Month: April 2022

NaPoWriMo #21

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ode to being young

Photo by Amy Engelsman via ReShot

an oversized sweatshirt becomes
a playground–fun mornings
back to back.
big smiles are welcome mats
and seeking arms want
nothing more than to
embrace a body bigger than
the one they’re attached to;
for comfort–for safety.

a rough night is instantly
replaced with a morning
drenched in surprises
and covered with chocolate
chip pancakes–so much syrup,
no one says, “When!” to stop
its flow.

a day of outside fun turns
into weeks of delightful events.
all that’s missing is
the contract to sign to
do this over and over and
over again.

ad infinitum.

#NaPoWriMo #19

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power three: Photo Credit Tremaine L. Loadholt

digging in the crates

went album hunting
on my 42nd, filled
with excitement to
dive into hundreds of
crates with artists’ smiles
or avant garde masterpieces
marking up the covers.

I hunted for The Isley Brothers,
Hall & Oates, and Moonchild,
but found the Commodores and
Leonard Cohen, instead.
my time was not wasted
as I increased my collection
by three more good
finds for under thirty dollars.

I paid my fee, shared my
store credit with the college-aged
woman standing behind the
plexiglassed station, and loaded
up my new babies in
my motivated arms.

I fell in love with music
all over again when the needle
licked the first record of
choice. I spent hours
replaying the feelings and
emotions building a tower
in my heart.

I’ll go again next weekend.

NaPoWriMo #17

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42

Caison, my little Munchkin Man.

42 is here, and I spent
the day before my new
age watching the glow
of a toddler shine before
my very eyes.

he has a way of removing
my heartache and pulling
the sunshine into
my frame–what a gift
a few words can be,
especially when everything
inside tells you nothing
will change . . .

but you know, truly know
that the perfect smile
from a loved one so dear
can bloom in your spirit,
and give you relief.

joy comes in the mourning.
grief isn’t forever.
life is meant to be lived,
and the child knows this,
lives this, and understands this.

NaPoWriMo #16

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agony

I’ve written a book of poems
no one can read right now
without crying or feeling
like their heart will raise itself
up out of their chest, and walk
away willingly.

it helped me–to flesh out those
poems–to lend them to the air
around me, and grieve . . .
truly grieve as each day passes.

it’s in phases.
sad to acceptance to mourning
to celebrating the life she
lived and being grateful to
share the same blood with a
human being so God-damned
special.

I know the agony my family
feels as they struggle through
each poem.
I know the pain that creeps in,
sits at attention, and waits
to be acknowledged.

I know all of this because I
wrote the words that causes
the pain that helps me heal.