Posts Tagged ‘apology’



I wanted to shine a bare bulb
on that moment when I thought
I was right and you were wrong.
I wanted brash. Wanted glaring.
Wanted blatant, flagrant proof.
Now, in this moment of darkness,
I don’t care about right or wrong.
Don’t care about fault or blame.
I long to bring you starlight,
candlelight, firefly light—
the kind of glow that touches
everything with tenderness—
even our most prickly parts.
And whatever light lives inside us—
the light we house but do not own—
I want to discover that now
so in this darkest moment
we might find each other,
might find, even, ourselves.

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The Apology Speaks

How long ago did you forget about me?
I used to bloom in your mind like bindweed,
twisting and lacing through every thought,
but you were too afraid then to say my
two small words. I’m sorry. You wanted
to say them. You meant them. You knew
how much power I have. Even so, you knew
I wasn’t enough. And you knew
I couldn’t be heard in the windstorm
that raged for months. It’s quieter, now,
so quiet I’d think you could hear me knocking
inside your heart. When did you let
the blur of the days obscure me? I’m here,
waiting to be given voice. Though neglected,
I am no less important. Ah, there, I felt you
brush up against a petal, soft as forgiveness,
deep rooted as shame. I’m here, waiting. I’m here.

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A rumor platoon.

  A secret room.

    A flying trapeze.

      The honeyed moon.

    A grapefruit pucker.

  A slick river otter.

A compound fracture

  and a safety measure.

    The carrot peeler

      and the apple tree,

    the truth, the lie,

  the apology.

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One Irreversible




late apology—

a week after it died of drought,

offering the plant water

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I must take off my gloves—

not the rubber gloves

for dishwashing, nor

the stiff cloth gloves for the garden,

not the wool gloves for snow

nor the leather gloves for stacking wood—

but the gloves you can’t see,

the gloves I wear to protect

you from me. Or me from you.

The invisible layers I think

I need to keep us safe. When

what you really need, what

I really want, is to show up

exposed, bare, to strip off

the unseen covering,

and from this tender place, say

I am sorry.

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Some apologies we think we’ll never hear. Some we think we might never say.

This poem was published today on New Verse News–How to Eat the Moon

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“We must move forward together to build a shared understanding. We must forge a path that allows us to move beyond our history and identify common solutions to better protect our communities.”

—Terrence Cunningham, president of the International Assn. of Chiefs of Police



With salt, of course,

though there’s the matter of how

to get the salt to stick

without the assist of gravity.


And paired with a slightly chilled sauvignon blank,

preferably from Marlborough, of course,

with its hints of green pepper and grass.


It doesn’t taste like cheese after all,

but then the experts never seem to be right.

It tastes more like, well, hard to say.

Try another bite.


You never thought you’d be here, did you,

sampling these bits of reflected light.

Almost as unexpected as the apology

earlier tonight from the man in the suit

so blue it looked black.


Maybe not a white. A red.

A cab. Dark fruit. Full body.

One that’s needed time to evolve.

Its complex woody tones compliment

the moon’s impressive density.


What was it he said? “While

we obviously cannot change

the past, it is clear that we

must change the future.”


Toast to the future

and raise your glass

and take another nibble of moon.

Notice how dark it is, really,

about the color of asphalt, worn down.

It’s only because space itself is so dark

that the moon seems comparatively light.


All along you thought it was white.

Where else have you been wrong?

Perhaps between sips

and forkfuls you’ll find an apology

ripening there on your own startled tongue.

At the moment, anything seems possible.

The night makes its rounds.









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I am sorry I threw away your broken tiara,

the blue Cinderella dress with the ripped sleeves,

and the wand with the faded pink star.

I am sorry I tossed out the magic eight ball

with the blue message in the bottom that always said,

“Not Sure,” and the various mismatched sections

of Hot Wheels race tracks. And the pen

with the bobblehead that always falls off.

And you won’t find Barbie’s black high heel

rubber shoes with the broken back strap.

Or the toy Pegasus with only one wing.

Or the shiny slinky with the torque in it’s spring.

I threw them away.

There was more.

I know you loved them, those broken bits

of childhood, those souvenirs of past happiness.

I did it while you were in the other room,

and took out the guilty bag before you could peek inside.

I knew you would want them back, the jacks

you have never played with, the crappy plastic Elsa kazoo

you got at your best friend’s party.

And when you ask me, “Mom, have you seen

that little green rubber fish that I won at the carnival

four years ago”—yeah, I know you won’t ask me,

but if you do—I am prepared to say No,

no I haven’t. I’m sorry.

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An apology is the superglue of life. It can repair just about anything.
—Lynn Johnston

I wanted her to apologize,
told myself I needed it.
She gave me a blank page.
A silent room.
A heart wildly aware
of its own beating.
If she had any inkling
how rich these gifts have been,
how much more abundant and spacious my life
has become,
I think
she would have

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I don’t really want a stink bug
infestation in your home. And I don’t
really want your full cup of coffee
to spill on your open book. Not really. I don’t.
I don’t want to see you trip on your
ego’s huge feet. Don’t want to hear
that you have some strange rash
that makes your skin beet red.
And your new car, I’d hate to hear
that a surfeit of skunks had their kits in there.
I’d hate to hear that you had shrunk
that dress that looks so good on you.
And I don’t really want to hear that you
are sorry for all those things you said.
About me. I could care less. Really. It didn’t
hurt at all. I don’t really want to hear
the phone ring if you are on the other end
calling to say let’s be friends. No I don’t. Not at all.

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