April 24, 2025 This comes from a long conversation with one of my students yesterday. He hasn’t been successful in school. He mostly avoids school except for walking in the halls with friends but he says he is ready for something different.

Tiny Bird Finds His Wings

When we met

I would have bet

That you would never talk to me

You had that gaze

That hazy maze

That surrounded your aura

Alone you sat

You turned your back

On anyone who asked you a question

It has been over a year

You’ve become sincere

In your observations

Yesterday we asked why you stay

And your words began to fray

Spilling out the story

Of former glory

And friends

Now you see a future alone

With no home

No one to rely on

You said you were like a tiny bird

Who got slapped with a cow turd

That was horrible

Covering you up

You felt stuck

Yet warm and comfortable

There in the muck

You accepted your luck

And stayed to die in that filth

Believing that is what you built

And it is hard to see yourself any other way

Staying was a way to pay

Today is a new day

You want us to pull

Help you find full

And know there’s

A place that’s a safe space

Where you’re not encased

You are ready for some other school

Or plan, to help you be a man

 April 22, 2025 A poem to celebrate what I see and imagine from my living room window on this Earth Day. No picture, just use your imagination.

 Sun’s Kiss

Birds twitter announcement

the arrival of the end

of the soft cozy blanket of darkness

Shifts for a slight golden glow

Sliding into oranges and violet pinks

Growing into a far off fire

Outlining a white headed

Old man that hunches over

to raise his lady’s face to his own

as streams of the coming

Day shoot laser eyes

Through tall trees

Stretching their arms

Up to hold the cotton candy clouds

As a garland on a young lady’s head

who sits at the old man’s feet

she is ready to dance

into a day that invites her

with the rising light

as a doe waits and listens

for her cue to lead

her fawn to forage

on the forest floor

tilting her head

to see the last visible star

faintly blink as morning

pulls off the cover of night

 April 20, 2025 Even when wrestling emotionally, this I know. Christ has risen!

Easter Declaration

Death that leads to life

Sounds out of place

Causes strife

Those that believe

Do so not to achieve

Said everlasting

That is the last thing

On One’s minds

We pine for closeness

where most is

Far in the distance

The thing is

We come today

To celebrate and say

Christ is risen!

No cynicism

We step into the light

From the darkest night

To be freed

Because he is risen indeed!

 

Worthy Witnesses

The women witnessed

Something extraordinary

But it was declared unlikely

Until the men agreed

Seeing for themselves

But Jesus knew

Who he wanted to see first

Those who would otherwise

Be told last

He came back

The angel said he was not there

They immediately mourned

And he appeared

To comfort the comfortless

He told them to tell the disciples

Knowing they would not be listened to

Yet they spoke their truth

Aware of the distrust

Of their words alone

Witnessing the remarkable

When no one else has seen it

There is no physical evidence

It is an act of love and bravery

To give a voice

When outnumbered

Or the lowest class

To bear witness

Of miracles

 April 19, 2025 Yes, I skipped another night last night. I spent all day out in the garden working hard. I just had no steam or thoughts when I came in and settled. I was still full of thoughts and empty at the same time, I'm wanting another week off but grateful for this spring break with no agenda.

 

Garden Plot

Stepping past my thought

To observe the look

Of what is, compared to

What might have been

A well-worn path

That dissipates

As I stretch my fingers

In rich earth

It is a plan

Of what can be planted

To grow best

Next to whom

And this spring’s risk

As to weather

Will come as predicted

What can I control

As to the seeds

Dropped one by one

Next to something beneficial

Or planted near what plant

Will attract or repel

The good and bad bugs

That give a better chance

Of these young seedlings

To make it to yield time

I envy other gardens

The ease with which they appear

Or function giving forth

Multiple tastes

Youth to adulthood

No drama or struggle

Plants deep rooted

Turning faces to the sun

Delicious beauties

Because they were planted

In the right spot

With all the advantages

Of a well-planned garden

 

April 17, 2025 I saw Raisin in the Sun for the first time tonight at Taproot Theatre. It is a strong ensemble cast that performs it. It is a play I’d studied twice in school. Hearing the language and seeing the story unfold was powerful. It sparked a discussion in my family among all the powerful themes and then
about language and what came from slavery to then and what replaced it. I tried to put this into a poem.

