Category Archives: poetry

Thursday: Thoughtful Poems

Ode I. 11 Leucon, no one’s allowed to know his fate, Not you, not me: don’t ask, don’t hunt for answers In tea leaves or palms. Be patient with whatever comes. This could be our last winter, it could be … Continue reading

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New Poem Out In Soliloquies Anthology 22.2

  New Poem In Soliloquies Anthology 22.2 Read my new poem “Burmese Way to Socialism 1989”  in Soliloquies Anthology 22.2. Flip through the virtual book. Mine is on Page 16.

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Show me

Before things get complicated and I not knowing how to navigate the waters rocking the boat. To say I have always known the ways will be a full blown lie. I get lost when the way is known by others. … Continue reading

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of leaving

I am not supposed to mourn the loss of you.  There is no place in this culture where a parent is allowed to hold grief for a child’s leaving home: not this burning sorrow marring the skin. They say grow a … Continue reading

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wandering

Reading your poem makes me want to read another poem about another room where i wandered from corner to corner then onto the next floor of this house some rich man gave to another rich man who then cried, Nothing … Continue reading

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parenting aftermath

They leave and I stop baking  cupcakes cookies shortbread brownies muffins pancakes pies after pies: apple pumpkin blueberry summer tarts sweet breads with whipped butter. The trays stay clean crumb-less kitchen table hums a sorrow song  through its grains of … Continue reading

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Monday Mourning

Some people left quietly into the night with soft footsteps tender closing of eyes as if decades of their breath & width on this earth did not matter. No sirens stopped at their doorstep No gates flung open with a … Continue reading

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Reframe: one more tool for your tool kit

“Of course I wake up finally thinking, how wonderful to be who I am, made out of earth and water, my own thoughts, my own fingerprints– all that glorious, temporary stuff.” – Mary Oliver (ON MEDITATING, SORT OF) Hello world. … Continue reading

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Current mood

  The color of crushed grapes planted in spring, five years ago. No one remembers the weather when the vines were born and their fruits squeezed into the oak barrels shipped from somewhere in France where I had walked alone … Continue reading

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Fifty and I

Fifty and I am trapped in this life I’d cultivated. Careful, if you’re not so careful years add to fifty and still feel chained to the ground wings clipped by own teeth, shearing one feather at a time until bones … Continue reading

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