Whatsmynameagain?

  The Authentic Winter Winter saunters in like an unwelcome, necessary friend Her cold breath baring truth That we hide from in layers Of colorful wool and heated blankets Her uncovered branches, offensive and sharp A lady with wit and wisdom We love to hate her But she is authentic and shows us beauty Whether we like it or not Whether our coffees or hot toddies are warm enough To shield us from the biting feeling Of the realization Of who we really are When our own branches are stripped Our facades harden and crack falling to the ground Like snowflakes Covering the green and brown grasses With ashen shadows of our projected realities….identities We play in our perceptions In the stories we tell ourselves We build them Shaping our lives with our frozen hands Trying to make them good enough Afraid when the distant sun melts the figures we have created And turns them into wet remnants soon to evaporate The cold remains We face the bar...

 Happy 34th, 2 Poems 24022-T I go back to where I’m from sometimes Where the corn grows knee high by the Fourth of July Two lane roads, narrow and neglected I know them like the back of my hand   I return to the land of silos and sky Smoldering smokestacks and wind turbines Factory farming and pesticide sprays February landscapes’ frigid gray   Grid roads unroll single stop light towns Human inhabitants outnumbered by cows The winter sun, as cold as the moon I rest like the trees, waiting to bloom   The little girl I left behind She doesn’t know it, but she’ll be fine She looks for signs to find herself The lake and woods, faded roads going south   I learn to abide in the interim of life Content residing in darkness and light Stable in the world’s changing identity Peaceful with the places that held me Permaculture Humans We live our lives as tales that are told Spreading our memories around like compost Cultivating ...

  December 21st, 2020-when we drove to the cemetery to watch Jupiter and Saturn align.  Daguerreotype December Frozen hazy veils Mornings drenched in silver Spreading deadening prevails Fragile light, a reminder Announcing the season of rest Trudging slowly into winter Wearing darkness as my crest Black and white and gray and brown No longer hidden in color Brittle landscapes are stripped down Braving death by cooler weather Holograms of warmth bid me to retire Mesmerizing dances Shifting shapes in the fire Winter’s bleakness, a blanket Comforting and cold Provides respite for the weary And reflections to behold

Aging and Letting Go are Maybe the Same Thing My Birthday Poem to Myself, Happy 33rd Take no bag for your journey You must leave it all behind As muscle memory takes over You will surely lose your mind Take no bag for your journey No particular or sentimental thing You may not have all you want But you will gain all you need Take no bag for your journey No inward or outward disguise It'll take who you are right now Ignore your illusion's cries Take no bag for your journey Wayfarer foes and friends You'll arrive at your sanctuary With nothing in your hands Take no bag for your journey You are on your way home The saints are so excited To see how much you've grown There is no room for baggage And remember, you're not alone It's not hard to find your way Just follow the path unknown

Birthday Poem for My 32nd Year of Life (my general feelings surrounding the cultural and political climate of my 31st year) 2/23/20 “Fear not,” you say, all day and all day But I do “Fear not,” you say The cadence my heart beats to You callously die on your mountain Watching the slaughter below “Fear not,” they say All day and all day But you do “Fear not,” they say With nowhere else to turn to Clarity is overexposed at the top Truth is found near the bottom “Fear not,” you say All day and all day But they do “Fear not,” you say The tune your ideals dance to Blindly you sip on your circling rhetoric Thousands choke on your words “Fear not,” we say All day and all day But you do “Fear not,” we say We are God’s children, too Mercy not only belongs to you Let justice roll down from the peak "Fear not," we pray All day and all day But we all do.

Happy Thirty First Birthday to Me…and My Hands I recently listened to a book (An Altar in the World) where the author (Barbara Brown Taylor) encourages her readers to spend 15 minutes examining their hands. I did this around my 31 st birthday, and these are the thoughts that came to me. My hands are the hands of every woman before me A ll of whom turned 31 before me Christians believe in a “cloud of witnesses” I believe in a “cloud of hands” We have the very same hands My hands work in unison with ones that have come before and ones still coming I don’t believe in reading palms the way fortune tellers do But I believe that hands communicate Stories are not written only on palms, but also in nailbeds and knuckles and scars I ’ve always thought that if one wants to know what kind of person one is, observe their hands Realities are revealed in hands Hands don’t tell the whole story, though As my 31 years of experience have taught It is impossible to know the whole t...