 

Sunburnt Raisin Plumps Again

“Pick it up, boy!”

“How you doing, man?”

The one phrase

Influences another

For generations

The knife is plunged

While reclaimers pull it out

Demeaned calling grown men boys

To grind under foot

The essence of what they are

Racism with a low growl

scratches at the surface

survivalist reach out

a shaking hand

to pet the head

of such a beast

taming it with

grown up names

turned inside out

of the insults

till they tickle

and matter to no one

as they have become

a greeting among us

those that live

life on thier own terms

 April 16, 2025

Remorse’s Map

Remorse weighs down

The good we feel by day

The regret we hear in the night

It sings a tune

That imitates a cackling crow

Who wants more than he is entitled to

Then it pulls tight, snug

Where we can finally feel

Safe enough to let go

And sleep the slumber of the innocent

The burden slips away

Under the swift current

Of unconditional acceptance

Overall, dropping our mistake

Forgiveness washes it all away

 April 15, 2025 The poem tonight is probably only for me as I needed to write but not say things outright. The second is to say that my garden has been my refuge today.

 Hurricane “A”

I woke up crying

Though the event was past

It lives in me

I am marked

Not for what was

What came near

Who is dear

And my fear

It all piles on top

Jumping vigorously

Till I cannot breathe

And I seethe, angry

There is little relief

When an incident

Leaves marks

More scars

It is a webbed map

That spiders out

Showing the shame

The hidden plaque

On our backs

Carves out a label for one

Something of a sentence for another

Neither quite correct

almost always there

Me laid bare

I sob and complain

Wanting some other name

I wait for something different

As I hate this game

I feel dishonored, stained

Yet I know, love bears all things

It is the glue between us

We mustn’t give up

I know you suffer too

Constant image stew

Boiling in your brain

Making emotions rain

Melting our bond

In an instant

That sears us both

Sobs fill the mote

Between us

As we fall into each other’s arms

Past the scary harms

Crying won’t last

Love has a chance

 

Gardening Between Darkness and Light

In the twilight,

I can just make out your shape

I hear you as I scrape the earth

Exposing the roots to breathe

Running my fingers through

to separate them from the dirt

I listen as you go from local events

To world leaders, what they know

I dig to the rhythm of your facts

Planting long rows

Clearing weeds

Filling sacks

You continue to talk

As the cool dirt

Puts me at ease

 April 14, 2025, 

My son gave me a mini-lecture about Christianity and Easter. He kept saying, “It will soon be two millennia!” So, I tried to put those thoughts together for a poem. It isn’t quite what I was going for, but I’ll keep it. Hence, the other short poem is about how I feel about my lack of the right words tonight.

 Easter: Two Millennia

Time doesn’t discriminate

Yet people do

Many contemplate

Who is who

And what is real

Examining the meal

Where the disciples

Sat by whom in the Bible

Was the conversation verbatim

Of what silver was traded

Details shuffled each century

Still, a man died on a tree

It is the key

He rose, walking among us

This is why the judgment and fuss

Why do people worship him

Is what people spin

Fearing what is sin?

And how can it be forgiven?

Two millennia have passed

Where at long last

Billions go to the grave

Peace-filled because they are saved

They tremble with joy, not fear

It is the web of faith that is dear

A sweet longing to be

Part of the throng and shining sea

 

Word Scraps Escape

There is a flatness

To my words tonight

A fight not taking flight

A place of rest

Restlessness captivates my eye

Which see what I want

I’m on the hunt

It is not to be

 April 13, 2025, It has been a rather hard day. I did go to the ER. There was blood. I’m ok, but it got me thinking.

