saying goodbye

You didn’t notice the glow

garnering footholds in dialogue,

rendering this topic or that an impasse,

but I smelled smoke ahead of the fire.

Watching charcoal conversations

turn to ash and blow away,

I stepped gingerly on blood bonds

and persistent ties that bound

until the burden of trust bent

planed beams into sagging catwalks,

unable to hold the unspoken --

that even slow burning bridges fall.

Leaving Castle Kennedy

It was the hemming and hawing that finished me,

the stalling - so slow my skin tanned like stiff leather,

splitting and cracking each time I tried to move closer.

I felt my own ribs begin to bind and betray me,

turn into stones and stack into walls --

encasing me within a castle called Kennedy.

A hedging and hesitant crusade for control,

expecting my sympathy for your lack of empathy,

you trudged forward, disinterest your weapon of choice.

I stopped;

then started back - salty, but no statue.

I reclaimed my skin, my bones, my name – myself,

while you pretended to ignore the impending end.

I abandoned makeup and putting on airs,

quit drawing lines around my eyes or in the sand,

I finished picking bones with you, or them.

No more scratching a scrimshaw future

onto someone else’s ivory tower,

I let my hair down, and rescued me.

This First Winter

These trees have nothing green

to offer the swallow,

the purple martin, the hawk.

They’ve flown south in a huff,

leaving the chickadee and cardinal

to the coming cold,

their abandoned homes poised

on pointy branch fingers,

balanced loosely on bare limbs,

lingering reminders of loss.

Copper slivers of winter grass

slice through gold and rotting leaves,

reaching for a silver winter sun,

finding only dark and grey.

Broken fences guard empty fields,

crisscross rails keep nothing out,

let nothing alive in,

their splintered rails urge me onward.

A barn’s faded message forewarns -

still I haven’t moved forward.

honestly, almost

It felt like truth,

like the honesty I feel

on a sunny, crisp day in October

when I take linen off lines

strung between two poles

planted in concrete by my dad, before.

I shake out wrinkles,

knowing I’ve done my part,

inhaling with clean, unpolluted certainty,

feeling upright and decent,

a little smug with my concern

for the environment, and selfish

because it’s for me and not the earth.

But it felt like truth.

Like reading a favorite novel

again and again,

always knowing the outcome,

sure in the knowledge of it.

I never miss mystery, I still anticipate

the sweet, sweet feeling

of a happy ending;

I would read you, over and over,

ignoring the nuance

of your eyes, averted,

the inflection of your voice,

I could still call it truth,

I could breathe you in,

feel fresh and safe, and somewhat honest

knowing it's for me, and not you.

I Like My Trees Rare

I would carve our names

together in the bark

of the old silver maple

if I wasn’t so sensitive

to trees

and how they feel

about being cut up.

Funny how I don’t mind

slicing up a turkey,

a chicken, a cow,

or rubbing scales

off a fish

while it looks

intently back at me.

when i grow up...

I’ve given up on poetry,
never really started painting
like I always thought I would.
Wood carving and metal working
were only passing thoughts,
copper pounded into petals,
bent and twisted into roses
and placed in a bed of lavender,
driftwood boxes sanded smooth
to hold waves of memories
and trinkets from babies that were mine;
I never made anything except excuses.

I’ve held myself unaccountable,
counting on enough time left
to cover over any sense of failure
for the unfinished and the broken.

I’m still afraid to go forward,
fearful that I’ll never shape driftwood
into something beautiful,
worried I'll forget myself,
that no one will remember me.

Fishing in the Spring

Every memory I have begins with dementia.

You can’t remember why – and everything is tangled
up in lines, just the same way I used to cast a rod,
and not the way you taught me at all.


You’d say, “Release at one o’clock,”
but it was the last thing I learned;
telling time was the first thing you forgot.


I say, “You’re my dad,” and you laugh –


I say, “You named me – I’m Angela.”


You smile and say, “What the heck?”

Since You've Been Gone (part 2)

Since you’ve been gone,

I’ve developed a passion for wine and

a recipe for split pea soup.

I’m sure you’ll take credit for both,

but the recipe is all mine –

and it's one thing I’ll never give you.

But hey…have some warm soup.

I have a laundry obsession

and I’ve let the garden go to seed.

I look past the cherry tomatoes

and around the heirlooms and asparagus

at my neatly organized loads of laundry

waving to me in the wind and I feel calm.

(You don’t have to weed tomatoes. They still produce.)

The lawnmower broke.

The refrigerator started weeping.

The air conditioner doesn’t cool.

The dishwasher discovered a new method

of washing dishes without water.

The dryer doesn’t dry, and

I forget to set the trash out on Tuesdays.

(I always forget…you were so good at remembering dates.)

I have color coordinated my closet,

added to my flip flop collection,

discovered the joy of lorazepam,

stopped using plastic,

started dancing again,

apologized to my children,

come to terms with me and

quit tending my flowers.

I can’t be your pension plan,

I’m still diversifying my quirks.

Since You've Been Gone (untitled)

“There are various ways to hang laundry,

but only one is correct, ” she thinks to herself,

pondering the problem of the washcloths streaked

with lines of cocoa and cream and crimson.

The stripes long to be hung vertically,

at a right angle to the dewy green under her barefeet,

but the matching towels would graze the wet grass

and so therefore must be hung horizontally.

The washcloths must be changed, she decides,

quickly pinching the wooden clothespins,

again, restoring order to her day.

There are various ways of doing everything -

this, she knows.

This is the only thing she really knows.

There are various ways to load dishwashers,

organize closets, fold towels, make beds,

sweep floors, clean bathtubs, stack dishes,

polish mirrors, windows, light bulbs, doorknobs,

arrange books,

dust bookshelves,

shelve thoughts.

“But the right way is always best, ” she smiles,

separating magazines and herself by category and date.

Fanning them perfectly on the table,

she wonders if the dew has dried.