Tag Archives: poetry

Wishes

I wish that I was younger
and I wish I wasn’t so concerned about
the passage of time
seeing lines in my reflection,
aging parents, taller kids

I wish that I was richer
and I wish I wasn’t bothered by
the cost of eggs and our medical bills,
how we’ll afford to send our children
to college, how to pay for a new home

I wish our government was kinder
and I wish there was
a crystal ball I could use to predict
how to preserve freedom, peace
and justice for us all

I can’t wish away the hunger
I can’t wish away the hate
But I can name what’s broken
I call for change
and ask myself what I can give
to ease my neighbors’ pain

I wish that I was braver
And I wish I could give voice
to every injustice
that I witness and have experienced
as a mother
as a woman
as a girl

I wish I was a better Christian
and wife and mom
the kind of person who doesn’t
use sharp words with the ones I love the most
I wish I could sand my rough edges
give them the softest version
of my heart

All of these wishes
I keep them hidden
Will any come true?
All of these wishes
I hope God hears them
God, make me new

// Poem inspired by “Wishes,” a song by Tiny Habits

On the cusp of 40

She is at the age where
Instagram serves her ads for Botox,
at the age where faint wrinkles indent
the edges of her cheeks, and it seems

her skin is a problem to be solved, as if
“She smiled too much” could be written
on her gravestone.

In her twenties, she almost lost
a job because she was
“too nice.” Still, they hired her.
Now she’s old enough to know
there’s nothing nice about
people-pleasing.

She heard on a podcast that
when women face menopause,
our bodies and minds will suffer,

the suffering is real
but she’s letting go
of the idea that her best days
are behind her — she’s holding onto
her smile, she’s determined to live
the next 40 years concerned with
her own pleasure.

She’s driving into a new decade, windows down,
hair dancing in the breeze, Kacey Musgraves cranked
loud, singing “I’ve got to take care of myself,” she’s
feasting on salmon, pasta and chocolate, walking
into rooms with her head held high, lifting weights
and finding her own strength, making waves, making
goals, making love, devouring — and making — juicy poems.

Midlife is a death sentence?
She’s not letting herself go
there. At 39, she’s on the cusp of
becoming. Her gravestone will read:
She wrote and lived beautiful stories.
Until the end, she held onto
her smile.

// This post is part of a blog hop with author Lindsay Swoboda in support of her book Holding On and Letting Go: A Life in Motion.

Click here to view the next post in the series.

Planting season

The saying “Bloom where
you’re planted” served
her well for years

She put down roots,
Pale green sprouts stretched tall
Tiny buds formed, eager to unfurl
She wanted to grow, grow, grow

Lately she’s been wondering,
Can I still bloom
when the climate changes?
Or if the garden grows too crowded?
What if there are toxins in the ground?

What if there’s another place
with richer soil
more space
and a more temperate climate?

Few perennials dare uproot
themselves
Some wither
Some are crushed
She’s always had trouble letting go

Time ticks by — the hour is late
Too long she’s blamed herself
for failing to thrive in poor conditions
She will look upon herself with love
Call herself precious

She’ll be more careful this time
She’ll stick her hands in the dirt and plant
herself where she can bloom
Trust the Master Gardener
Turn her face towards the sun

Reasons to wake early

To witness fuschia streak across the sky
and tangerine clouds outlined in gold
To notice sparrows singing
To savor hot coffee without interruption
To breathe
To untangle a thicket of thoughts on paper
before the day unfolds
To thank God for another spin
around the sun
To remember that, as the sky evolves,
I can too
To dwell in light — and possibility

Chapter 38

Today she turns 39.

Her 38th year is not one she’d ever ask to repeat. “Trying” is how her husband described it in her birthday card. Other adjectives she’d add are “traumatic” and “revelatory.” She has no shining accomplishments to toast. There were more endings than beginnings. More questions than answers. At one point, she disliked herself so much she couldn’t bear to look in the mirror.

Healing took time and courage. She left communities she loved because belonging to them was causing her harm. For a season, she set down her pen and silenced herself. She had hard conversations and made school lunches and folded the laundry and kissed her children and cried in the shower.

