Poetry

Poetry is language at its most distilled and most powerful.

Rita Dove

I Love to Eat

I love to eat, especially cool sweets.
When summer’s heat whispers “retreat.”
In the middle of a sweltering day
Away from my friends I do stray.
My hot, kicks-covered feet
Leave behind the blistering street
And take me to the kitchen.

I sneak a peek through the pantry door
so I can grab and quickly score
Something delicious, a frozen sweet,
An ice cream bar or other treat.
I tiptoe across the wooden floor,
I’m almost to the refrigerator door.
I’m there.

I ease open the door and see the treats.
I can almost taste the icy sweets.
My fingers stretch toward frosty bliss
I can barely wait for its cold, sweet kiss.
I love to eat, especially cool sweets
When summer’s heat has me beat.
The floor creaks.

Mom, still cooking,
without even looking,
hears my Jordans on the floor.
Says she, “I saw you creep through the door.
If you bother me while I am cooking
even just by sneakily looking,
then sweet treats for you? Nevermore.”

“Like Poe’s raven, go perch and wait
While you ponder your stomach’s fate.
There’s pasta, meatballs, and garlic bread
And hot fudge ice cream sundaes,” she said.
“But there won’t be any for sneaky sweet lovers
Who try their hardest to discover,
by hook or by crook –
A way to sneak past the watchful cook.”

Sigh! I’ll go and sweat in the sweltering heat
Without my sneaky sweet treat -because I love, love, love to eat.

10/11/25

Lizzie

Lizzie liked to mimic
What the big kids did.
They played hide and seek—
So Lizzie hid.

They crafted with glue,
And glitter in bright hues.
Lizzie had paste,
Which she lavishly used.

She smeared herself with glitter
From forehead to chin,
A masterpiece painted
On the canvas of her skin.

Lizzie wanted bangs
like her big sister had.
She needed to practice
So she practiced on Dad.

As Dad watched the game
With eyes closed tight,
Lizzie snipped and snipped
Trying to get it just right.

Then Mom, with chips and drinks, came in
And saw Dad’s hair all over the floor.
She said, in her mom-voice, “Elizabeth Ann.”
And Lizzie ran – fast- for the door.

Now, while the big kids run free
And have lots of fun
Lizzie sits on the porch, sighs,
And watches them run.

10/2/25

Lost & Found

Some things, once lost, can never be found
No matter how hard you search.
Some things slip away, their absence barely noticed,
pale smoke leaving behind a disturbance in the Force,
The faintest scent, a shadow seen only from the corner of an eye,
Air seeping from a balloon as it sinks to the floor behind the red sofa.
Some losses depart with the sharp click of a closing door.
Some things, once lost, can never be found again.

Some things, once lost, can never be found.
Childhood awe and innocence can never be reclaimed.
Desire eases away, the slow drip of a bathroom tap.
Lost trust after gaslighting is the slammed door.
Kintsugi only works on objects, not relationships.
Forgive and forget is aspirational, not real
Except in romance novels.
Some things, once lost, are gone forever.

Some things are losses but not lost.
Losses can be deliberate sacrifices:
A flat, unmarred stomach lost to motherhood,
A book lent to a pseudo-friend, both gone.
We embrace losses without knowing their true cost.
My way instead of the well-traveled road,
Opportunities whose cost we were not willing to pay.
Some losses are not lost but gone forever.

Some things refuse to be lost no matter how hard one tries.
Toxic neighbors never move, nicknames linger,
Belly fat hangs on, Pilates and pills useless.
Regrets and deathbed promises ride shoulders.
Bad behavior, even with a fixer’s help, hangs on
Like a foul substance stepped in while walking.
Someone always remembers – and tells.
Some things can’t be lost – no matter how hard one tries.

Some things can never be completely lost.
Love, like energy, only changes form.
Truth outlasts everything, even when out-of-sight, while
Alternate facts and venal politicians dissolve into footnotes.
Truth crushed to earth may rise again, if watered and fed.
Find the truth, undisguised, unvarnished, unbowed.
Do not let it be locked in the attic, silenced, because
Some things, once lost, are very hard to find.

8/23/25

A Love Song

Keepers of wisdom, older than memory,
Trees offer sweet, sweet air – and sanctuary to vulnerable souls.
They embrace the young, meeting needs not yet spoken.
They stand witness to strange fruit hung by fearful men.
They cannot turn away from truth.
Listen to their weeping and moaning.
Hear their song.

