Promise To Whisper

We’re living like strangers
In a house with thin walls

Loose change on the nightstand
Dust in the corner of our eyes

Let’s pause our devices
Put the kids to bed

Go downstairs quietly
And count our blessings

Let’s touch the things
We love the most

The things we’ve broken
The things we refuse to fix

Holes in the hearth
Cracks in the ceiling

Let’s share a bottle of wine
Shake the dust from our eyes

Admire the mess we make
Each day of our beautiful lives

You say come with me
I’ll say come for me

If you promise to whisper
Come here and make me

The Authentic Me

Today I’m thankful for my poetry. How carefully I choose my words. I’m thankful for readers who hear the sound of my voice and recognize the authentic me.

I’m thankful that whatever happens going forward I’ll be OK. In the context of my recovery from childhood abuse, OK means I’m safe from harm. Trauma has a way of making the whole world feel unsafe, and relief from anxiety feel impossible. But something’s changed recently. Something powerful. I feel comfortable in my own skin. After years of practicing mindfulness, I know how to soothe myself. In stressful situations I remember to slow down and catch my breath. Today I’m free to move through the world at my own pace, open to hope and creativity.

As for my abuser, fuck him. Has he published four books? What does he know about poetry?

What I Do For A Living

I help hoarders find Jesus.

I’m a tree surgeon looking to branch out.

I’m a Charlie Brown impersonator. Call me Chuck.

I’m a good grief counselor. I charge five cents.

I import exporters.

I encourage mimes to speak their minds.

I make magicians disappear.

I tell jokes on TV. I keep it clean. I swear.

I’m a bad plumber but a great lover. My wife is always wet.

I’m a hoarse whisperer.

I inspect library books for double meanings and cross them out.

I count census workers.

I sell luxury clown cars. Draw blood. Pound sand. Raise cranes.

I’m a stay-at-home cad.

I greet Walmart customers in my Target uniform and say welcome to Kohl’s.

I’m an unforeseen event planner.

I cry Wolf Blitzer and shout fake news.

I’m a poet. The pay sucks. I sing the blues.

An Ocean Lost At Sea

When life was a breeze
My mind flowed like an ocean
Of rivers and streams
Each thought in my head
Reflecting like a blue moonbeam
On the surface of a lucid dream

Until in a burst of madness
The rivers in my mind
Split at the streams
And I prayed in vain for the sky
To fall and crush my dreams

Now my mind drifts
Like an ocean lost at sea
And every night I dream
The moon is drowning
Peacefully in my sleep