Mar 24

The Slaughter Star

Alice picked up her little brother and tucked him into the fold of her hip that had only just begun to blossom last year. Nico wound his small hand in her dark, golden curls that fell down to her mid shoulder. His chubby three year old body leaning into her expanding chest. Alice took one last look at the old decrepit graveyard, it looked almost beautiful, shining in the sunset. All the same, she clutched Nico to her chest and felt bursts of regret for the dead, even though she knew no dead slept beneath these headstones. She heard Liam from down the road, calling her name. Alice turned, not bothering to tie her shoe laces, if not for perfection, for safety... she was too consumed with the slip of paper burning holes in her pocket. Their older brother, Liam, was closer now, Alice hurried to catch up with him. “Alice, mum's waiting for us!” Alice walked faster. “Coming” she cried.
Mar 20

Pebble Drop

Drop the dance beat
carry your heart upon your marred white sleeve

Blood chides the cold

I listen to birds
I don't listen to birds
I hear the birds whether I want to or not

Turn the soil
in this new time

Center of the floor
pebbles swept under rugs
time swept under pebbles
pebbles up on time

Baby water choked on smoke
does not breathe with the birds
Mar 17

Remake Ashes

With the ground uncovered
comes forgotten items.
We haul them out
with our rusting blue wheelbarrow.
He squeaks plaintively
asking for one moment to oil
his husky joints.
Thaw and relive.

We burn things.

Ashy memories float in the air,
hung between us with the strings
we used to finger knitting each other scarfs.
Pieces of my past drift in the place
between my lungs and yours.
Forming smoke clouds,
that look like the first time we held hands,
locked in the back of my garage, in the cold night.

We forgive.

Hands find each other again,
no fire could cool the water spilling
from eyes, hearts, lungs.
Forgive, apologize for fire.
Apologize for coals.
Apologize for ashes.

Now remake the ashes.
Mar 16

Diary of a Young Child From The 2020 Climate Crisis

February 15th 2020
Dear Momma,
today I went to school and learned about polar bears, the teacher told us they live way up at the north pole. Say hi to them for me, ask them if they could be my pen pals. Love Child

March 29th 2020
Dear Momma,
today we had to stay home due to severe floods, the school is flooded and the roads look like rivers. I hope your a little bit better, I know you haven't been feeling very well. Love Child

April 22th 2020
Dear Momma,
today we skipped school to go out in the streets and protest. We held large signs and lots of kids yelled through a microphone. I felt scared, the crowd was loud and relentless, I'm worried for you. Love Child

May 26th 2020
Dear Momma,
today we learned about cities that caught on fire and are gone now. I asked how they caught on fire, the teacher ignored me... Do you know, Momma? Can you tell me? Love Child

June 8th 2020
Dear Momma,
Mar 16


Above all things, including but not confined to the moon and sun and stars, I revere hope. Something intangible, something stirring, something alive, pounding on the doors to your heart. Let it in. It might hurt, but isn't it better than feeling nothing at all? Without it you are unbound, you breathe freely, but what is the point in breathing freely if you don't want to breathe? Hope is a red balloon rising high above the universe, sometimes you don't need wings to fly. Hope is the greatest teacher, the one who will teach you what humble is. The one who will make you feel pain because they know you will be a better person on the other side. Clutch it, squeeze it, entangle your whole body in it, kiss it, throw it, forgive it, raze it, let it come back. If you have a self, if you breathe... You will know what I mean.
Mar 14
poem 2 comments challenge: Starry

Beneath Only Sky

Feet are bright grounders
to earth.
Starry points keeping you down.

No, only choices,
fear and your own will
keep you here.

Where would you go?
Somewhere where no one has breathed

Somewhere completely your own.
a place undone in high aching

My child, are you a poet?
why ask a question you already know the answer to?

Sometimes people change...
everything changes, it is out of our control.

You are wise for a youngling.
Whoever said younglings weren't wise?

An oldling?
you are growing, my child

I am no child.
everyone is a child on the inside just as everyone is a poet on the inside.

Who are you?
wish on me, I am a star,
I am a dandelion,
I am a candle,
I am temptation,
I am dreams,
Mar 14

Spring 3

Spring Mud

When the snow finally kisses the dark sweet ground,
melting, seeping, folding into her body.
When the cold winds of winter have shivered at their own cold
and the sprouts start to poke up from beneath your socked toes.
When the birds are blown back to square number one
and the cold becomes wet.

Welcome mud.

Remember your critical alignment to warmth,
to reacquaint your face to the earth.
Mud is the best face paint,
slip-sliding over the turrets and towers of your nose and
the sturdy bridge of your mouth,
trying its best to avoid the deep mounds of your eyes.

Welcome mud.

Deep cherry-pitted laughter, the beginnings of a love
you never thought could exist, starry nights and breathable sunrises,
stifling happiness bugs and the trees showing off new coats of green.

Welcome the first day of spring.
Mar 14

Spring 2

The Maple

Yellow tree blood slips from the drill hole
and into the metal canister.

The drip drip drip
gathers sunlight
in it's droplets.

Sounding like a heartbeat,
falling into tree tears.

The journey to the kitchen
is uneventful
besides the drips spilt on the
young girl's apron.

Mother finds daughter
with hushed mouth and damp dress.

Into the pot
she pours.
If you burn it,
it is worse than rotting flesh.
But simmer
in the darkness of the season
and down to the roots
you'll be.

Mar 14

Spring 1

Hello everyone, I'm working on a collection of poetry about a year round in Vermont, these first few posts will be the spring.

Welcome Year

Cold brush
winter paints hope on pink cheeks
and pinched noses

Warmth will come again
spring is not all daisies and baby birds
it is also frosty windows and wood stoves

Hunger for the arrival of the years
grows with every snowstorm
fever spoils

Health rushes to the face
as hope returns
with the geese

Mar 06

American Dream

"Who looks outside, dreams. Who looks inside, awakens." - Carl Jung

Plastic cover,
wasteful wrapping,
skimpy dresses,
people scrapping.

American dream, American heart.
Dreams are not reality,
not from the start.

Fast food,
symbolic eagles,
pollution everywhere,
presidential regals.

American dream, American eyes.
Our people are dying,
do you care that we cry?

High flying flag,
stars abound,
women are objects,
the best ones around.

On the outside, shiny, fake, a dream.
On the inside, rotting, shot up at the seams.

Wake up,
you are living a death.
Last words to america,
as you draw your last breath.