I am the anti-gardener
flora in my yard
must fend for themselves
or die

I am the black thumb
devoid of fertilizer
they must be hardy
or starve

I am the shade and the drought
offering only tough love
to the greenery who
would call this home

my grass is always crabby
my charlie always creeps
I cheer the clover blossoms
and blooming dandelions

hail the survivors
resolute
persevering
how can you not love them?
the conquering warriors of the lawn

Tousled yet warm
through a storm
tidied each day
come what may
I compare
if I dare
my bed
with my head
sanctuaries alike

everywhere
always there
where I rest
when I’m best
where I hie
when I’m shy
sanctuaries alike

one soft bed
one soft head
I proclaim
they’re the same
both it seems
full of dreams
both grateful for our pillows

A glass of sweet bubbles
awaiting my sip
this crystal chalice 
a gift from the tickle genie

he blesses me
with his effervescence
quenching all thirst 

his gratitude to me
for freeing him from 
that wretched can

Picnics and parades
distracting us
from the horrors of war

its stench of death
and broken bodies
smothered by grilling steaks

the wailing of mothers
and their children
muted
by marching bands

if we have no soldier
to remember this day
let our mission be compassion
for those who weep for
the empty place at their table
the empty hole in their hearts

let our tribute to the dead
be love
for those they left behind

I am not Sylvia Plath’s mirror
I am golden and unconstrained
possessing few illusions
a ravenous pollyanna
devouring this feast of life 
without expectations 
or preference
I am not forbearing
I amuse with lies

She meditates on the eye 
of her four-cornered god
until I wink
but she does this so seldom
She forgets her own face

one day
she will fix her gaze on the sun
until the memory of its brilliance
is all she sees

So much beauty snuffed by a pipe
you too have lost these souls
their unwrapped gifts
perishing with them

and not just the dead
but the deadened
numbing their pains and tragedies 
too enormous for one life 

their lost songs never sung
moaning in our heads 
like forgotten prisoners

torpefied by drugs and drink
their lives halved by stupor
how do we pull them from this void
what can we offer
that is sweeter than death

Her voice is hoarse
with the rasp of too much laughter

it is the voice that whispered secrets
to me when we were children
vowed love to her husband
sang karaoke with her daughter
and praised her loving God

it is the voice that whispers secrets
to me now that we are old

old enough 
we have spoken every word 
we needed to say

if it comes to it
laughing is enough

How can I not be infected?
my life is spent at your side
my air is your breath

my three negative tests 
have not convinced me
so I wait
masked 
to protect the vulnerable
alone
so you don’t infect me
lonely
because you are my deepest love
relieved
because you have no symptoms
grateful 
because you will survive
what over six million have not

For as many school shootings America has endured, this latest in Texas seems more tragic to me. There’s so much talk about mental health issues, about what’s going wrong in the lives of young men, and about how to tackle gun reform, but all that talk is little comfort to the victims of violence and their families. Poetry helps me sort out my feelings and understand what actions might be in my power to effect change. I wrote you a different love letter this month. It includes ten different poems I wrote about various facets of our country and it’s relationship with guns. It’s hard to read my anger, my despair, my take on the horrendous attacks on children, and my own incident with this growing problem. These poems are so raw, it felt unfair to put them in front of you without your permission. Especially knowing this week, we have all been deluged by the media with this topic, and you may want asylum from it. I am including one of the poems here. If you want to read this special edition on guns, you can access this collection of gun poems by clicking the button below.

AFTERMATH

There is no name
for that low wailing sound
of horror and loss
blood-soaked with questions
Was she scared?
Was she crying?
Did she yell for us?
Who took her from us?
Why?
It makes no sense

There is no name
for this empty air
that stops feeding your breath
leaving you gasping
for a life you had minutes ago
gasping as you realize
you will never again
hear her laugh
braid her hair
tuck her into bed

There is no name
for heroic mothers
that climbed fences and braved gunfire
to rescue their children

There is no name
for teachers who stood firm
while police stood down

There is no name
for the outpouring of love and kindness
from across the world

tomorrow we move on
but they don’t
ever

and we keep moving on
until it is our child
and suddenly
the air is empty

The longer I breathe this gift
the more I see
there is no lasting sadness 
only happiness not yet found

there is no coercing it
just waiting
as the clouds clear the way
for sunshine

in this waiting
welcome fear
grief and sadness
let them dwell
as you exhale them 
from your soul

in each breath is a rebirth
preparing you
to bask again
in the light of the sun

If you’re wondering what got me started writing poems, you’ll find the story here. Or, if you’re wondering why this collection is called Slender Stalk, click here. If you’re wondering where you can read the past issues of Slender Stalk, click here. If you’re wondering where you can read more of my poems, check out my website: Life at 240.

If you know someone who you think would enjoy these poems, please feel free to forward this email to them. If you’re reading this poetry letter for the first time, you can subscribe here to get ten poems emailed to you at the beginning of each month.