Archive for November 2022


November 29, 2022


When I think of thanks,
I think of you and I think too
of them—of her and her
and her and him—

And all that blue that is the opposite of sky—
that blue inside me that wails at times
like a saxophone in the night
(only it’s not just at night).

That hue that seems to blue my very bones,
to make even my joints lonely—
(How can a knee
be forlorn? How can an elbow feel
They are joints! Per se connected!)

But if, in that dejection,
I can think of thanks—even just the word—
my mind is lured to you, to them,
and all that is torn
is joined anew (roughly, but
the knee bends, the arm extends—
and that inner blue becomes lent sky,
and everything shows itself
to be a part of everything else—
the trees, the stones, the tones
of that saxophone, even what feels so lone—sky inside
and out,
sky all about. 


Here’s kind of a draft poem that has been on my mind. Of course, it is an adult poem, and the drawing is a children’s drawing–an illustration from my picture book Lightly Going Things, but I liked the ebullience of the pic. (And of course the elephants!) That picture book is soon to be available on Amazon, with others of mine.


November 10, 2022

Awake in the Moonlight

I wake in the moonlight, things to do,
they mainly consist of missing you—
you who we were when we were young,
I who we were when we were one. 

We could be one with three or four,
children clinging to the core,
arms around, stories read,
squeezed into a squishy bed. 

We’re not a single memory,
but shifting slides of clarity—
now, I’m the child, now I’m the mother,
now I’m the gathered, now, the lover. 

I go outside to see the moon,
bright bowl of a no-handled spoon—
You cannot hold it, but still can taste
the orbit’s grace, the shine, the trace.


Kind of a ditty for today! Just to be clear, about past year rather than any particular person! Mainly I was thinking of my kids when young, and my grandmothers, whom I hope to emulate.

This is an old drawing—a bit too witchy for the poem, but the one that most fit that I could find!  

Stay well!  And thanks to all who got out to vote. 


November 8, 2022


So many miracles.
The moon, pre-dawn, a soft red ball smiling
with shine
We held each other earlier.
I did not actually hurt my back
in yesterday’s fall.
Someone has carved or eaten a filigree of life
in a rim of wood
that lays upon the driveway; its mosaic playing
with the tracks of tires.

There is a fire within each of us, you can see it
in the eyes.
Infants have it in abundance,
so serious as they contemplate
a first sweet potato, or hug a kid,
meaning a baby goat, at some small farm,
and the little goat, somehow grasping that it is another baby
who has grasped it,
doesn’t (seemingly) complain, at least,
doesn’t bite—
all of this completely true.

And now the sky is pale
with not-yet-blue, 
and our dark horizon has shine
all over it, a whole dome
of shine.
How does the world manage it?  

“Humility” a word that comes to mind, a lesson
for the day, a shine to strive for.  But how
do you strive for humility?
Maybe just
take note. 


A sort of poem for this morning, the last full lunar eclipse until 2025.   Also, election day in the U.S.  Do vote.  So much is on the line—women’s rights, human rights, voting rights, environmental protection. 

Not Only About Chili

November 7, 2022

Not Only About Chili

“But you love chili,” she moaned.
But his lips pressed tightly against it,
even after she had liquified it to a coral slop—
and, no, it was not because
she’d liquified it
to a coral slop. 

We tried all the old favorites—
apple sauce, tomato soup, rye toast
with a poached egg,
whatever flavors of Ensure
were stacked
against the wall, the chocolate

foods that were like old tunes, melodies he knew.
But he would not sing along, could not,
his body on its own fork
in the long road of disease.

He had a gravely voice, even when young.
I think of the froggy who went a’courting
in a big blue book
when I was little; the green frog
outlined in black, a little tied sack
at his back, a sack on a stick. 

She did not say, “but you love me,” instead of “chili”
or “tomato soup” or “applesauce.”

But that was a given; he said it all the time, how he loved her.
Even as he died, he said it.

The body won’t always do
what we want,
won’t live until the other’s
ready to go,
won’t/can’t swallow.

Have you ever seen a bird hold hands
as it flies? Two birds?
Of course not. 

But hands I have seen—hands joined
and spread
like wings—


Very much a draft poem, but I like it; hope you do too.  (All rights reserved as always.)

Vote vote vote.  Women’s rights are on the ballot; women’s rights and human rights. 

Back from Another Place

November 3, 2022

It was a rather lovely place! I’m not sure why the cars wore hats though, as it was pretty warm. Hope you are getting some breaks.