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.
Tag Archives: poetry
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.
First blush
All summer she basked
in the sun.
Now the days are dwindling,
the autumn wind is gusting,
and hope courses
through her veins.
She changes quietly
she has much to do before
becoming
a tree of splendor,
before she sheds
each ruby leaf
and finds the beauty in release.
“Be gentle,” she whispers
to the others (but more so to herself)
“Give me grace
while I transform.”
Newborn standard time
These are the days of
his small head nestled
against my chest
skin — velvet smooth, unmarred by time —
to
skin — a soft place
to
dream,
drink,
rest,
grow (some days,
I swear, I can see
him thickening
in the shelter of my arms)
and some days blur into nights
cradling him close
feeding
and being fed
by his warmth
our two hearts
beating in sync
his slate blue eyes
searching for mine,
which of course, are bloodshot
and glad (some nights, I swear, holding him
feels like heaven on earth)
some nights
I feel suffocated
by all he needs
and these are the nights that blend into days
when golden light lingers
at the edge of the crib
each day becoming a little longer
as if to say,
“Take heart,
change is coming,
so be sure to
treasure these days.”
A few things I love
I love sunsets,
I love words,
I love paying attention to the movements of birds,
I love the warmth of a fire
and hearty conversation,
I love taking long vacations,
I love my husband’s strong embrace
and our son’s melodious laugh,
I love piping hot coffee with half-and-half,
I love fresh-cut hydrangeas
and a candle on my desk,
I love having really good sex,
I love minestrone and Aperol Spritz and fresh-baked baguette,
I love a Bad Day ice cream sundae to help me forget,
I love it when the clouds are painted cotton candy pink,
I love reading writers whose work makes me think,
I love practicing yoga
and walks in the woods,
I love seeing people collaborate for the common good,
I love the mountains,
I love to sing,
I love pushing my son on a tire swing,
I love MagnaTiles and Hot Wheels cars strewn across our carpet,
I love using drive-up order service at our local Target,
I love the smell of fabric softener wafting in the breeze,
I love how my dog’s presence puts me at ease,
I love being with friends who feel like home,
I love and crave more time alone,
I love baby announcements and heartfelt letters,
I love chunky and soft oversized sweaters,
I love rainbows, the first snow, calming waters, blazing leaves,
I love watching Hallmark Christmas movies,
I love feeling the wind tickling my hair,
I love how protests and petitions can be a form of prayer,
I love faith that makes space for questions,
the grace that sets me free,
a church that affirms each person’s dignity,
I love hearing my preschooler’s silly jokes,
I love listening to the stories of ordinary folks
I love art that’s beautiful and bold,
I love how writing invites me
to behold.
artist inspiration: Courtney Martin, Lemn Sissay, Ashlee Gadd + the Exhale Creativity writing community
Ode to light-catchers
After Dale Chihuly’s “Glasshouse”
Call it foolish, call it futile,
say flamboyant if you dare.
As for me, I’ll call it radiance,
suspended in the air —
a glass dragon roaring
with amber, fire, maize,
mid-flight, bouncing beams,
ever-wrestling in its cage.
Or a vine of glossy poppies
honey, rose, persimmon glow
floating high in a rare greenhouse,
never meant to seed or grow.
From my vantage point I watch
them juxtaposed against blue sky,
and Seattle’s Space Needle reaching
for the star that grants us light.
What was the artist thinking?
another bystander might ask.
Does a fragile glasshouse
matter amid brokenness en masse?
(All these tired, hungry people
looking for a place to rest.
Such extravagance demands
we raise our eyes, pause and reflect.)
Me, I could’ve stayed
for hours bathed in warmth,
beneath the sun
roused by beauty,
held by brightness
from the Maker’s hands was spun.
God only knows (a sonnet)
Where can we get a baby?
my son asks, his blue eyes piercing
in the morning’s heel.
It’s far too early to navigate this task.
Oh Jesus, where are you? Please take the wheel!
He wants a brother — he’s an only child.
Stalling, I tell the tale he loves to hear,
You once lived in my tummy —
isn’t that wild?
He nods and smiles at me, his joy sincere.
A baby is a miracle divine:
from clay the Artist sculpts a newborn soul
with aptitude to love, create, refine.
How wonderful the sight is to behold!
My thoughts don’t make it to my child today;
instead I say, It’s a mystery. Go play!
some signs of hope in 2020 (a list)
the faithfulness of wildflowers
& the changing seasons,
children laughing,
for once a good news story,
hot coffee (preferably first thing in
the morning),
dogs, especially puppies,
the friend who texted, “everything ok?” when
you didn’t show up to Zoom book club,
your new haircut, &
this poem that made you realize
you weren’t the only one
who felt like that,
dreams (sweet ones) scrawled in
your notebook
alongside mantras like “one day at a time”
& “you are enough,”
geese soaring someplace warmer,
prayer,
people standing up for racial justice,
voting for kindness,
your son, &
how he beams at you when
you’re holding hands
twirling.
(breathe deep) find hope
inhale, rise. exhale, fold.
stretch float flow
repeat. beyond your window
winged wonders chirp, twitter, tweet
you, too, salute the sun, rest in its golden bright
before they wake, limbs tangled in the sheets,
before the headlines make you clench your jaw if
“hope is the thing with feathers,”
what is dread
a clawed predator,
lurking in the very air we
breathe deep, remember:
you’re safe in this nest
meanwhile essential birds flit to and fro
till the earth, tend the brood, fight death—
(breathe deep) what you’ve been asked to do
(nest) barely feels like sacrifice
still
you bow your head, weary
you close your eyes, wet
you fold your hands,
pleading
for miracles.
indoors, your little one wakes
outside, a robin warbles
Beautiful
She looks in the mirror
violet crescents shadow
the delicate space below
her tired eyes
ring fingers tap cold cream
trace new wrinkles
etched in the corners
and here’s
an annoying pimple
in her reflection,
//
her eyes move to
her softened belly,
once ballooned to carry a baby
small breasts,
once swelled to feed that baby
two arms —
she flexes twice —
her arms have never been stronger
nearly three years later
her baby still begs to be carried.
//
Once upon a time
she picked at her flesh
and prodded
and planned
stepped on a scale
let a number dictate her
joy
her diet
she aimed to reign in
what she now knows is wild and free
and maybe aging
isn’t something to
fear like they taught us.
//
This time
she drinks in her reflection
and calls it
evidence of
pain
evidence of
bliss
evidence of
a woman evolving.
she calls it
Erin Strybis 