Questions
I was asked:
Why do you write so many poems
when no one sees you and all your hard work?
And I answer: Because the words found me,
and I have to listen
What else am I to do?
I was asked:
But is there a bigger purpose than that?
And I answer: Because the sun is shining,
because everything grows.
What else am I to do?
I was asked: Do you really know anything
that important to share?
And I answer: I know nothing.
For Sumana's prompt at What's Going On? -- Open Link
In These Uncertain Times
When the ground shifts beneath us,
when news breaks like glass, sharp and endless,
we scroll through our phones continually, hoping,
chasing answers that will change by morning.
Though the world feels so fractured,
the sun never forgets to rise,
even when no one is watching.
Branches continue to reach for light.
And even as we think about our life—
a friend's laughter breaks the silence,
trees and grass keep greening after rain,
a cup of tea warms the hands like a promise.
We anchor ourselves in what endures:
the simple things, the special moments
kindness, breath, love, trust, faith, hope
the quiet hope that this is not the end.
Written for my prompt for What's Going On? -- "In These Uncertain Times"
What It Means to Be Human
To wake each morning carrying yesterday's weight
and tomorrow's uncertainty,
to feel the pull of gravity in your mind
but celebrate the laughter in your heart.
We are the species that weeps at sunsets
then destroys the forests that create them,
who build cathedrals to honor the divine
then fight wars over whose god is real.
We are capable of unspeakable cruelty—
The deliberate wound, imprisonment of the innocent,
the way we can make and idolize monsters
created from our darkest reflections.
Yet watch us in our grocery stores,
strangers helping strangers reach the high shelf,
or see how we stop our cars
for a funeral procession of people we'll never know.
We are the only creatures who know we will die
and spend our lives forgetting it,
who can imagine tomorrow
and be paralyzed by its possibilities.
We are walking contradictions—
selfish and selfless,
wise and foolish,
creators and destroyers,
always becoming,
never quite arriving,
magnificently, tragically,
sometimes gloriously human.
For Sherry's prompt at What's Going On? --- "Being Human."
Rest
The mind is a restless tenant
that pays no rent,
keeps the lights on all night,
plays the same broken records
over and over.
Sleep becomes a negotiation
with thoughts that refuse
to clock out,
a wrestling match
with phantoms
that grow stronger
in the dark.
But there are moments—
the dog's gleeful walking
ahead of me on the sidewalk,
the rhythm of my feet
against concrete
for as long as I can,
or times of exercising
at the gym, that ground me
to something real.
In these blissful moments
the storm quiets,
the phantom disappears,
the tenant steps outside
for air.
Sometimes exhaustion
is the only key
that fits the lock—
muscles heavy with use,
bones settled deep
into my couch cushions,
consciousness slipping away
like water through fingers.
This is the gift
I never asked for:
rest that arrives
not through intention
but through the body's
wise rebellion,
the sweet surrender
of falling asleep
without trying,
without fighting,
without asking
permission
from the noise
inside my head.
Written for Susan's prompt at What's Going On? -- Rest
Lilacs
Purple clusters hang heavy in May air, while
a drowsy bee skitters through lavender blooms,
as a gentle spring wind carries their sweetness
through open windows and screen doors.
I cut a few long branches with kitchen shears,
the lilac's rich perfume fills every corner as it
spreads from a vase on the table like a blessing,
delicate and intrically beautiful before the petals fall.
For Sumana's prompt at What's Going On? -- Fragrance
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One of the fragrances I remember from my childhood was the fragrance of the lilac bush we had in our yard. This poem captures the essence of my lilac memories.
