Wednesday, September 14, 2016

Go back in

It's not safe
can't be real
don't be honest
retreat retreat
stay there.
The faces and the times
but the basic fact
that the interior world
is the safest one
and the door to it
best remains
with a solo occupant.
Shut it.
Lock it.
Stay inside
It may look like a
sealed sterile room
to others
it is
a rich secret garden
that has rarely been
shared with others
let alone
inviting them in.
No welcomes or guests passes
shall be issued
here forth.
Lesson learned.
For the last time.
Back in.
Life goes on
but the safe space
is intact
and protected
inside the thorny wall
of self care.

Wednesday, August 17, 2016

And God said

Plans were made
activities scheduled
supplies bought
lawns mowed
houses cleaned
dress altered
tux ordered

and so on.

And then

God said


Here's what I want
for you

to slow down
to take it easy
to listen to Me
to listen to you,

the deep down you that
needs more than
and stress.

It will all work out
just as you planned

but I need your attention
and you need your attention

right now.

Wednesday, June 15, 2016

...make us...

you are
you are a channel
of His peace.

When I hear from three of
my five sisters
my father
all within the space of 24 hours,
when a year ago,
there would be weeks
if not months of
radio silence,
I clearly see and feel
how something has changed
and it started with you.

You challenged me to be more
to open my heart to you
and then again to my family of origin.
After so many years of muted pain
there is a trickle of love
and hope
and future
flowing through this newly cleared channel.

A year ago,
I would have projected that
all of this
all of this
would have been totally impossible.
the sun never sets on His love
His hope for his children to
love each other anew
as He never stops loving us
all of us.

Wednesday, May 25, 2016

Evening picnic

A trail of rose petals
from garage door to bed,
you waiting on your knees,
a big grin on your face

but a little worry in your eyes
that I might not 'like' this.

Oh, but I did, my love.

The bed draped with a red checked cloth
red plates, red napkins, red-faced...

A tray arrayed in red fabric
with strawberries, olives, almonds
assorted meats, cheeses, crackers

After an appropriate dress code is achieved,
he slowly hand feeds me our dinner picnic
talking quietly about our respective days

loving each other with each word, each bite,
each touch, each moment

Gentle spoonfuls of mango sorbet
complete our repast

The only ants are the two pomeranians
circling the base of the bed,
hoping for a bite.

(Written and posted for Mid-Week Motif, Poets United, "Picnic", 5/25/16)

Tuesday, April 19, 2016

Home at last

Living in my body
Anchored in the moment
Peace in my head
All new sensations
new thoughts
new goals

Finally at home
in my own skin
after years of not really
living there, always regretting
the past and anticipating
the future
worrying about other's perceptions
instead of discovering my own

Busy shoving myself into
the molds and expectations of
the world around me
never realizing
until now
that I was never home
in me.

Sunday, March 27, 2016


Standing, trembling, in the pew
listening to the ancient ritual,
automatically responding in age-old words
    (that now, somehow, have new meaning)
to the exhortations of the priest,
my Inner Children are wide-eyed
with wonder at the well known
story of death and resurrection,
their faith pure and hopeful,
their trust absolute.

I watch them, kneeling/sitting/standing,
hands clasped with fervor and belief,
heads bowed with reverence
and long for their innocence,
their certainty, their unquestioning commitment.

My eyes are fixed, too, on the Holiest of Holies,
grateful to be at this Easter vigil Mass,
once my favorite service of the year.

How can I become free of the religious hurts
the judgments and betrayals
the 'less than', the very second best
femaleness of who I am
and reconcile with
this patriarchal structure
that is certain it knows what is best for me
though that rejoining always seem to involve
a sacrifice of self and identity that is simply

Yet...I miss the soothing rituals, the lullaby and
instruction of scripture and homily, and yet

the old anger burns
low but steady.

The lash of damnation will never be allowed
to cut my spiritual skin again, but
the joy of faith and service...
ah, it calls to me.

As does that Presence, strongest during
the familiar Consecration, that healing,
the Oneness so complete. burns. And I do not know how to be

Friday, January 29, 2016

Strawberry tower

Sunday mornings -
after the endless, mind-numbing Mass -
our then-family of six
would race the few blocks
from the church over
to the Village Inn restaurant
for breakfast.

The privilege and extreme treat
of going out was allegedly
completely dependent on us
kids behaving during the service.

If we had ALL been successful at
not fidgeting in our itchy dresses
on hard wooden pews
through the interminable droning
of the priest and mystifying,
eternal rituals of sitting/standing/kneeling,

   (and had resisted
   the urge to pinch or tickle a sister or
   even give her a look out of the corner of one's eye
   or cried because one was just too
   little to sit still for over an hour
   or rustled the pages of the missal too loudly
   or kicked one's shoes
   against the kneeler or floor or
   the pew in front of you - horrors!
   or fiddled with the lace/hat pinned
   to unruly curls -
   the list of infractions was
   interminable and ever evolving
   as well),

it was time for fun!

Four little heads bent over the
coloring place mats provided by
a friendly waitress, busily employing
crayons to tint pictures, connect dots,
and (for older ones) figure out mystery
words and puzzles while our parents
murmured and sipped coffee.

But the best part was the pancakes.

This was before we had discovered
the mandatory glories of bacon.

Pancakes as big as a plate,
heavily decorated with the whipped
cream stylings of the day's cook
with strawberries strewn in decadent
abandon over the crisp tender disks.

Powering through this sugary treasure,
one carefully and thoroughly chewed
dainty bites of sweetness at a time, savoring
the cream, the cakey richness,
and the fresh jeweled fruit, delicately
dusted with powdered sugar.

Never imagining that some day,
I would be sitting at work, sipping a
protein shake, typing away,
while visions of strawberry tower
breakfasts with my little sisters would
sweeten my memories.