Tag Archives: poetry

Memories Forgot


Piled under blankets,
pigment greased thick
under fingernails – scrubbed once
or twice – her breath falls soft.

Fast as Nike, she slept.
Night crept darker still;
under what pretense
would light appear but dawn?

An hour forgotten, a day forgotten.
The memories fade and no witness
to bear this breath in or out.
Snow drifts. One hurricane
follows another, falls dark.




the un-decibel.
so silent it hums.
what isn’t.
right before the storm.
that falling, grasping, shhh.
when the mind has slowed.
the breath has caught.
a glacier melting not groaning yet.
not fracturing or breaking.
or crashing.
not sighing or even exhaling.
what lands between two beats.
goes undetected.
disappears when the foot falls.

Ars Poetica: Homecoming


So I write madly
ushering the words out of my fingertips
no need for rain like shard of ice outside.
It’s already cold.
I’m already imagining tea
and one of the quilts my grandmother
spotted in the bins at Goodwill
promptly forgot
and spotted again.
An aged mind
not like good wine
but a constant inspiration
about the tragedy of a life long lived.

So I write
consider the consequences
of particular observations
and line break to remind myself
that I was a poet

Whatever this is,
it is reentry
not a flourish.
Surely, I am pleased with myself;
homecomings are a pleasure.

3rd Tibetan School Counselors Conference Pantoum


A man speaks Tibetan at the 3rd Tibetan School Counselors Conference
where I will present later and my mother,
the clinical psychologist – the professor – feels she is an imposter.
Me? I’m barely a poet.

(Yet I will present later). And my mother
tries to reassure me, but how can she? Because she is
the clinical psychologist. The professor who feels she is an imposter.
Who is the imposter? Who is the coat-tail rider?

Me. I am barely a poet.
Maybe that’s ok. Maybe this is growth. Making connections
I try to reassure myself. But how can I? Because there is
an unavoidable truth; I am misplaced here, aware exactly

who the imposter is, who the coat-tail rider is.
An Unavoidable Truth: I am misplaced here, aware.
Maybe that is ok. Maybe it is growth. Maybe. To connect with
the man who spoke Tibetan at the 3rd Tibetan School Counselors Conference.

Yesterday’s Rain


Tapping cold rain falls
light on the tin roof
tapping and scattering.

Glass beads in a glass bowl.

Fat drops hurl through
sink heavily into
children hurl bodies into
sink heavily through

Rain stings
ricochets sharp enough
to remind of scarring
maybe on another day.

Yesterday, I thought of rain.