Cypress and acacia quietly perfume the air.
Majestic oaks sway and whisper.
Water pulsing through branches are heartbeats, celebrating life.
Almond, olive, maple are generous – we take them for granted.
We rest in their shade, devour their fruit, use their blood, tell them our secrets,
Carve lovers’ sigils into their rough bark. They cry quietly.
Hear their song.

Forests listen to our chatter while we ignore their wisdom.
Vulnerable to thunder’s fury, fire’s crackle, the throaty roar of saws,
Trees cannot escape; they sigh and breathe their last.
The air thickens with the bittersweet smell of death.
Unseen creatures flee or die, homeless and exposed.
Hear their song.

We indulge our wants and call it progress
We sacrifice others to our greed, the deadliest of sins.
We are all sinners, yet protecting trees is no sin.
All that remains of the forest is a handful of dust.
We look at pictures to remember what we used to walk among.
Nothing is left to sing.

9/15/25

I’m Dating a Man Who’s Married

by Aaron Smith

Death is Calling

Death is calling my name.
I see the Grim Reaper standing in the hall
Face hidden in his hood, robes still
Invisible to all but me.
Looking at me, waiting patiently
For the steady beep, beep, beep to become a shriek,
Shouts over the intercom, “Code blue.”
Running feet.
Death is calling my name.
I am not answering.

I see death and say,
Not today. I have too much to do.
Children to raise, a poem to write,
Lessons to learn, trees to grow.
Not today, death. Not today. I am not ready.
He doesn’t listen. He eases through the crowd around my bed,
takes my hand and tries to lead me out of the room.
I shake my head no, jerk back my hand and whisper
“Forget my name, I’ll call you.”
And I return to the land of the living.

8/25/25

I Make Music

My voice does not echo the pure notes of robins and wrens at dawn
Or the trill and bellow of frogs at dusk
Singing the songs of their ancestors, perfectly in tune.
I cannot mimic saxophones like Ella or Sassy
Or scat like Al or Mel
Even though they are my ancestors a few times removed.
I am no karaoke star.
I sit, eyes closed, fingers coaxing perfection from keys and strings.
My music comes from hands and heart, not throat.
Night brings a sliver of moon, twinkling stars and inky sky.
I turn. My lover is here. I find my voice – breathy, husky.
I make music.

8/25/25

Want a new poem daily? Check out poem-a-day@poets.org and subscribe.

Forgiveness

Forgiveness is a luxury I cannot afford.
It hints at acceptance, forgetfulness, obliviousness.
It closes its eyes to humiliation and pain.
I am rich in sorrow.
I made hard choices between two rock walls,
Both immovable. I had no hammer.
My name is Naamah.
Forty days and nights seem endless. I have no doves.
The rain of my weeping is now but
Clouds disperse when morning comes.

Holding on to sorrows brings familiar pain.
Who will I be? How can I let go?
Will new sorrows take their places?
Whispers my heart, “Someone new, rich in joy.”
I can afford to forgive. I must.
The burden is too great to carry further.
My shoulders are stooped, my back crooked.
It is time to stand straight, live a new life.
Forgiveness is not a luxury. It is air, water, food.
Forgive, remember, and move on.

Spring Break (a pantoum)

Maggie and I, old ladies both, stroll the midnight beach.
The cool tides foam about our feet, ins and outs.
We step carefully, shy Maggie pulling at her leash.
We avoid crowds, all ears alert for shouts.

The cool tides foam about our feet, ins and outs.
We stop. Maggie seeks Australia and starts to dig.
We avoid crowds, all ears tuned for shouts
From horseless, liquored-up posse-s, voices big.

We stop. Maggie seeks Australia and starts to dig
While rowdy almost-men in quicksand sink.
Horseless, liquored-up posse-s, voices big,
Watch nubile girls flounce, flirt, and drink.

While rowdy almost-men in quicksand sink
Blue lights and sirens come to drown out speech.
Nubile girls flounce, flirt, and drink,
Maggie and I, old ladies both, stroll the midnight beach.

It will be ours in the fall, we think.

I Do Not Care

I do not care, not today.
I do not care if I wear lipstick
Or lace that makes my tired girls look perkier
Or f*ck me shoes, a blatant invitation.
I am not looking for – or available to.
I have moved on.

I no longer care about
Who did what to whom,
Or the look on his face after,
Or what she said when she saw.
No more break room theatrics for me.
I mind my business, not theirs.

