We parted days ago but it seems like years already I ride the bumpy white gravel trail near my home that reminds me of our solitary bike ride last week on the Panhandle You wanted to cross the no entry point I said no I wanted to take a photo of the military threat level sign you said don't be stupid We listened to Pink Floyd when we were teenagers saw them in concert after a truck bed ride down the streets of downtown Nashville high on rock n roll Now I listen to them and my heart sings cries We had one huge fight our entire sibling hood A letter sent to my house ended the feud and I made the call Now it seems unbelievable after all the laughs you gave me at the Cape Laughter I needed at the most crucial time of my life It was like we were ten fifteen twenty again Momma's brother is gone from this earth I cried with her in the bathroom of a seafood restaurant days after he passed We embraced by the sink and our hands smelled like that coconut soap there You don't love the beach like I do but it will always remind me of you Brothers and sisters always a time and place Take care of yourself so we can cry with laughter again.
Category Archives: Sunday Night Sonnet
Brothers and Sisters
Filed under Sunday Night Sonnet
Sleeping Under the Piano Bench
Sleeping under the piano bench
her messy golden curls
alight with the sunrise
gleaming through the window
Little grinding of her teeth
is what I hear upon waking
The children’s discombobulated fort
a series of pillows from every room
And stuffed animals– those that resemble
real creatures like the eagle
and the dolphin
and those that don’t
like the rainbow-spotted unicorn
Blankets and beach towels
their rooftop
and warm comfort
I can also hear the birds singing
in the quiet of the morning
A peaceful proposition
among the days of high-pitched squeals
and incessant questions and whining
But here they sleep peacefully
while I sip my coffee
and wonder how their absence will
affect me
Summer visit from a dear friend
and her daughters
we’ve known since conception
keeping the house very much alive
for my son and I
A never-ending spinning dryer
and dirty dishes-filled sink
And their fort in the living room
all week
A reminder of those glorious
childhood days
laughter and innocence
and wonder
and using pieces of furniture
as a bridge between dreamland
and imagination.
Filed under Sunday Night Sonnet
A Curtain of Dragonflies
A curtain of dragonflies
flowed down from the sky
and came before me
shining like twilight
They weren’t coming
to take me away
but entering from another realm
reminding me to say
the ideas in my mind
in the starry night
the things I hold dear
and dream of
those things which cannot
be taken away
with a thousand wings of flight
or a thousand angry tongues
So sweet and calm and magical
this curtain is
Flow down to me again
tonight
tomorrow
and the next.
Filed under Sunday Night Sonnet
Sympathy from a Friend
I saw the tears in her eyes
after our embrace
She felt my pain
She hurt for me
For a moment
she owned it
like she had before
in her own time of
desperation
But I had to take it back
from her
and own it myself
Like we all do
But blessed are we
who can share it
with someone
who doesn’t judge
Yet sheds tears
with ours
Reminding there
is good in the world.
Filed under Sunday Night Sonnet
A Bright Mind
The mind–
not always a happy place
It has been taken over
by the dark rumble
of mother nature’s
mocking morning
And echoes of human
mockery
mistaking smiles for
unwelcoming invitations
But perception is reality
and my castle made of sand
my muscles flaccid
But still here I stand
I can’t cower in the corner
let the rumble take me over
although when that storm cell
passed through last night
I imagined it sucked me up
into it
and twirled me around
spinning in its cleansing,
forgiving arms
then spat me out
to be whole again
to let the light back in
to tear the muscles
into stronger flesh
to rid the mind of the rumble
the echoes
the doubt
bringing about truthful smiles
a stone castle
gentle echoes
open heart
and bright mind.
Filed under Sunday Night Sonnet
These Numbers
A panel of numbers
shimmer in the glint
of the overhead light
Numbers which could be meaningless
to aliens and animals
But to humans
signify freedom
That we rely on this list
of numerical code
is preposterous
Yet still
it is so
For the backbone
the door behind
is what some identify with
in whole
A soul’s opportunity
to shed itself
of material scrutiny
Can in an instance
be trampled
as if by a herd of buffalo
on the wheat-colored plains
And how ironic
those peoples
who hunted those beasts
did not exchange money
and surely not these numbers
Yet here we are
sliding our glimmering plastic
to feed clothe and perhaps
even travel
see the world
on a cadence of
digital emancipation
If it is so.
