a day at the lake



In process – messages to myself

For weeks
I have been living
Inside a large ball of grief

Where pleasure and pain
And sleep and dreams
Seem to mix together
and its difficult to
tell top from bottom

And its many sources
Turn into one unintelligible beast

I have no words for it
Only a big dark hole in my insides
Full of dread and anger
And hopeless sadness
and so much fear
and I want someone to tell me
yes this is horrible
But it will get better
You will not always have this hole
It will fill with something better

Just wait
Just slow down
Hold still
Let arms wrap around you
Let voices reach you
Just be still
And see if it feels any different
When you are quiet
If you can see another side
Or hear a bird calling
Brining you to another possible path
There are so many possibilities
Dear one
So many ways you cannot yet see

Maybe take a walk
Go up a hill and see how it looks from above
Change your vantage point
Breath the clean air
Speak to the trees, the ancient ones
With so much wisdom for us
Speak to them and then be still
And see if they speak back

Just try.
Even if it feels useless.
And when you don’t know who you can trust
And you doubt your own insides
Trust the trees and the ferns and the mushrooms
And all those ancient growing things
That belong to the earth
She is our mother and will not steer you wrong.

New poem up at Winedrunk Sidewalk: Shipwrecked in Trumpland


The next phase 

I sit back and watch as the unreal becomes real

horrors become usual

and outrage begins to fade.


Responsibility is not a negative,

a dirty word

to be avoided.


I am both here and not here.


Grief makes it more real

and less,

I don’t know

what comes next.


The moon was full last night

as we stepped out into the cold


this will be our last

time seeing the moon

over this particular field and hills.


I mourn it

but I am ready

to move to the

next phase.


Reuse could be the battle cry

for this generation

and the next


I am confident

that overall we are

getting smarter,


we must be

I tell myself

as I watch two boys

at preschool chase each other

around with a plastic saw.

The teacher calls after them,

“it’s not a weapon,

it’s for building things.”


They continue on in their game.


It stops raining finally

after 11 days of non-stop

water dropping from the sky


and for a moment

everyone’s mood is lightened.