Most days I refuse the news.
I don’t want to care about what they are doing
To ruin the country.
I can’t fix this, although I tried
when I was younger. I ease back.
I am now on the downhill slope, but not at the bottom.

Now and then, I do not care
What my children are doing,
How potty training is going,
About sports, plays, or recitals
Or partners who don’t act right.
Sometimes quiet calls my name.

I am not afraid of silence.
My thoughts are enough conversation.
Even the radio is too much.
A book is better.
I watch the world go by with a smile.
Blue Emu and IcyHot are my companions.

Some days I just want to
not get dressed at all,
eat pie and coffee for breakfast, no eggs,
pet my dog and water my plants.
Just be.
I will not care, not today.

Please, thank you, wow

I say please, thank you, wow
When talking to the universe, the great spirit,
Many gods of many names.
When things are going poorly, I say please.
I do not question. Why is irrelevant.
When things are going well, I say thank you.
Wow covers everything else.
Just petition, gratitude, awe.

I say please, thank you, wow
And need no other words.

Revised 7/12/25

My Tongue Declares

I mourn the present but am not fluent in the future.
I do not live at Delphi – or in Palestine.
My tongue declares truth, and my lips loathe wickedness.

I am the Queen of cups, wands, pentacles. I am Deborah.
I am seasoned, wise, perceptive, resourceful, bitter.
I am the crone, the nurturer, the matriarch.
I bring justice, healing, tears.
Warped masculine energy brought us to now,
Boldly seeking authority, wealth, victory, power.

I mourn the present but am not fluent in the future.
I see life through clear glass, not rose-colored plastic.
I am weeping tonight, but joy may come in the morning – or not.

He said I am the victim, your retribution, god’s chosen.
I ask, What god? Whose chosen? Not mine.
Jesus does not need to seek authority, wealth, victory, or power.
False masculine energy brought us to this place,
Blustering, posturing energy now, true costs later.
Our children or theirs – pay for the sins of the old men.

I mourn the present but am not fluent in the future.
I avoid the news.
Newsreaders read, pundits pontificate, tabloids inflame.
Once we had many opinions but few facts.
Now we have commentators masquerading as oracles.

The present is tough, like cheap meat.
Boil it and it becomes tender enough to swallow – but flavorless.
What does it need? Salt. Spices. Seasoning.
Time brings the seasoning of truth.

Women mourn the loss of the future.
Forced choices, deadly labor, or painful joy
Carried within their bodies at great cost,
Forfeited on the altar of ambition and empire.

Men are not sacrificial virgins for dragons.
Men do not die bringing forth the future.
Men die seeking authority, wealth, victory, power.
I am knowledgeable in the now,
I mourn the present but am not fluent in the future.

Women pretend

Women pretend to be children.
They cross their legs to protect
What might be possible
(my mother called it possible, not vagina).
They tilt their chins toward lifted chests,
toss their hair, relax their lips, flirt with cow eyes.

Women learn to act like men:
Eyes forward, arms extended.
They lean into what can be,
Claim spaces when they sit
Like manspreading without dangly bits.
Sitting is a universal language.

Women say “yes” because
They don’t know how to say “no.”
They consent while others set their path.
They are rebellious sheep, following
While asking hard questions.
They stop. No more.

Women become adults. They have freedom.
They control their own bodies,
Occupy spaces, speak for themselves,
Speak truth to power. Become power.
Women value their lives, their time, themselves.
“No” brings freedom.

Revised 7/12/25

Magic Wands

Would people see witches as feminine, desirable women
If the wands they waved weren’t from the Potter-verse
But from Tracy’s Dog instead?

Halloween would never be the same.

Not for me a transducer, although they are magical.
Give me the Rabbit or a Hitachi from Walmart
Instead of something with a phoenix feather core
From Ollivander’s.
I want silicone, not Hermione’s vine wood,
Although a dragon heartstring wouldn’t be amiss.
Extra power has its uses.
Some wands need power words to strut their stuff.
Not mine. My wand makes me speechless.
Length, flexibility, and power are important
for the Hogwarts crowd – and me.

All women wield magic – with or without wands.
Some wands are meant for Halloween,
Others for 2 am. So mote it be.

