when we longed
for what we didn’t see,
for what we
needed most, then
hoped, as we eternally do:
maybe next year.
To my own bad self
Consider the ways of your own cantankerous kin,
who’ll fight when they must, or else why bother?
Why scuff the floor or muss up your just-pinned
hair, especially when the snag is only whether
or how to get from here to where you want to be?
What say, dear, these days we bet on baby
steps in the transformation game? What say we
take ’em, and remember that the way we
play with others is, meanwhile, key. This ain’t, girl,
rocket science. Look toward your own end zone,
work that arm and make your moves, cool
on down, and leave the blame game the eff alone.
The moon is up. Its ivory tray
awaits your cares to cart them off
to sleep. As light as livelong day,
it rests, a pearl on black-necked night.
Whispered stanzas come and go,
music wafted on the wind; out
back we’ve set a chair for you,
a fire, too, against the night,
like spring in winter, birth in death,
like calm in storm, a warmly way
to mark your visit as a day
of peace and truth, of talk all night,
of goals and dreams, ideas and plans,
and sated rest once moonlight wanes.
So come, dear one, and bring your pain,
the blood-red wine we’ll nurse all night.
The finest pup
in all the land
I mean truly,
mans the fort
as is her duty,
as long as it takes
for food, drink, walk,
and pretty days
with her beloveds.
Zuul even loves
her tiny new thunder-
who will soon pull hair,
and give even more
than she gives.
In my life
as mantra sayer
I see now how
to really change tunes:
with all I’ve got—