 I’m Not Rupert Giles

You know when a television character

Gets bonked on the back of the head

And they go unconscious with one blow?

Don’t believe it

I’ve hit the back of my head hard

Most dramatically hitting a piano, a speaker, and then concrete

Once tripped backwards and hit a big rock,

In a car accident, I got hit in the back of the head 

with a heavy plywood sign that was behind the driver's seat,

I fell and hit the back of my head

On the corner of my kitchen island

Last winter, I slipped on ice 

and hit my head hard on a stone stairway

And also got plowed into by someone

Fell into my bathtub and hit the ceramic soap dish

Glued to the wall

Shattering it with my head

Never once were there stitches

Concussions, three times,

Blood every time,

I didn’t pass out with any of them

Hurt immediately

I remember them

Because pain will do that for you

You remember what you did

How you did it

And how it felt

The memory of how it feels

It isn’t like on TV

Where you get up,

rub your head a little bit,

and bounce back to fight

or plot or plan your revenge

I sit, assess, maybe go to the ER

It slows me down

To heal and reveal

Why it happened

And what is next

In this journey of healing

 April 12, 2025

I skipped writing a poem last night because I had stress, I hadn’t had in a while, and needed time to just recover and then sleep. So, tonight two poems probably won’t get done posting until after midnight. The first long poem is about that stress. The other poem is on a happier note, a friend’s anniversary party tonight, people got up and performed. I was quite struck by a couple of performers, but especially by a sweet voice.

 

Absent Alarm Going Off for Forty Minutes

It is stamped so deep

I don’t even know it is still there

Until it happens

The heart pounding

Sweating, uncertainty

Of not knowing where my child is

Where he’s gone or what has or could happen

He is in some ways, such a capable human

Society says he is an adult

He can get around

On public transportation

If he has a way to do so

When he hadn’t arrived home

And it was nearly two hours

Past the time he should be

There or checking in

Then the story unraveled

From my husband

Of an unusual day

Mixed communication

Where he could be

Several places looking

For someone to pick him up

It is late, hunger waiting at the gate

That could cause all kinds of complications

I call one place and describe him

No one bearing that description

Has seen him

The lady on the other end

Is trying to be helpful

As she hears the urgency in my voice

She has no choice but to

Hand up when no one can locate

My only son

I grab my car keys

Going to the next location

We think he might be

My husband is waiting at home

For him to walk in the door

I am driving, praying

Trying to pay attention

To the details everywhere

Looking for that curly head

Bouncing determined walk

My husband said he was wearing purple

No, maroon defiantly his maroon shirt

I caught a glimpse

No, not him

Someone honking at me?

Got to speed up

But then I might miss him

I can’t miss him

I go by the place

His curiosity might take him

No, that makes no sense

Turning around

To the place his dad and he

They were supposed to meet

What direction is it?

There! There’s the street!

So many people are walking

They aren’t him!

What is that sound?

Phone ringing

He is found!

Thank God, he is found!

 

Sweet Friend Sings

Her introduction was shaky

As she adjusted her guitar strap

Telling the party people

That she had only played this instrument for a month

“Very brave or foolish,” I thought

But off she launched

Into a familiar and sweet love song

She had a reedy, thin voice

Yet sweet and inviting

As she would sing

Trying to fit the chords in place

Sometimes behind where it ought

To slide, she would glide on

As the crowd silently cheered

Each adjustment and little mistake

As she was sincere

Giving a performance

Full of grace

The love embracing

The celebrated couple

She sings thanks

For being her friends

 

 

April 10, 2025

A sweet non-verbal student who loves musicals stepped on stage for the first time as part of a variety show at our school tonight. It was wonderful to see him blossom and fulfill this “life-long dream,” as he put it. I hope this isn’t the last time he participates in theatre, and I hope it can feed him well as this first meal seemed to be for him.

