Poem: A Prayer for the Balance.

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I asked to know real Grace.
It is my namesake
and I have a feeling I need it.
Instead,
I fight.
I break things.
I break.

So I ask,
God, what can this mean?

Is it a name,
or a thing that lives and breathes?
Does it pardon me, or teach me that I’ve been wrong?

On Sunday mornings,
I believe that there is more to it than a church pew.

On other days, I am caught.

Between hospital beds
and the place where harsh words are said,
in that precarious, miraculous balance
between life 

and death,

I then feel it sustaining me.

Poem : The Zest.

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My fist tight,
I learn to squeeze the lemon
with the same might and firmness that life requires of me.
Whether working with my hands,
fingers sticky with pith and juice,
or working with my head,
thoughts bursting forward toward mind-bending possibilities,
I demand fruit,
flavor,
all that it can give me.
So that when I sit down to rest,
I find the spread delicious,
my self satisfied and spent.

Poem: In Sleep

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In sleep I dream of strange things
Closets, lobsters, dead dogs
and old friends
Boats and voices
Vivid colors that fade to black and white
Earnest feelings that ache in waking life.
When I’m tired I wish for sleep
When I sleep,
I fall
Hoping to find something -
A sweet lie,
A vacation,
A kiss I needed -
But always I wake up
And my mind is too revealed.

On a Hot, Beautiful Day.

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The Summer Day
Who made the world?
Who made the swan, and the black bear?
Who made the grasshopper?
This grasshopper, I mean–
the one who has flung herself out of the grass,
the one who is eating sugar out of my hand,
who is moving her jaws back and forth instead of up and down–
who is gazing around with her enormous and complicated eyes.
Now she lifts her pale forearms and thoroughly washes her face.
Now she snaps her wings open, and floats away.
I don’t know exactly what a prayer is.
I do know how to pay attention, how to fall down
into the grass, how to kneel down in the grass,
how to be idle and blessed, how to stroll through the fields,
which is what I have been doing all day.
Tell me, what else should I have done?
Doesn’t everything die at last, and too soon?
Tell me, what is it you plan to do
with your one wild and precious life?
Happy Tuesday, friends. 

Poem : That One Time in the Garage

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I stretch my hand to stop you in the doorway
It’s taken me years to find that kind of courage
And I’ve steeled myself now -
Please.
Don’t Leave.
Words, like molasses in my mouth,
spill…
 
A flicker of fear -
your eyes relax,
my breath expels;
for once we draw near.
 
My arm, no longer a bar,
bends to you.
We are enveloped in relief.
You said thank you.