Category Archives: Poetry

International Women’s Day

“This is a man’s job,” he spewed with arrogant confidence.

“This business is dominated by us,” he boasted.

“What can you bring to the table?” he asked.

Answer him wisely. The power is in his hands. A man’s table? A man’s world?

Alpha men—born from women.

Amid hurdles and miracles, the egg lies in wait.

Out of millions, one male cell finds its way in.

The weakling girl transforms. Now she’s the protector—the one in charge.

She discovers the beginning is the hardest. The most challenging. The riskiest.

She’s unnerved but undaunted. She monitors and delights in quickening,

an awakening, a flutter, and then a forceful kick.

Inner strength and power reveal themselves from deep within.

Patiently waiting for months and months while nourishing and supporting, discovering that

life is resilient and sacrifice is quiet, she finds the courage to labor, push, and deliver.

She is bolstered by the belief that survival is key—reassured that anything is possible.

When the miracle arrives, she makes a promise to crack and shatter.

First, the table, then the world.

Brick by Brick

One brick, two bricks, three bricks,

coming at me from left and right.

Brick after painful brick,

with seemingly no end in sight.

Some bricks broke my spirit,

while others broke my trust.

I was knocked down but not out

and obsessed with crushing their

brick-slinging bloodlust.

When I picked myself up and brushed myself off,

my first thought was to throw the bricks back.

But then I asked myself, why should I be sullied

by an undignified counterattack?

And then a lightbulb went off. I’ll use words!

Paste and bind them to protect and insulate.

I’ll mortar myself using the characters of the alphabet,

to quell the character-assassinating, brick-baiting hate.

Let me hit them back with words instead of bricks,

by utilizing A-B-C-D-E-F-G.

I’ll disarm them with vowels and consonants,

with the help of H-I-J-K-L-M-N-O-P.

I’ll build a mighty fortress with mortared words,

cementing them between Q-R-S-T.

I’ll shake the haters up by spilling through spelling,

U-V-W-X-Y-Z.

So, I used the alphabet to word-fortify against their attacks.

And I’ll admit, those bricks initially brought me to my knees.

But now I’m safe and sound, all bricked up within and without.

My safehold, all in ABCs.

Bless Me Father

Bless-me-Father-AB

Your mother
is a sinner.

And so are you.

Go now
and confess.

The girl
was terrified.

Not sure what
to say.

She just had
her
First Communion.

But never confessed
any sins.

The confessional
was dark.

And she hated
it.

The dark
was always
merciless.

The priest
was barely
visible.

Bless me father
for I have sinned.

How long since your
last confession
he asked.

Never.

What have you
to confess
my child?

Adultery.

Lord please have
mercy
on my soul.

The priest
moved
swiftly.

And opened
the curtain
to reveal
himself.

She knew him and
he knew her.

He sat the girl
in a pew
and held her hand.

It was still wet
from blessing herself
with the holy water.

Why would you
confess such a thing
my little one?

Because Mother Superior
ordered me
to
beg for
mercy
and repent.

He took her hand
and they walked
to the school.

In silence.

She was in trouble.

Maybe she was supposed
to genuflect when
she came into
the church.

Who would ask a child
to confess such a thing
asked the priest of
the nun.

Her mother is
excommunicated.

She pointed at the girl.

And she doesn’t belong here.

Perhaps it is you
who doesn’t belong
here, he fumed.

The mother arrived
quickly.

Dressed in a yellow
mini dress
and fake pearls.

Her hair in a bee hive
her cheeks a rosy pink.

Her heels high
and her scent lovely.

The nun was dismissive
and merciless.

But the mother
was fierce.

Protective.

And ready to
rumble.

Adulteress?

This is what you call
my daughter?

You are a sinner,
and so is she
the nun spat out.

The priest gasped.

The mother moved in
for the kill.

And cut the nun to size
with her biting
humiliating
words.

No mercy.

The nun was quiet
humbled and ashamed.

The mother was triumphant.

Vindicated.

The priest was pleased.

He did his best to
hide his smile.

The child trudged back to class
knowing the
consequences
would be merciless.

Bless me father

Hello

Pam
Her cross
her loss
was more than
one person
should ever bear.

First her husband.
Then her son.

Before she left
she promised me
a sign.

But it never came.

Almost to the day
I thought that plane
was going to drop
right out of the sky.

When we landed
I couldn’t wait to
kiss the ground.

Its brilliance
caught my eye.

On one side
the year
he was born.

On the other
a mother
father
son
and daughter.

Hello.

I secured it
with shipping tape
inside her
framed photo.

Years later
I spoke of it
to the child.

He sensed its
importance.

He asked to see it.

I took the photo
off the shelf
to show him.

But it was gone.

Just tape.

No sign.

I tried to hide
my sorrow.

But the little one
the sensitive one
knew.

We looked
around
and around
for it.

And then
we looked again.

Tape
tightly affixed.

The curious one
asked how.

No answer.

Just grief.

A few
weeks later
his tiny hand
fished around
in his pocket.

Its brilliance
caught my eye.

On one side
E Pluribus Unum.
Out of many
one.

On the other
a smiling mother
holding her child.

I could see
he loved it.

Keep it
I tenderly
told him.

It belongs
in the frame
he gently replied.

And pressed it
into my
trembling hand.