 Stage Sighs

As I watched my young friend

Step to stage tonight

Pushing his button

To mechanically announce his name

A smile of recognition

As the audience applauded

At this tiny recognition

His joy and fright

Unsure where to step

His watching others

Forgetting to be present

Because of the moment

He wanted to stare

And watch others

As he’d done so many times

Sitting on the sidelines

Wanting to know

how to be on stage

He admired it so much

So, now to stand on hallowed ground

With an audience around

It mesmerized him

Till one scene partner signaled

Him to join in

And start again

He woke

Breaking into his own

Pace and place

Enthusiastically remembering the steps,

Rocking, making happy noises

Showing he can be there for them

He takes his place

They to join him

Ending together

As one note

April 9, 2025 It is just going on 8 p.m. and I’m falling asleep at my desk. It has been rough get sleep this week not sure why. Looking forward to spring break! My brothers would imitate a friend of theirs from boarding school, his nickname was Bump, that would say this or perhaps sing this little ditty that they would act out for us. It always made me laugh and I wonder what it is from? I haven’t found anyone else that knows it, but it goes, “I’m sleepy, sleepy, sleepy and I wanna go to bed! I have taters in my pockets and taters on my head!” Then my brothers would giggle and do this odd kinda dance and keep singing it until we laughed. Sleepy and missing my brother’s laughter and stories of Bump.

Taters in My Pockets and I Want to Go to Bed

Why is sleep so elusive, seductive, and comforting

To contemplate when far away from my bed?

I think of what was lost the night before

Or what is tugging at my sleeve

To go lie down

And drift far away

Into nothing

A pillowy cloud

That startles one

During the day

As you slump or slide

Sideways and flat

Trying to stay upright

And bright

Then in bed

I lie eyes not wanting

To close or stay

Silent as the brain

Wakes up

And shouts shutting out

That cozy warmth

As cold compress

Tightens down

On my leg, knee, head

And sharpens

As I toss

Mourning the loss

Of what I long to have

To sleep quietly

In a satisfied bed

Refreshed not rushed

As dawn peeks

Saying, “wake up sleepy head!”

All night half waking

I give a low growl as dawn’s

Cheery greeting

To roll over

Finally dozing

Five minutes more

Just to bolt

Out of bed

Missing sleep

Until night calls

I fight the drowsy duel

Till I can try once more

 April 8^th, 2025 A true story in poem form from my high school classroom.

Weekend Laundry

I have this student in my class

It’s only Tuesday, and he asks what my plans are

Not for class, or the evening

But for the weekend

I tell him of dates or outings

Things that have been

Counted on for a while

I ask him what his plans are

With a smile, he says, “laundry”

Now, when I was fourteen

My weekends were more than

Just washing my socks

But then again, they weren’t

Much more exciting most of the time

Then watching dryers spin

It is a bit of a sin for this young fella

To always reply laundry is his big plan

I asked him on Monday if he got the big pile done

So, he could move on to something fun this weekend

He said, “Nope”

Now, it has become a running joke

As he always says, “laundry”

Like an old man who has nothing else to do

And I say, “I hear ya” or “right back at ya” or “me too!”

And we fist bump to seal the solidarity with the mundanity of our adulting

It made me pause today when talking about spring break next week

I asked what his big plans are

His reply came world weary, “laundry, always.”

I thought about this middle child of three

Growing like a weed and hauling his sweat-laden clothes

To the nearest laundry mat

He probably takes two buses for that

Drawing by Christian Diaz.

