Author: poetryfest

My family have nicknamed our laundry basket – Mount Washmore,
Not that it bares the graven images of four American presidents,
But rather the dirty garments of four domestic residents.
No matter how hard we try to scale its lofty spire,
Its summit always seems to grow increasingly higher.
It often vacillates between unwashed laundry or its clean, unsorted state,
Thus leaving us crushed beneath Mount Washmore’s mighty weight.

They say you cannot bottle time,
but if I could,
I would put you in my favorite jar with the broken lid and leave you in my pantry to rot

The mother to my mother,
And Lala to me,
The greatest story ever told,
In my family.

A sweet old lady,
With wrinkles on her skin,
Each telling a story,
That we wait to begin.

Her voice pretty shaky,
Whenever she spoke,
Yet somehow strong,
Like the roots of an oak.

When I was first born,
She was seventy-nine,
Her fourth and last grandbaby,
She’d ever hear whine.

She sent me sweet, silly things,
Like coloring or a crossword,
Maybe she thought I was eight,
Which was a bit absurd.

Growing older into high school,
She sent me different things,
Like photos from long ago,
That pulled on some heartstrings.

Whenever she wrote something,
Her handwriting was iconic,
Sometimes it was hard to read,
And sometimes it was ironic.

I sent her emails and texts,
And she didn’t always respond,
But that was very normal,
Because there was still a bond.

When she did text back,
It was usually the same,
But each time it made me happy,
Whether it’s exciting or tame.

She was nothing but good to me,
And I love her so much,
Though we weren’t very close,
I miss her just as such.

Youth’s hand, smooth and fine,
Reaches for a vanished well,
Dandelion skulls.

Glass flowers swell, drown,
Lily dread, oceanic,
Tides roar, pull you down.

Light against cosmos,
Summer’s gaze, bony soft hum,
Clock hands reach and laugh.

Jerome of Stridon, in an ancient age
Alone in the desert, life of the mind
Writer, historian, translator, sage
Ill clothed, ill fed, burned by sun nearly blind
Jerome of Saint Cloud, my father’s brother
At home in the world, wherever he went
Philosopher, poet, builder, lover
His time and talent was freely lent
Former gave man the Bible in Latin
Latter gave family his tools, verse, and things
Memories embroidered, silk on satin
Creations of both, new life to them brings
In what we leave behind for all to see
Achieves a kind of immortality

heat shimmers through road
cicadas’ songs around
I am growing old

I.
In Oropos, a lone warrior rode
On horseback in search of a place to rest.
He had been on a long and weary quest,
So, he pulled on the reins and his horse slowed.
Up in the trees, the afternoon sun showed
Two doves huddled together in their nest.
He stopped his horse, and thought it would be best
To reach into his pouches to unload.
He walked to the center of the woodland,
And kept watching the doves in their repose.
He found some shade and stopped, just as he planned—
As the doves took flight, he picked up a rose.
He ate berries from a bush with his hand,
And then prepared a spot where he might doze.

II.
Through the thick leaves, Cupid’s arrow did fly,
Dropping the strong warrior on his back.
And with no warning sign of the attack,
The wounded warrior let out a cry.
The very source of every lover’s sigh
Had now made his vision a world of black.
The arrow in his armor left a crack
Over his heart from the archer so sly.
The doves that were circling overhead
Softly landed near his fallen torso.
In the warrior’s current state of dread,
He yelled for help with his physical woe.
As more of his blood continued to shed,
He heard the distant screeching of a crow.

III.
Through the boughs, crept the goddess of healing,
Circling around the branches with ease.
She saw the warrior beyond the trees,
Then stopped in her place—carefully kneeling.
She watched him with a merciful feeling,
And slowly rose to her feet from her knees.
Hoping to cure him from pain and disease,
At the loose tree bark, she began peeling.
She walked with her golden hair a-flowing,
As her white tunic radiantly gleamed
And reflected into her eyes of green.
She looked down at the warrior, knowing
That his wounds were worse than what they first seemed—
Then, she sought out ways of washing him clean.

IV.
She pulled on the arrow with gentle care
To make sure that his pain was not increased.
It appeared to be more than man or beast
Could ever have endured—or even dare.
There was a wide crack in his armor where,
From his heart, the arrow was now released.
The warrior had been nearly deceased
When it was removed from him unaware.
The poisoned arrowed turned into a snake,
And slowly began crawling up her arm.
From forest plants, a poultice she did make
To free the warrior from deadly harm.
As he continued writhing from his ache,
A splash of water completed her charm.

V.
She assembled the best cure that she knew,
And its level of success was profound.
Now that all its components had been found,
The muddy poultice took on a dark hue.
Softly into the wooden bowl she blew,
And the serpent then fell upon the ground.
As the snake in the grass slithered around,
The two doves simultaneously flew.
Walking over to where his body laid,
She worked away to heal his wounds and scars.
As there was no sort of debt to be paid,
She left his side, along with her nectars.
As he rose to his feet, he hoped and prayed
That she would take her place amongst the stars.

God is a parasite within women. Leeching substance from each organ, displacing her loins.
Life knit through crimson waves, curdled by screams.
Dirt clings to babe and child. Both shiver. Both cry bitter tears.
The Divine is found in the soul of women. Sharing the burden of creation, they embody the ache of rebellion. Silently observing the hate given and received by children. Swords pierce, blood pools, unflinching eyes.
Neither may flee from death, they are forced to look upon it and contemplate their role.
If not for one, the other would not be.
Cradling potential, yearning for worship, gazing upon decay.
Crushed under the burden of expectation.
The Church offers a promise of absolution by water, accepting only a sacrifice of blood.
Chaos washes the darkness of ages, I see.
From Mary to Grandmother, all the way down to me.
The Church neglects the Divine Nature as it buries the pain of women through sunlight that blinds instead of warms.
The forgotten veil at the altar’s edge. Praying for the world, left in the dust of the cassock.

Death is a strange thing
It makes me feel like a little kid
Always asking when they’re coming home
Always looking at the places they’re supposed to be

Crying at unrelated things
The grief quietly ripping my heart out

I never realize in the moment
7 years later
I’ll start crying in a Costco
When I see a forklift
Thinking of that moment
The moment when I saw him carried out of the house
Brain dead but still breathing

The moment I saw my moms expression as she said my name
In a Walmart.
Always the same face each time
A mix of worry and anguish

The grief is loud at unexpected times
Like when I play my violin and think of her
every time I realize again and again that really happened
They all really died
But I only understand for a second
Like jamais vu
Telling me
We’ve been here
before
Again and again

Do we ever really learn
To process grief?

Will I ever stop gaslighting myself into
Thinking it’s ok?

Will I ever stop feeling like a sociopath
For not being able to cry?

Will I ever stop distracting myself like an immature man
Who can’t process a breakup?

Will I ever stop shoving it down
Until all I feel is the urge
To cry at anything

But

never

Know

Why

According to the Christmas story of scripture
God decided to inhabit an infant body
to be carried in a woman’s body
then in her arms
to live without bowel control
without strength to hold his head up
and to live in a society that was unsafe.
He did that for us so we wouldn’t
have to die because of our misdeeds.

He could have come as an elephant
able to walk at birth and nurtured by his herd
Humans might poach him
for his tusks. Would that do the work
of crucifixion?
Could we have learned
not to die of our sins from an elephant?

He could have come as a giant sequoia
stable and stately and able to withstand
hurricane force winds and live 500 years
of interconnectedness within the forest—
a clear example of patience,
of mutual support within a strong community
of hospitality to other living beings.
Perhaps they did.