You may recall

in years to come

this feeling, this place –

home, yes,

(we all think of home)

but I mean home right now,


at some vague, future time

something like these sweet smells,

brandy-soaked fruit (Christmas cakes)

and the lingering memory of breakfast’s bacon,

might bring you back to now,

you might hear the comforting melancholy

of winter jazz playing quietly on a radio,

and recall the way the winter sun infused everything

as it slanted through a filter of snow-clouds and bare branches,

you might feel the deep warmth of home,

of us, here, together.


Oh, right now

I know it’s just another day

a regular, lazy Sunday

a day of idle movies

of someone somewhere cooking –


hardly worth noting.


But if ever you ask me then

whether I remember now,

I will smile slightly and say

I remember, and

it was everything.

Celestial journey

We are scattered to the wind, now, like seeds drifting, untethered yet to the earth, or like stars 

flung to the corners of the galaxy, each a brilliant blaze of light, dancing apart in a shifting sky

turning, twirling, wheeling free and onward to some unknown future-bound meeting point.

As space and time pull us on, we spin faster, raising our hands stretching them out, reaching for each other

leaning toward our reunion  – the scent of it, crackling sweet like a great celestial bonfire

(bright as the birth of stars -though your birth was eons ago now; this on our horizon is a different celebration, another marker in the universe of us)

tonight I can smell it, almost see it, close enough to anticipate, I settle in, the shooting stars around me intensify, 

and I wait.

It has taken a long time to get to this place

I remember all those times I felt righteous indignation
all those times I was sure you were wrong,
and I was right
and maybe you were wrong, sometimes,
but now I understand
just how hard it is
how complex the human soul
the layers of our interactions
the trying – the striving – to do the right thing
when so often all you can do is come up short
and then try again next time.

I remember so many of our struggles and differences
but I want you to know that I also remember the good times:
nights in front of the tv
making toasted tomato sandwiches
trying to break my fear of spiders.
I want you to know that when I look at my boy
I think of you and smile
and I remember the good times, too.

An unexpected exploration of my childhood assumptions spun from a conversation about parenting with my son and the NaPoWriMo day 29 prompt to write a poem based on things we remember.

The Tree

In wanting to re-mould this gentle tree 
(its branches danced and swayed once, elegant
though shaded all the garden’s blooming plants)
he aimed to trim and shape its crown of leaves.
Departing from sweet natural beauty
an architect’s design he sought to grant
imbued with his own flair, vision – his stamp
and an elegance almost Japanese.
But she favoured a fairy forest wild
from ancient memories of land untamed
inspired not by plans, nor tagged and named,
left free to grow like wonder in a child.
‘Tween wild and pruned a compromise was made:
sheared branches leave the sun on plants to smile.

A sonnet about garden wars for NaPoWriMo day 23 and the anniversary of Shakespeare’s death.

One day you will fly

Fly like the wind, my boy
when you find that one thing
the true thing you were born into
embrace it, and
fly like the wind.

For so long I’ve tried not to think
of the day you will fly away
instead, I tried to lift you up
and give you wings,
hoping you would not go far,
hoping you would always return.

Now I see you already soar
the way you were born to,
your circles around the sun
ever wider,
destined to light your way,
destined to light your life.

In dreams, we may run-fly-wander
through fields sun-kissed with wildflowers
but already I see you above me, stretching free,
head tossed back in rapture:
Fly like the wind, my boy.
Though you roam,
this, here, will always be home.

So go, embrace the sky,
I will wave each time you pass by.
Fly like the wind!


On NaPoWriMo day 14, a poem for my son the day before his 11th birthday, inspired in part by his newfound love (and skill) for running.