Come to think of it,

He often wears the same clothes

Day after day

The only time I really notice

Is the day they aren’t the same

But that is a short blip

Like that, one day is too much

For those fine threads

Perhaps they are worn

On a day between the washing

Of those most familiar

Same pants, shirt, socks, and light jacket

That I see daily

He and I are worlds apart

But I think he figures I have lots of laundry

As I come dressed and pressed

Clean every day in something

That is one of many outfits

With colors and patterns

It is unmistakable that I changed my clothes

For weeks without repeating much

He figures I have to do laundry sometime

I envision him waiting for his clothes to be done

He doesn’t like to wait for the bell to ring at the end of class

Yet he does his own and perhaps his little sister’s laundry

Every single weekend

I hope over spring break

He gets his laundry done

And he can go have some fun

And smile, remembering his teacher

She is probably washing her family’s clothes too

 April 7, 2025

Thinking of my son and husband as they are at a Mariners game tonight.

 

The Seventh Inning Faithful

Baseball is a sport for the hopeful

Inning after inning, one dreams of winning

Even when down in score

Some complain it is a bore

Not to those who believe

Anything is possible

In the next-to-last inning

With the bases loaded

And the washed-up player comes to bat

A famous poem or two

Hums through one’s head

With the faith of the fanatic

The crowd leans forward

Visualizing the ball sailing

Out of sight, taking flight

As our team must win tonight!

 

 April 5^th and 6th

Skipped April 5^th as I was busy and exhausted. April 6^th, still busy, exhausted, but finally caught a nap and feel so much better! It has been a rough week in the news and in so many personal lives. Friends of ours who long for a baby lost their child in the early stages. I remember losing five of mine and the pain with each, especially the last that I held in my hand before letting them slip away into the water.

 Mizuko kuyō (水子供養) is a Japanese ceremony for miscarriage.  It means water child. It is letting the child go into the water and be at peace. There is more to it as a Buddhist practice, for those who mourn the loss.

 My friends planted a tree to mark the loss of two little ones. My father and mother did that after they lost my brother at only about 10 days old. I wish I’d done more ceremonies to our losses. I wrote poetry and drew pictures but it was a lonely and terrible time in our marriage as we were raising our one child and mourning the loss of several. Yet, I remember what it was like not to have any children or think they would come, which is a huge loss when you are hoping to bring one into existence from the love you share. Trying to put all of this into words, here is my clumsy poem to share grief with my friends. I hope for better days for them.

Tariffs seem to be the other subject we can’t escape these days. So, here's a short, pithy poem on that subject, too.

 Washing Mizuko kuyō

I saw you before you were here

I was looking for you there, scared

Surprised by delight in the night

I knew you had survived

To thrive was our goal

To one day stroll

Hand in hand, skipping

A lifting of thought and spirit

To inherit a part of me and him

Margins are slim

That you will become you

To stick like glue

To my insides

Residing and abiding

Safe in that space

To gain and grow

Till I can show

Shouting from the rooftops

Letting people know

You are mine

The day turned black

A pain that racks my back

My belly a sea of uncertainty

An urge to purge

The color red

Shed in the bed

That made you

I am beyond blue

Panicked I called the doctor

Who is a calm proctor

Testing my strength

As I tend to sink

She sends me a link

Of how to do this

I am pissed

This is cold

I do what I’m told

Another wave of nausea

I ran and found the cause, yeah,

This is a familiar awful territory

I sit, I reach, and out you rush,

You are whole, not crushed

I can hold you in one hand

I don’t understand

Soft, fragile, eyes closed

All tiniest fingers and toes

I wash you off and speak to you

I don’t have a clue

What else to do

Curtis Wicklund's drawing about the grief of miscarriage.

I stare in despair

Long to repair

My little girl or guy

Not in the “sky”

Here! I want you

I do, I do, I do,

Something went wrong

It wasn’t long

Enough

 

Tariffs

A tax on my brain

Would be the next step

Why not?

