POEM: blood & milk

blood and milk,
each vital, nourishing
my breasts flow with both now
one feeds my last baby,
drawn out in tenderness
the other, wounded, healing
forcibly drained
pumped as a sign of faith
both elixirs
evidence of hope

POEM: evening unleashed

evening is letting go

there's little left to do

what's still undone will have to wait

the precious bit of time remaining

belongs not to the putting away of things

but to getting comfortable

settling down

unwinding thoughts

unraveling the tightly wound tether

that ties me to the day

loose now I drift

floating

the words come if I am patient

ideas flourish in front of me

on the page

they weave their way gently

until they are complete

unexpectedly

and the last knot releases

soaring

I am done

until tomorrow

POEM: voice

I’ve found my voice
I recognize it
as if it were always mine,
only lost for a while
Yet I know that all it speaks
is different now,
a quality that is new
emerging
from the center
this midpoint that lies
between all there is for me
and all there has been
My new voice recognizes me
and knows we belong together

POEM: my degree

I once felt unqualified
I had no authority
that I could display
no proof of my legitimate place
but sometimes, sometimes
I found myself knowing
what I know
an unadulterated truth
yet I hesitated to speak
now I offer it up
bravely, determinedly
despite my lack
of proper tag or label
who will listen
becomes less a question
I care to ask
knowing only that to exist
to be earnest
to be passionate and open
are my diplomas
better than any hanging on a wall
or shoved in a dusty box
that I think outside of anyway
because I still can

POEM: forsythia

I didn't force any forsythia to bloom

distracted,

spring beat me to it

now long arching branches

are studded with little yellow trumpets

small but noisy

blaring

they remind me that I forgot them

shouting

they herald change is inevitable

Time marches on

POEM: Pygmalion

As your Eliza Doolittle
I had to find the middle ground
when you were done with me
dropped
from the heights you flung me
you let me fall
because I couldn’t fly

but if you’d only held my hand
a little longer
I could have at least hovered
if not so high
then farther than I was able
to make it on my own

A stone once carved can’t go back
to being a rock
to continue life
it must be beheld
eyes upon it
once you turn your back
it is left deformed by the chisel
unable to pick up the pieces
chipped away
now dust

POEM: seasoned

When young
I wrote from a point
of influence
but now I write
half as a child
fresh, clean
my own voice alone
but yet still as a woman
older, wiser
experiences available
expressed without hesitation
or filter
my own voice now echoes
the song of a life
already half lived