Ars Poetica

I don't call myself a poet, but I do write quite a bit of poetry.  I have been teaching it for the last seven years and it has become my preferred method of documenting and discussing my personal and inner lives.  I have never liked journaling, and while I suppose blogging could be considered a type of journaling, I don't cringe at my past words here like I do on paper.  I am learning to offer myself the same compassion I offer my students and their writing.  These are a few of the poems I've written recently that I like.

Green

Spring did not come easy that year
and neither did her happiness.
Both were wrought from cold hard ground,
after a tough as nails winter,
faces into belligerent gusts of wind
and relentless rain.

Exhausted they turned toward the sun
the moment it appeared.
The first bud was strong and sweet
paving the way for full bloom.
Tiny leaves gathered on the branch andsuddenly everything was green. 

Blackberries

For Allen

My favorite memory will be picking blackberries with you
on the way to Boyle's swimming hole.
The path was well lit and sunny and dusty
like I remembered.
There were no cattails but the reeds were as high as our heads.
Blackberry thorns pricked on both sides.
Ripe fruit was scarce but
I reached into the briars
risking skin and limb because blackberries
are your favorite
and I would do anything for you.

Ars Poetica

When I was 5, I stole a piece of candy from the grocery store.
When I was 11, with my throat burning, I confessed this sin
to my father, who tilted his head as he looked at me and said,
Why are you telling me this?

Years later I gave birth to my one dear son,
and when I whispered my hopes and dreams
in his ear, he looked at me just like my father did.
Again, I guess, I was not making any sense.

Sometimes, language is insufficient

When Young Mothers Die of Cancer II

Somewhere in Maryland a
young mother is dying.
Down in Houston her mother grieves.
In California her children play together,
as she would have liked had she
lived long enough to see it.

At night sometimes she comes to them,
her smell sweet and familiar,
her hug warm and longed for.
She wraps them tight in memory.

In the morning they say nothing,
afraid someone will tell them it wasn't real.