You could only escape it in death

These punishments for other countries

Tend to squeeze those in the middle

Who only have a dribble or two to spare

As the cupboards are bare

The whole thing seems as fair

As taxing my brain

 

 Friday, April 4^th,

^{My boy was excited about world conflicts tonight; this is where my brain went.}

^{Outlining War}

Conflict is the thing that makes a story

It gives some men glory

Picture of part of an art piece I drew

When it is on foreign soil

That is in constant boil

Down a slippery slope

Speeches full of tropes

That swallow hope

Strangling white flags

Marks the tag

A country for sale

As it grows ever pale

Guns, tanks, and bombs

Tear apart grandmas, moms

Another part of it depicts war

Kidnaps innocence

A constant flinch

At the flash and crash

Humble homes tumble

Bundled in a trundle

Of rubble that redoubles

From political trouble

That started the scumble

That has disguised this bright country

That shone, full of trees

Now barren, a desert

Blown away by the hurts

That one man defamed

Another proclaimed

The conflict started

When all sense departed

 April 3^rd Aquatic Animal Day

Sea Muse

I saw somewhere that every day on the calendar is claimed

Someone started naming days

Outside of holidays

They put a glaze over the ordinary

Before it was famous

They traded up

Today is about under the sea

The swimming creatures

That wave fins and swim

They are pinned

To this date

I can’t relate

As no one said

“Let’s have a Sarah Day!”

It could be great

Or lame

Too much fame

One is framed

As a certain thing

But it doesn’t ring

True for you

Octopi are aquatic

It seems quixotic

To throw a celebration

In honor of a creature

Who wants to float free

In the sea, unknown

At home

Not shown

Or shined up for you to see

Go visit, don’t stay

Explore today

 April 2^nd, 2025 National Autism Day

Our Boy at 16 months old in Tablisi. 

The Language of Autism

You were almost three

I’d watch you breathe

When you collapsed

Under the weight of

Your busy world

That zoomed and swirled around you

Kicking off all shoes

Dumping out my boxes, Papa’s boxes, your boxes, our boxes

To sit in an empty box

And stare at or study

The rest of your surroundings

You were quiet

Not a word of your own

Lots of borrowed words

Dr. Suess, Silverstien, and Shakespeare

Were favorites along with

Little Bear, Frog and Toad, Mr. Lunch, and Not a Box!

Every person you encountered and heard any recitation

Was memorized exclaiming, “He is so smart!”

We loved the recitations

You got across what you wanted by those borrowed stories

A language all your own

Yet, I longed to hear you want something

That you could ask for

On your own

The doctors called it autism

And said you might not get beyond the recitations

Our Young Man at 19, Mariners game.

But you did

Those stories and poems primed the pump

Of words and opinions, you have grown into

Up, up, up past all those borrowed words

You have found a deep well of your own

Autism fuels the depths of thoughts

As the words flow and overflow

About all you know

You are grown and have grown

It fills my mother’s heart

How you show how much

You love us and the world that zig zags around you

With a language all your own

 It is National Poetry Month and time for me to write a poem a day for NaPoWriMo!  Here are the first two offerings.

April 1st

A day for fools

Or of fools

Or for fools

Unbound

Unknown

Unpredictable

Nothing happens

No one dares

Everything catches

And burns, bleeds, bursts,

Breads, breaks, busts,

Debeards, dies, devastates,

Drives, dives, and destructs,

People are engaged, divorced,

And having a fifth child

Yet, it is all a net to catch

The nearest way

To make them pay

Or have some play

Or just to be gay today!

It is a joke, a note, a kind of yoke

Sparing no one

Just for fun

A day that joins all fools

 

 

 

Moonbeam Express

Photo by Mitchell Bowser on Unsplash

Faint silent sliver

A moon upturned as a grin

Floating on a sea of black

Invisible cat wearing a hat

That marks the absurd

Ambition that hovers

In my crowded mind

I look up

The corners of my mouth

Curling into a well-worn smirk

That signals the chaos

To continue to ride

Up and down, all around

Beneath the pin pricks of light

That scatter the bulbous boulders

That block my brain

Breaking them down

Scattershot lazers

Punching through a velvet curtain

Clouds lifted

Moon is energized

Like a bulb has been changed

My thoughts now rearranged

For peace to enter in