Category: Poetry
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Come take your toll
The pollen has been making my eyes droop.Sleepily I tend to sections of itin clumps.Chickadees and woodpeckersand yellow-bellied warblersare indifferent and happy. You say, “You can’t tell me what to do,”as I sign for the check,“But I’d actually like it if you did.” On that dreary Monday,we stack carnationson top of one anotherwhite and red…
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whimsies
My cheeks are hot againanger swirling and buildinglike the involuntary pathI take to the top of a pile of rocks.The view of jagged tree limbs anda pond in need of rain andwheatgrass and palms and pine needlesaren’t satisfying enough to pull mefrom the empty cans of hard ciderno doubt from a restless group of teens.Rejection…
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february snow moon
in my left handa green anjou pear,slightly bruised,still believingthe first bite will besweet and soft and wet.sunglasses and keysdangle from careless fingersthat grab too muchin impatience.earlier, I had watchedtwo anhingas diveand swimand furl and unfurl their long necks,trying to remember their nickname:snakebirdwhich is exactly what it looks likeuntil it flies with its companionto the droopiest…
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Spill
I peel the sticky gel snowflakesoff the front windowand notice them in the break-room trashcanfor the rest of the day.Before this,the contents of my coffeeswam in swirls on the countertop,ice scattered through it,and I marked it as the first spill of 2026.A colleague says, “Off to a graceful start, are we?”and my teeth grit together…
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Antechamber
Greetings! from this sealed chamber.I’ve made it tolerably nice in here. You’d never guessI spend the days wonderinghow long I’ve existedwithout you. It’s decent of you to finally decide to open the latch. Did you noticeI put fresh linens over here?And this fragrance that lingers under the oils of pulse points. Won’t you sweep through…
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Last Nine Days of Poetry Sedation
I left poetry books everywhere. On top of the washing machine and on end tables and bookshelves, not stacked neatly.
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Seven Days of the Sealey Challenge
I diligently read and became entranced by Heather Christle’s The Trees The Trees. Oh, how I saw myself in her roots and her ruthlessness.
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Fortune July
on the Fourth of July, familial love, & joy, despite awareness of broader societal issues.
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why’s it always a weather metaphor? 🎧
on nuanced exploration of hope and anticipation amidst a heavy, silent sky.
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Altocumulus 🎧
on emotional tethering and the nature of feelings and CLOUDS.