Does everyone have these hidden pains they just shoulder quietly? she asked God. Her faith was shaken, but she didn’t stop believing.

Hours of research and reflection helped her see she wasn’t alone. The stories she read — paired with her family’s love — mended what was broken inside. Joy returned. And with it, many wonderful moments; the only possible explanation was grace.

She discovered that some years are gentle and sweet, and other years, everything you think you know burns to ash and you have to fight like hell to rise up after the fire.

After much prayer, she picked up her pen again. She decided she’ll write another book.

At 6:15 a.m. today, her sons tumbled into the master bedroom, searching for her. Her husband rolled back the comforter and the two boys burrowed between them like a pair of puppies. Under the warmth of the comforter, she clung to her children. At least I kept them safe and sound, she resolved. I held them and they held me. That is enough.

The morning after the election

My phone alarm buzzes, jostling 
me from sleep. I silence it, check
my inbox: The Times’ subject line is
 a gut punch.
I want to silence this news, too.
Tossing my phone aside, I bury 
myself under the weighted blanket.
If I just stay here I can pretend that, 
for once, a woman triumphs.

Somewhere else in America 
someone else woke up, checked her email 
and smiled. In her eyes, his election is 
  a warm hug.
Where I see harm, 
she sees hope — the promise of prosperity. 
Why do we see things so differently?

“Mommy?” my two-year-old approaches 
my bedside, rubbing his eyes. “Come here,” I beckon,
wrapping my arms around his soft, warm body,
Cocooned beside me, he drifts back to sleep. 

How will I teach him to be kind in a world 
that rewards deceit and greediness?
It’s the same question I ask myself daily, yet
this morning it feels urgent, I worry
this country will become more dangerous 
for many. Holding my son close, I pray
for peace, for our leaders, for our nation.

Finally, I rise and open
 the blinds, 
gray clouds envelope the sky.
My boy rustles in the bed; soon I’ll serve
oatmeal and fold laundry, he’ll build towers
and paint pictures, we’ll read stories and find 
shelter in each other. 

No, I can’t pinpoint the Light — not today —
still, I trust it’s here, shining
within us.

Finding God

“…have you ever found God in church? I never did. I just found a bunch of folks hoping for him to show. Any God I ever felt in church I brought in with me. And I think all the other folks did too. They come to church to share God, not find God.” ― Alice Walker, The Color Purple

“I’ve been missing you at church,”
a friend wrote, bringing me to tears.
“I hope you are still finding God near,”
she added, her words as gentle as summer rain.

No, I haven’t been there lately,
but I have met God
at open mic night,
he told us he was autistic, he sang
an original song and strung his guitar,
God was in the crowd, too, listening hard,
God clapped long and loud when the music stopped.

God greeted my toddler from the garbage truck,
God cheered each batter at my oldest’s baseball game,
God saw me with my hands full and opened up the gate.

God showed up in
pastel clouds over a shimmering sunset,
the heady scent of roses,
the first bite of a perfectly grilled burger,
strawberry shortcake, delivered by a neighbor,
Scripture scribbled on a postcard,
whispered apologies,
a prayer uttered over the phone,
cottonwood seeds drifting in the breeze,
in hugs and kisses from my children.

No, I haven’t seen my friend at church.
“It’s not a peaceful place for me right now,”
I told her. Yet,
as sure as the stars shine,
God’s been reaching for me,
breathing goodness into everything,
wrapping me in God’s gracious arms.

Advice to Young Women

At 13, what I wanted
—more than anything—
was to be thin as a prima ballerina,
so delicate I could pirouette
with ease,
so tiny I’d finally fit in
with the other girls
so slender I’d fade
into school walls rather than risk
being seen.

That spring, I made the school musical,
I had a part and a solo.
When I stepped on stage to sing,
my voice shook, then steadied,
with each verse, I grew feathers,
soon after, I was soaring high in the sky.

That was my first taste of a more expansive life
I didn’t need to hide away; I could offer
hope
and goodness. I could be and do more
than I ever dreamed I might.
I wanted to chase that feeling over and over.

