In the delivery room
what caught my eye first
was the flaming red baby hair
the long ago color of mine
when my fire burned hot

I see a sliver of Keith and me
in each grandchild
a talent or the shape of a chin
a laugh or funny toes

but the golden hair
no disputing it
in this tiny girl
my genes live on

my very first thought:
a ginger with fragile skin
she is my replacement

I wondered:
will she grow to have
a fragile heart

today the answer:
her tender heart is brave
it does not break

Giant cranes
men with saws
like a slow-motion tornado
whirling down the street
taking tree after tree

our neighborhood is old
so too the trees

giant green umbrellas
protective in Spring

the shade of ancient forests
cooling in summer

a pharaoh’s tomb
golden awe in fall

snowy arches of a cathedral
holy in winter

now reduced to
dust from saws
logs for fire
gone forever

you had to hold hands
with a neighbor
to hug their huge trunks

the old trees loved us
and they helped us love each other
we mourn them together

Each time
he knew they were wrong
each time
when they said
he’d finally get it when he:
got to middle school
had a girlfriend
graduated
got a “real” job
got married
bought a house
had kids
had grandkids
retired

• no •

he would not be the mouse
expecting answers
that never come
in a maze that never ends

he knew existence is futile
he knew there are unsolvable mysteries
he knew we invent our own meaning
and so he did
and so can we

A pristine canvas
waiting for your brush
to finally paint
your vision
your composition
your colors
your portrait
beautiful

there is always
one person
who can save you

look down at your hand
she is holding the brush

From Eve’s first blush
the gem emerged
in hues of delicate pink
like her cheeks

its slightest touch
ignites passion’s embers
in flames of desire
drawing us to love’s dance

but not just for lovers
it is a balm for all hearts
solace for the broken
worn by sorrow’s weight

healing from its essence
nurtures us with grace
mends our fractures
gives refuge for our spirit

veins of peace and serenity
entwined in crystal
unveil the sacred treasures
boundless within us

born in the first garden
born of the first love
rose quartz
the stone of love

Because I love learning, as I plan our annual calendar, one of the events I plan for Keith and me is “Artist of the Month.” I pick an artist who’s work might be accessible in a special exhibition nearby, or someone from history, or just an artist who tickles my fancy. This past month I had Marina Abramović on deck. She is a performance artist and boundary breaker extraordinaire. There are a couple of goals with Artist of the Month: 1) learn more about their life, 2) explore their art, 3) hit a museum, online gallery, art books, documentaries, etc, 4) do a project inspired by their art. (Can you tell I loved playing school as a kid?)

As we delved into Abramović, I was moved by her online experience called “Traces.” The visitor to the site can explore five digital rooms. The one that snagged my imagination was the room called Quartz Stones. She says, “The entire memory of the planet is stored in a quartz crystal.” Particularly pink quartz made my brain cells tingle because it’s called The Stone of Love, and various cultures believe it has love-related magical properties. My Artist of the Month project was to write this poem for Marina about The Stone of Love. You can visit “Traces” online by clicking here.

A broken air conditioner
such a little problem when held
against a burning Canada 

a granddaughter moving
a thousand miles away
versus the horrors in Ukraine

a toilet that won’t stop running
an overcharge on the restaurant bill
dust from the road construction
the price of diet coke
an unkind word

they are motes
in the shadow of a dying planet
and still they upset me

it feels so wrong
to be comforted
by large-scale despair

but I am

it reminds me how very low
my troubled heart
ranks on the list of woes

it brings me back
from first-world sulking
to a place of gratitude
for my tiny problems 
my imagined problems
my potential problems

to a place where
I simply feel
blessed to breathe

The world welcomes you
as its guest
enjoy its hospitality
revel in its wonders
enjoy this sublime place
to become yourself
please leave your campsite
better than you found it
and clean up your trash

When your grandson is about to turn 15, the things that amuse him are far different than when he was younger. I wrote this special, and admittedly pathetic, rap to accompany a batch of his favorite molasses cookies. I can already imagine him cringing. So with apologies to Cardi B, Gangsta Granny is takin’ the mic!

Yo, listen up, my grandson
I got a tale to tell,
'bout molasses cookies
that cast a magic spell

I'm Granny with the moves
watch me dance and sway
wave my spoon just like a wand
wishes come your way

my molasses cookies
ain’t your average treat
last bite that you take, boy,
grants a wish so sweet,

put the cookie in your bouche
the flave is so delish
as you munch that final bite
make your secret wish

wish for somethin’ super dope
that takes away your breath
don’t wish for lame ass cars or kicks
and stay away from meth

hopes and dreams and sh*t like that
is what the wish is for
if these cookies ain’t enough
granny bakes some more

yo, listen up, my grandson
I done told my tale
eat the thing, make the wish
my cookies never fail
_________________________

COOKIES ALWAYS TASTE BETTER WITH A RAP

What is that thing
that secret thing
you whisper to the sky
that dangerous thing
that could make you cry

mine are scribbled on slips of paper
hanging on the wall
in a room called Denial

posted in an empty frame
a portrait of unsung songs
unwritten stories
unrealized dreams

the old wise ones say
your life’s regrets
are the things you didn’t do

I take a bit of comfort
that my regrets are at least
organized and color-coded

This week
was for memorizing
her laugh
her scent
her smile
her grace
her hope
her courage

this day
was for packing
she is loading her car 
at 2:00 she will drive away

it sticks in my throat
burns my eyes
rips my heart

this moment
is for letting go

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.