Filed under Sunday Night Sonnet
A Symphony of Storms
The storm is my symphony
It creates the grand timbre
usually saved for musical moments
when the silence is uncomfortably deafening
But now the speakers are quiet
the power is disabled
Just the pitter patter of rain
on the skylight and window panes
the rumble of the thunder
closer closer above loud cracking and crashing
then retreating retreating
to a distant rumble
while the dog snores beside
and the tap tap tapping of fingers on the keyboard
are applause to this symphony
that is my storm.
Filed under Sunday Night Sonnet
A Paint Stick and a Dream
On the heels of Maya Angelou’s death my son’s fourth grade class put on a poetry tea. It wasn’t planned this way. They just happened to transpire in the same week.
I’ve never been to a poetry tea. I’ve been to poetry slams, where upon entering everyone is given a paint stick. Instead of clapping or snapping (never really understood that one) you slam the paint stick on the desk in click-clack applause.
When my son told me weeks ago they were beginning to study poetry at school I was elated. Finally something I could get excited about. Common Core math is all he seems to bring home and talk about (and fail). I don’t do math. I took remedial math in college because my ACT math score was so low. I used to stab my math book with a pencil on homework nights in middle school. One year I snuck my worn math book home on the last day of school, placed it in the dry creek bed behind our house, and set it on fire.
But poetry? I wrote my first poem sometime during elementary school. I’m sure my mom still has it as she has much of my early schoolwork, artwork, and report cards archived.
I continued to write poetry into high school. Became the editor of the writer’s group. Won an English award for outstanding achievement. Wrote more poetry in college. Went to more poetry slams. Acquired more paint sticks.
My mom even kept one of my poetry slam paint sticks. And brought it to the tea. My son was intrigued. But asked me to please not slam it.
It was a dream of mine to become the next great American poet or author. To make money and gain notoriety from what I loved and seemed born to do. That dream among wanting to become a famous actress, a CIA agent, and at one time an astronaut. Now I hate being in front of a camera. Don’t like guns. Haven’t flown in six years. But this writing and poetry thing? Yeah, it stuck.
Maya Angelou’s first book I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings was published when she was in her early forties. You don’t have to be young to be an accomplished writer. And you don’t have to be accomplished to write. We do it because we have to.
I don’t know what my son will end up being passionate about. Right now he wants to become a firefighter. Or create story lines for video games. I don’t care if he doesn’t get math. Because I get that. Would I love if he were to get into poetry? Sure. But he will do what is in his heart to do. And yesterday at the poetry tea I was very proud of him. For an afternoon we shared a common dream. To express our thoughts from heart to paper to audience and have at least someone moved.
Here is his original poem he recited to two classrooms filled with nervous students and tea-drinking parents:
Beach Poem
Clearwater beach sunset not too hot excited sand, water and shells grainy, soft and wet the sand and flowing water crashing waves and the birds singing running in the sand and watching the sun go down watermelon and salt water tired and ready to go home.
“Words mean more than what is set down on paper. It takes the human voice to infuse them with shades of deeper meaning.” ―Maya Angelou, I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings
Filed under Sunday Night Sonnet
From Above and Underneath
Swooping down from above to place hands in care however needed No hidden agenda
But perhaps not hands but wings floating above a withering body a lost soul
In your eyes loving kindness What if that love turned to hate It cannot be can't entertain that thought of despair
The world is full of dust but underneath it a lush green forest where angels and fairies take respite
They strengthen together then float back to dust to extinguish it lay hands and wings on without hidden agenda.
Filed under Sunday Night Sonnet
In Times of Trouble
In times of trouble
I need to hear the birds sing
remember where I came from
and who I used to be
all the struggles overcome
all the times come undone
but put back again
by some strength within
In times of trouble
I need to hear the birds sing
I need to remember it's not just me
a speck in the universe
bound yet free
a flitter of a thought
not all for naught
In times of trouble
let me hear the birds sing
let me rest under her wing
let me let it be
Filed under Sunday Night Sonnet
Busted Flip Flops 