I’d like to say that moment was a revolution,
but that would only be half-true.
For nearly 40 years, I’ve wrestled with
silence and singing
fitting in and standing out
perfection and mess.
On my best days, I claim my power.
On my worst, I’m 13 again, still afraid
of sharing my voice.

If I could warn her, oh if I could whisper
wisdom into my younger self’s ears, I’d tell her:
Some men will try to cage you
and keep you small.
Don’t let them.
Sing your song.
Spread your wings.
Let your beautiful, wild self
be free.

Fear and courage

My son declares
“I’m not scared
of anything”

Almost 7 and still a wonder
boy whose life began with a lack of breath,
who, since he found his voice
rarely stops talking, who’s made of
sugar, steel and laughter

“That’s nice, honey,” I tell him, folding
his words and slipping
them into my back pocket
like a note I want to revisit later

Me? I’m scared of all sorts of things:
Showing up late. Wearing
the wrong outfit. Singing off-key.
Saying something off-color.
My kids getting hurt or worse — dying.
Mass shootings. War. Global warming.
Cockroaches in the house and maxing
out my credit card at Target.

Scared of success
and scared of failure.
Missed naps and moldy leftovers.
Scared of parties and public speaking.
Scared of home renovations
—but also scared of moving(?)—
literally anyone who rings our doorbell.
Tantrums at the grocery store. PTA meetings.
The cool moms at school pickup. Forgetting
a deadline. Forgetting
to return a text. Forgetting.

Scared of aging. Scared of dying.
Scared I won’t ever get to the point of this poem.

Scared of tornadoes.
Scared of blizzards.
Scared of men, when I walk alone
at night, midday or early in the morning.
Scared of running into ex-boyfriends,
that band teacher who despised me,
even scarier, my ex-best friend from high school.

Scared of weight gain. Scared of wrinkles.
Car crashes. Insomnia. Cancer.
Losing track of my kids anywhere,
especially near water.
Losing my husband, mother or father.

Scared I’ve said too much.
Scared I ate too much.
Scared of all the want inside me.
Scared how much I love my children.
Scared I’ve not been a good enough mother.

All this fear inside. Where does it come from?
What I wouldn’t give to soak up
some of wonder boy’s courage

Often I feel scared of writing
especially publishing.
Scared I’ll be judged.
Worse, no one cares.
Years of writing and I’m still scared
by all the rejection.

Then I think
of my son, and the world I want
him to inherit, a society steeped
in justice, peace and kindness.

So I keep writing,
keep chasing truth and beauty,
keep confronting my fears on the page,
emerging
braver and stronger,
keep penning hope
into a world riddled
by brokenness.

Blessing for the first day of summer

This summer, let there be light — 
sunlight, starlight, delight
featherlight bags, lightsome days, a lightness
of being (best conjured when we are on vacation),
Let there be flashlights and fireflies,
campfires and fireworks,
Let us feel light.

Let there be play —
baseball games and frisbee
chalk art and bubble-blowing
swinging so high you could touch the sky
racing on your bike with the wind in your hair
and an open path with heat waves glimmering in the distance
and miles to go before you tire
Let us be carefree.

Let us add water —
the garden hose and the kiddie pool
sprinklers, splash pads and slip-n-slides,
Let us visit the creek, the beach, the pool,
Let there be cannonballs and splashing,
Let the tide lap against our toes and wash away our worries,
Let the water hold us, cool us, baptize us in grace.

Let there be feasting —
Let us grill hamburgers, mushrooms and pineapple
Let us twirl hotdogs and marshmallows over the fire
Let us taste a juicy bite of watermelon and revel in our sugar high
Let there be popsicles, ice cream cones and lemonade stands,
picnic lunches and coolers filled with Capri Suns and Coronas
Let us savor all summer has to offer us, let us give thanks for our abundance.
Let us feel content.

Let us be bored, and even a little lazy,
Let us trade our screens and work 
for poems and novels and meditation,
live music and a little mischief
Let us scour the earth for four-leaf clovers and honeysuckle,
Let us count clouds and stars and rollie pollies,
Let the hours stretch like a dog dozing 
in a sunbeam
Let us, too, drift off into a blissful nap 
(preferably in a hammock),
Let there be rest.