6 Year Old Son in Blue Jeans

He comes, my son,
across the room,
in old blue jeans
with 6 year old curls.

Tongue eagerly
searching the pockets,
of two front teeth,
seeking their ancient occupants.

His lilting voice
trips across the air,
and lands,
insides my ‘mothers’ ears.

 Instantly weaving
 their way
 into my consciousness,
alighting the old tune.

A question places
itself between us.
I pause at the crest,
before I answer.

Certain
I will go to him,
to join the melody,
we’ve practiced
for so long.

In these Days of Glory

I signed your contract
Right off the med line.
Anything for you, I said I’d do.

Show me how, I’ll mark it twice.
Show me where, I’ll roll the  dice.
Take me to edges, I’ll hang on ledges.
I’ll give it all to you,
for a moment  in your Grace.
I never thought, I never thought.

At the bottom of the bucket,
What’s left to give?
At the end of the road,
What’s left to live?

I signed your contract,
Right off the med line.
How long is the road?
How much is the load?
In these days of glory?

A Mothers's Morning

A mother moves about the silent house

and under the stairs.

The kids are on the bus,
counting their pencils.

Echoes reverberate off porous walls,
as the sound of her children’s voices
seep through the plaster,
and set themselves into the records of her soul.

Will I always remember who I am
when you are gone?

Was I here before you arrived?

She plunges her hands,
into warm, soapy water,

to wash the morning dishes.

Falling off the Shelf

From the shelf,

books tumbled with teachers,

praying in the pews.

Philosophy came apart,

and grammar from grade school,

burst open.

I had to give away my library,

and clean up.

When the floor grew shiny,

I could only see music

in my reflection.

From the Bottom of the Well

There is no up
or down
or out.

There are walls of cold, wet bricks
and the sound of droplets
one by one
plunking on the surface
of the still pot in which you dwell.

The air is still.
You can hear your breath
echoing
in the emptiness.
You dare not speak,
as if the sounds
will break open
your frozen ears.

You gaze into the light above
and wonder
from where you came
and where you are going
while you dwell
in the bottom of the well.

Warriors and Angels, Mothers and Sons

I've been a mother of three for nine years now.  You'd think I would have the hang of it by now. It’s 9PM, two in bed, one to go.  Curled into a ball, tears spilling from my eyes, I lied next to my six year old son, as I did every night, and told him not to be afraid.

"Of what?" he seemed genuinely surprised, but unusually quiet.

"Of a mother who cries all the time." I murmured, as I stifled little catches in my throat, like an old outboard with a broken choke, sputtering across a lake,  embarrassed to be seen amongst the more worthy craft.

We laid there a few minutes in the dark. His meek body seemed so vulnerable. I tried to do motherly things, kiss his head, fluff his pillow, pull the covers up over his shoulders.

He was reaching for me, I sensed; the mom he used to know. The one who read books every night, invented special signs only we knew, memorized the lines of his favorite movies and sang special songs. The one who could make him laugh.

I laid my hand on him. I knew mothers should do this; offer comfort somehow. My hand settled into the shape of his hip. The bone there was distinct, yet delicate, beautifully curved and filled with space. Living, breathing space, it seemed to me. Space filled with a living breathing life force, which I was somehow,  partially responsible for bringing into this world. He sighed slightly at my touch, settled.  I could sense the rise and fall of his ribcage and chest as he rode his breath.

Simultaneously, I felt myself rising in exaltation of having the esteemed honor and complete privilege of being chosen to be the sole female on the planet to have birthed and then assigned watch over this magnificent collection of breath, bones and undeniable life. At exactly the same time, plunging straight into the depths of my heart,  was an arrow of recognition that I could never, ever, have enough grace in my gaze to reflect back the rays of illumination that shined so brilliantly from his gentle soul.

I wiped tears from my face as I padded across the bedroom,  and wondered if warriors ever grew wings or angels learned to fight.

The Plants will Teach You Everything!

“The plants will teach you of everything” she whispered.

If you listen with ears of tenderness,
and eyes sentimental,

They will tell you stories,
of all the ways you can be free.


Their voices lift, together in song for each ray of sun that warms their backs,
and bow humbly to the drops of rain that seep into their roots.

At night, they tell secret stories to each other of the prizes of the day,
and play quiet symphonies under the silvery rays of mother moon.

The wind tickles their leaves into dance,
as they giggle in flight.

When the sun slips behind the curtain,
they lay their soft petals down,
sure they are safe.

Each morn’ they rise with laughter in their hearts,
for the breaking of the dawn,


And bow their heads,
to the grace of twilight.


They stand firm and noble for the passerby’s,
and let snowflakes dangle on their arms.


They grow up and down and gracefully offer their leaves,
to the forest floor, certain they can trust
all that they are.

Sometimes they softly weep together,
for the gentle way the soft earth holds their toes.


You can learn their hidden language,
in the silent spaces of the forest.

Make Room for the Wind

Have you left a crack,

in all that you believe?

So slippery women,

can drift into your dreams?

When you gathered your army,

did you tell them all the news?

Have your full breaths

been measured in rows of numbers,

marching up the wall?

Trees will line the forests,

to teach you not to fall.

Sturdy branches swaying

in Her soundless, windless call.

Did you make room in your mind

for the wind today?

My Pedestal

I impress myself
with cleverness,
ends justify the means.

Seed sprout forth
from my wise words,
I water with my smile.

I paint pictures
fair and gold,
struck by my pretty pen.

I scribe fine stories
far an old,
with imagery and led.

I mastermind
a master plan,
so they can be set free.

Did I forsake
the human soul,
lying in its bed?

I wonder
every now and then,
if hearts can really meet?

Inside the
brilliant words I say,
impressed upon my seat.