred knowing fingers—
remind her not all
scars are visible. Wrap
her in thick layers

so strong she can
stand in any soil—
firmly rooted. For when 
harsh cold winter winds

bring hoards of lying
fanged monsters to roar
and rage and tear—
she’ll hear your voice

reminding her of small
hands on monkey bars—
how she magically turned
fear into calloused palms.

  • My daughter gave me permission to share this very personal poem.
  • “Roots” is inspired by “Whipping” by K.D. Harryman
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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.

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Poetry: Frosty

Crystalized tears form soft
uneven lines around youthful
forgiving skin. Bright veins 
turn brittle, trapped beneath 
unspoken truths—too many

days passed under harsh
sunlight. Hollow flowery voices
drowned out by chickadee
songs erupt into icy
frozen maps leading lost

souls nowhere. Glowing warmth
melts away glassy biting
shards—pieces of us
grown frigid. Numbed by
quiet moonless nights, we’ve

wilted.

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Poetry: Mr. Willowby

weathered, treasured pages
lit twinkling lights
childhood has stages
measured in Christmas nights 

rollicking, frolicking fire
child-led merrymaking
favorite book magnifier
for a mother’s heartbreaking

old family traditions
wee bit oversized
find new conditions
for love to crystalize

sharp scissors snip
trimming the top
recast as partnership
family love doesn’t stop

*Inspired by the family’s favorite Christmas book “Mr. Willowby’s Christmas Tree” and my need to learn flexibility as my son turns 18 this month.