Splintered

I stand determined
With feet planted
A long-handled ax
The helve smooth in my hands
I raise it over my head
Bring it down with force
A great overhead arc
Makes contact with the door
I am aware my anger
Is as strong as the steel blade
Again and again I strike
My chest heaves with the effort
Leaving the walls gaping
Again and again I strike
My arms ache with the effort
Leaving this hideaway
Shattered and splintered
The way my family
Was splintered
There can be no hiding
Behind broken walls

 

Flawed Trust

The flaws in our family life
Are like pulled carpet threads
Overlooked in their familiarity
Still part of a colorful tapestry

The truth in our stories
Seeks a home of forgiveness
Sheltering arms to have and to hold
Where failure and judgment do not share a bed

The realities we create
Are tested against each other
We come undone, then together
Open wounds and open arms

The bones of our fathers
Lie in sacred ground
Ensouled by voices that speak to us
Only in our dreams

Rivers flow with random questions
As we seek to reclaim a past that is ours
Almost lost under the gaze
Of ancient and knowing trees

My Hometown

We the people watched in horror
As Serve and Protect dropped to its knees
Our trust snapped and flailing like a live wire
Thrashing on the ground, sparking outrage

We the people refused to be placated
With excuses and empty promises of change
This time we lifted the curtain on the Show of Force
By filming our realities without edit

We the people cried out for our mamas
Our sons, our fathers and daughters
Our neighbors, our friends
And we answered with, “Never again!”

We the people lit fires so we could be seen at night
And stood shoulder to shoulder during the day
Forcing you to see because you would not hear
Our need for a more perfect union, and to establish justice

The Circle of Love

I nursed my babies, watched them
Fall asleep, their hands cupping
My breast, face flushed, molded
Against me as we drowsed in a
Tangle of sheets and pillows.
I listened to them breathe
And whispered I love you

Years later I lay with my mother
Arms around her frail body, her
Hands cold as she drowsed from
The morphine, taking her last
Rattling breaths.  I leaned close
Telling her it was okay to go
And whispering I love you

Later still with my daughter,
Lights low during an concert encore,
All alone in a sea of thousands
Her arms around my neck,
Cheek to cheek, she sang
I still love you more than anything...

Oasis

Commitments we create for ourselves
Deadlines others impose on us
Leave us little time to nourish our soul

Creating a desert of the heart
We rush, stirring up dust
Grit in our teeth, unpleasant
And yet we convince ourselves we must
Keep on, so we react with impatience when

We have created our own famine
That stretches our skins so thin
We have no more tolerance
We hunger for an oasis
Without realizing it is not a place

Hiram and Johnny

HIRAM COON, 1866

Hiram Coon had an “ungovernable” temper.
A farmhand with prison in his past,
And part of his right ear bitten off,
He and his wife ate at the same table
With Mr. and Mrs. Laker and their youngsters.
Though Mrs. Laker thought it a waste
To serve him steak, and cautioned
Hiram Coon not to talk about her ‘round town
If he partook of drink in taverns.

Hiram Coon knew a woman like Mrs. Laker
Was just looking for a quarrel with him.
Hiram Coon knew a woman like Mrs. Laker
Never had the damned Irish taken out of her.
Hiram Coon knew one sure way to fix that.

While they all ate the steak his wife cooked,
Hiram Coon excused himself and went outside.
At the woodpile, he tucked the ax in his waistband.
Returning, Mrs. Coon saw barest bit of ax blade.
Rising, she tried to put herself between them.
Hiram Coon shoved down his wife, determined
As he was, to take the Irish out of Mrs. Laker.

Mr. Laker fumbled past the fallen Mrs. Coon,
The Laker children whimpered in their chairs,
A single candle sputtered on the table.
Mrs. Laker picked up her chair, bumping it
At Hiram Coon as she backed into the pantry.
Hiram Coon swung high above it, hitting Mrs. Laker.

From the back, Mr. Laker came at him kicking.
Hiram Coon fled out the door, and past the barn.
They sent the oldest Laker boy for Dr. Moses
While Mrs. Coon bandaged Mrs. Laker’s head.
Mr. Laker stood at the door with gun in hand
‘Case Hiram Coon was of a mind to do more harm.

Now everyone was talking about Mrs. Laker
In the taverns.  She died some six days later.
The same time Hiram Coon was caught nearby.
No one would testify on his behalf, not even
Mrs. Coon, and the jury found him guilty.
Hence Hiram Coon was sentenced to be hung
His spirit then released from its clay tenement.

JOHNNY, 2009

Johnny is serving thirty-one years
For killing his eight month old son
I think of lying face down in his living room
Only the week before as he tattooed
My daughters’ names around my ankle
And we made small talk about birds

Johnny draws better than anyone I know
Despite his car accident, his brain injury
Sometimes his mother shows me pictures
He has drawn in prison with a 3” pencil
They do not let him have a sharpener
Johnny’s mother was sure she would lose her job
When the story made the newspapers
She had to testify at the trial, her son
The perpetrator, and her grandson the victim.

Sometimes people wonder what kind of person
Could commit such a heinous act? They wonder
What kind of parents could raise such a son?
I knew, and watched them struggle.  Mightily.
The daughter killed by a drunk diver, the son
Who never wanted to be the oldest, and the demons
That he fought, the family that struggled with him.

My daughter wanted to go into law enforcement.
My daughter's world was very black and white.
We talked about Johnny, I wanted her to know
The circumstances that can color a situation,
The shades of gray that follow us all.
Black and white, I want to tell her, is for piano keys.

Who Do We Become

I did not understand you
Were a living part of me.

Your memory forced
Me to redefine who
I Am.


I struggled for a definition,
Not liking my choices.

Who do we become when
The people we love
Leave us?  How do we

Fill the space where 
They once were? How
Do we stitch together 

The memories we are
Left with, to make
Ourselves whole again?

No Fear

I do not fear death for it is simply the
Comforting dank smell of last year's
Leaves fallen to the forest floor, now
Giving way to new growth, new life.
It is that final rest from weariness,
From pain, and a chance to sleep.

Who Are We?

Who do we become when we lose
the parent who guided us as surely
as a star guides us through darkness?

How do we look in the mirror
and still see ourselves as whole
when we know we no longer are?

What becomes of our future when
our shared past has been broken
and the bridge no longer exists?

Learning to Fly

My wings are hidden.  I have
Not figured out how to fly in
This earth-bound life.  My feet
Ache to leave the ground every
Time the wind blows through my
Hair, my face turned to the sky.

So I dare myself to let go of my
Branch, to free-fall into the
Unknown, to see if my wings
Will carry me into the world.
See if I have the strength to
Soar.