Posts Tagged ‘poems’




singing to my mother

the songs she taught me—

inside the rose hip the next rose




dancing in separate kitchens


the red handled pans get hot




in the stairwell

beneath O’Keefe’s clouds—

an unexpected rain




what she’ll do next—

a secret even she

doesn’t know




reattaching the wing

on the stone crane—

longing for glue for the soul




unable to keep

it all together—

anything can happen now




my thoughts going 65

in a 30—

the red light left in the dust




all these cracks

where certainty can’t go—

tenderness puts down tap roots


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on the shores of you,

finding a place through the overgrowth

where I can let fall everything

and slip in and


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To all of you who are mothers and all of you who have mothers, here are three poems to celebrate the most rewarding, incredible, challenging and primary relationship of our lives. I am super lucky to have an amazing mom, and Mom, I am continually in awe of you. The older my kids get, the more I wonder how you managed to parent with so much grace and joy and confidence.

These poems were previously published in Telluride Inside and Out a few years ago … I missed the deadline to send new poems this year! Thanks Sus, for finding some to print!


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Here are two poems published today in Telluride Inside & Out.

Thanksgiving Poems

Wishing you grace all day, friends,



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Dear Mrs. Jones

Dear Mrs. Jones,

Please accept my resignation.
I know you have come
to expect me beside you.
What a long time we have
been at this together.
Husbands and houses
and graduate degrees,
children and book deals
and dress sizes.
It would be easy to blame
my torn hamstring.
It’s just gotten so hard
to keep up. Painful, even.
But that isn’t it.
Sometimes I notice
that I forget you, your
perfect complexion, your
six-figure advances, your
obedient children, your yacht,
and life is a whole lot more lovely then.
Mrs. Jones, I get seasick.
I do not want the yacht.


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standing in the snow
dreaming of standing
in the snow


my daggers
letting them gather dust
regardless who walks in


starting a fire
remembering even good logs
need space to burn

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Two at Night

staring at stars
with these eyes made of
old stars


what is your address?
I ask my girl, hoping she’ll say

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