I Hear

I see the flash and hear the sirens shriek,
I feel the boom beneath my feet.
Sound moves fast, but light is faster.
Deadly, killing fireworks.
The earthquake in the sky, missiles
Raining down, reigning over, reining in,
Ground shaking, buildings falling,
Bricks and steel tremble when they should be sentinels.
Children wailing and mothers seeking safety
That has crumbled to dust.
There is no safety plan, no meeting place
For separated families.
Not staccato like gunfire -pop, pop, pop
The crashing sounds of the world ending
Are sudden, abrupt, final.
Boom, boom, boom.
Ashes to ashes, dust to dust.
My bones tell the story of war.

Cows Have Big Brown Eyes

Cows have big brown eyes with long curly lashes
Like mascara ads.
Big pink nipples which hang, available.
Cows lean on you, follow you, soft voices communicating,
Waiting to be acknowledged, spoken to, petted.

Horses have long swishy tails and manes
Falling straight, glossy, swaying, needing to be brushed 100 strokes.
They prance, manicured hooves forward,
Lip your neck like soft porn.
Horses demand your attention. They bite.

Idealized women have big eyes with curly lashes
Ponytails men wrap around their hands as they plunder
Vulnerable necks, lips, and nipples.
And in the throes of passion, they bite.
Regency heroines in pastures.

We Will Not Save You

—On the dismantling of the Smithsonian National Museum of African American History and Culture

We will not save you this time.
We are tired, we magical negroes.
We raised you generations ago
gave our children the tired crumbs.
Now we raise our own children.
Look at what they can do!

We ran from your men while you locked ours away.
We carried your bags and your sins,
We see them in every mirror.
We have rushed to love you, forgive you
Even when you have obliterated every good thing
Tulsa, Rosewood, Mother Bethel, Museum. Goodbye.

You brought this on, necromancers.
When we tried to weed the garden, you denied us.
You fed the weeds with piles of compost.
You brought them back from the almost-dead.
If only you had listened, willful necromancers.
You refused. This is on you.

Some drink poisoned cool-aid,
deny themselves and
pretend they are not Pecola Breedlove.
Cover every looking glass,
Perform on cue, spout the party line.
“They don’t mean me.”

Respectable negroes
Kiss those pale flat butts.
Rim jobs are not limited to sex.
But you cannot see the brown stains on their faces
Even if you look.
You don’t.

Forests must burn to the ground
Before new growths can start
their slow creep toward the sun.
Tiny green shoots of hope
Peek from the ashes.
Life finds its way back, slowly.

We will not, cannot, save you this time.
We are tired, we magical negroes.
We have stopped being Sisyphus.
Let the brown-nosers burn with you
while we rock in our chairs looking at blue ceilings
knowing this, too, shall pass.

When I Was 70

When I was 70, I planted 4 trees.
Fig trees – infants, babies,
Tiny little things
In hopes that I would live to see
them become adults:
Verdant, tall, itchy white sap, sweet fruit
Filled with crunchy, honeyed seeds
Calling to birds, bees – and me.

So far they are showing promise.
I feed them and give them water
Like a social worker feeding the homeless.
Carefully doled out, then on my way.
They are survivors, living unprotected.
No tents, newspapers,
Tattered blankets, layers of scavenged clothes,
Comforted them through icy rain.

We are not Baghdad or Beirut
Tropical climes with desperate lives
Looking for protection from guns or government.
Well, at least only some of us are; the rest, not yet.
Latitude alike but very different.
We are a tropical place where tourists roam free
New graffiti blooms – a little – and
Gunshots are heard.

They grow.

When I have passed from memory
Not even a wisp of me remaining
Ashes returned to earth,
If I have done my work well
They will stand tall, leafy and fruitful,
And shelter and feed those remaining.
No one will remember that when I was 70
I planted 4 trees.

Waiting for SpaceX

I love the night, the dark, dark night.
Luna blessing with blue-white light.
Shining over azure sea.
Aqua-tipped foam runs to me.
Still shapes with wings tucked ‘til morn.
Metallic scent and plaintive horn,
Stars slyly winking while satellites hover,
I sit in the cool, robe cinched to cover
me – waiting for X to appear.
Cloudless blue sky – sight lines clear!
I strain my eyes and swivel my head.
But it doesn’t. Sigh. Off to bed.

3AM

Bitter smoke abounds.
Snap, crackle, pop. Stairs only.
Faster. Hot fire comes.

Maggie

Fantastic. She is
Black, bold, bright, brave. Bodacious
is my dog Maggie.

How Much?

A pinch of this
A smidge of that
A jot, a dash, a handful.
A heaping scoop
A knob or two.
A drop, a splash, a whisker.

Din-ner!