A Few of My Poems
The Most Important Thing
I am making a home inside myself. A shelter of kindness where everything is forgiven, everything allowed—a quiet patch of sunlight to stretch out without hurry, where all that has been banished and buried is welcomed, spoken, listened to—released. A fiercely friendly place I can claim as my very own. I am throwing arms open to the whole of myself—especially the fearful, fault-finding, falling apart, unfinished parts, knowing every seed and weed, every drop of rain, has made the soil richer. I will light a candle, pour a hot cup of tea, gather around the warmth of my own blazing fire. I will howl if I want to, knowing this flame can burn through any perceived problem, any prescribed perfectionism, any lying limitation, every heavy thing. I am making a home inside myself where grace blooms in grand and glorious abundance, a shelter of kindness that grows all the truest things. I whisper hallelujah to the friendly sky. Watch now as I burst into blossom.
The above poem is one of 99 poems in my book “Staying in Love.” Signed copies, as well as signed poetry prints, are available at the below link (straight from my home to yours).
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Tired of My Own Words
I am here with pen poised over empty page just in case words decide to come. I sigh and sigh again, silently cursing the river for not flowing. I have so much to say but no words to say it and the not saying hurts. The truth is, what is the truth? In this moment, the truth is, I am tired of my own words, tired of not saying what I am afraid to say. What am I afraid to say? I strike a match, light a candle, look out at leafless, winter oak who shows me (again and again) how easy it can be to just be. Please, I pray silently and then out loud to the empty air, let me be like the wordless winter oak— at ease in my bareness, in my saying nothingness, in saying whatever it is that wants to be said— a tree being just what a tree is.
Drinking Light
Please, let me not take it for granted— the I love yous, the morning coffee he delivers to me in bed, the sound of the front door opening at the end of her long day, the goodnight mamas, the hot meal that fills bellies, the glass full of fresh, cold water, the poets who string lifelines with each carefully chosen word. Please— when the horror grows even more horrible, and I am desperate to unsee, let me bend to smell the daphne that is sweet enough to carry me back to this marvel we call life. Please, let me stuff myself full with beauty, drink light for breakfast, for lunch, for dinner—never again take a Tuesday for granted. Please, may the brutal never erase the beauty.
Have You Considered the Wonder?
I am learning to trust her, to let
her spoon-feed me what I most need,
to allow her to rest her steady hand
on my always-forgetting face, to see
that every breathing thing will leave
but she will forever stay.
I am learning that wind will howl or not howl,
to remember (and forget. And remember again)
that it has never been up to me to decide—
to say, okay moment, I am willing
to receive you as you are,
to dissolve inside your silent center
like honey in a cup of steaming tea.
I am learning to let her carry me
when legs grow too weary for walking, to follow
her to the well of stillness
again and again and again—to release
the wheel of worry so she, so She can steer.
I am learning to trust her, to root myself beside her
in stillness and salty storm, to listen
when she takes my forgetting face
in her always-knowing hands and says—
look darling, the sun has risen again today,
have you considered the wonder
of this entirely beautiful thing?
Komera
It is a brave thing to step onto the field, into the arena—to each day, turn toward blank page, empty canvas, to choose to meet this beautiful, broken world all over again. To sit inside the mess, the mayhem, the— I don’t know. It’s a brave thing to rise up when you’ve hit the ground hard, to sit still when fear wants you to pick it up, pin it down— to let dust settle instead of hurrying to wipe it clean. It is a brave thing to forget the filters, to forgive the unforgivable, to let hurt be the hand that heals, to breathe, to breathe until you feel your bigness. To soften. To open. To listen. In Rwanda the word komera means: Be strong, have courage. In the middle of the mess, the mayhem, the— I don’t know, it is a brave thing to slip off each story of smallness, to let hurt be the hand that heals, to take the next true step— even when, even when, even when.
MY BOOKS
Staying in Love (Published in 2021). Signed copies available in my Etsy shop (click title to be taken to my little shop). Also available on Amazon (unsigned) in all major online bookstores
On the Other Side of Fear (Published in 2012) Available on Amazon & in all major online bookstores.