In awe of the ordinary
Gone, the stone you
found upon our walk
along the shore, an inch
of amber quartz, cold
citrine you pressed
into my palm, your hand
closing round my fingers,
flesh on flesh, warmth
on warmth. I have lost
so much. It eludes me,
the heat of things
once felt. I reach into
an empty pocket for
this totem, this bit of you,
an irretrievable memory
encased in honied crystal.
We say our goodbyes
without word of the thing
that lies right there
between us and as we
shuffle our feet, I fix
my gaze on melancholy
clouds, shape-shifting
reminders that the dead
cannot speak and we,
we are unable to give
them voice.
The woman in the meeting
raises her voice
like a charismatic preacher
giving a sermon
through our screens
about the horrors
of life, the havoc she’d wreaked,
the damage she’d done
by drinking and drugging
and we all nod
as if we understand
and because we do
we say our muted amens
and tell it sister
because we all know
that there are things
worth shouting about
when you’ve tried
to burn it all down
and lived to tell the story.
We are not snow people.
This is not a winter place.
The dog is confused
by the crusty icing of snow
all around. There’s no grass
in sight for him to go
and he doesn’t know
where to make a deposit,
so we crunch and slide
our way over pristine paths
looking for just the right place
to go when there is no
right place to go. We are
enthralled with the marzipan
beauty rolling out before us,
our world at last unspoiled,
and recoil from the need
to leave another stain.
It’s difficult
to put into words
how beautiful is
the pain that
issues forth
as midnight
ink fills
the emptiness.
I would pay
any price to see
what bleeds
onto the page.
In fact, I do.
In a contest
between sun
and clouds
light won out
today but arctic
air bested both
wrapping us
in icy blue.
We bury our dead in the rain
when the soil is soft and yields,
slice by slice, to the shovel.
We chose a spot in the garden
where the trees have grown
‘round and where it is shady
in the summer. It is winter now
and the rains come down cold,
a drizzle that seeps through
our coats, beneath our gloves.
We are grateful that it covers
tears silently streaming down
our reddened cheeks washing
away brine with water fresh
from heaven. We pray we did what
we could and do now what remains.
Wind gusts blow
the final few
from the oak.
I have chased
its many leaves
into oblong piles
and bagged them
for mulch.
I have raked
and raked and said
more than one
little prayer to each
pile of damp leaves
that it would be
the last this year.
This is the last
and I wonder
how many more
piles of leaves,
seasons
with this tree
remain
for us both.
Time is coming
when we will face
our final fall
together and say
our final prayers
and leave for others
what remains.
I am thankful.
I am grateful to 3Elements Literary Review for including my photo, Do Not Enter, in the Summer 2025 edition (No. 47). Here’s the photo as they published it:
3Elements publishes quarterly and includes writing in any genre along with art and photographs. For each edition they select three elements—words or phrases—that writers much include in their work. Artists and photographers can choose to address all three or just one or two elements. The elements for Issue 47 were: thrift store, tentacle, and marble.
I love photographing murals and graffiti and discovered this mural of a squid painted on the wall of an old brick store in our town. It seemed a good fit and I’m delighted 3Elements agreed.
Check out their writing, art and poetry!
Car trouble, I asked
the lady in the Corolla
by the side of the road
with the man whose head
was under the hood.
Son trouble was all she said
glancing over her shoulder
to a kid, a teen in the backseat
who did not look up but
managed to look miserable.
I have known son trouble,
the testing and going beyond
the limits of reason and speed,
beyond what a car can do,
pushing the pedal a bit too far.
Pushing other things too far.
Just pushing. It becomes
the stuff of family lore,
the things we laugh about
(later), or the things we don’t,
the unspoken elephants
that come and never leave.
I have known son trouble
because I have been
son trouble, the kid
in the backseat,
the kid who couldn’t
look you in the eye.
I am the kid, the man
who brought elephants
home to stay.