A Mother’s Touch

For Mother’s Day

A tender brush of fingers across a cheek
to wipe away the tears.

Hands moving in small, soothing circles
across the shoulders and back.

A high-five as a symbol
of pride and celebration.

Allowing knees to lock around the waist
and hands to clasp at the neck
as the back provides a reprieve and a chance
to see the world.

A shoulder becomes a cradle for a sleeping head
as peaceful stillness permeates both bodies.

Reaching out to grab a hand,
interlacing fingers with gentle firmness
to ensure safety.

A kiss to make it all better.

Happy Mother’s Day to all the moms out there as well as anyone else who finds themselves in that nurturing role.

This link was shared to earthweal open link weekend #20.

Photo by Daria Obymaha from Pexels

For A.

How was I supposed to realize?

Even after all these years,
I still find myself thinking about you.

How was I supposed to realize
that the cool touch of your hand in mine
would sear itself into my memory
as if it were the scar
of a thousand icy fires?

Or that your lips that told
of hopes and dreams for a better future–
not just for yourself, but for the whole world–
would be so intoxicating and unforgettable
when pressed against mine?

I have made several mistakes
since that touch, that kiss,
one of which was
letting you go
without an explanation.

Now I am left with the memory
and an apology that seems
too thin, too late, and too quiet
to be of any real benefit
to you.

And I know that everything I said and did
gives you no reason to trust me,
to even listen to me,
but I do have just one question:

Do you still think about me, too?


Photo by Min An from Pexels

Galaxies, Or Regarding Poor Prufrock

Around us we hear the swift-moving cars,
racing to their destinations

Image by FelixMittermeier from Pixabay

When I saw that this week’s Penable poetry competition had the theme of “galaxy,” my first thought was of the poem “The Lovesong of J. Alfred Prufrock” by T. S. Eliot.

Update: I won! Thank you to everyone for your support! Thank you H. R. Phoenix for hosting the contest and thank you Saania for selecting my poem!

The original “Prufrock” begins with the lines “Let us go then, you and I,/When the evening is spread out against the sky/Like a patient etherized upon a table.” If you want to read that entire poem, you can find it here.

My poem isn’t meant to be a response to “The Lovesong of J. Alfred Prufrock.” My poem is simply what I thought about while I reread that poem and reflected on galaxies.

Galaxies, Or Regarding Poor Prufrock

In a lush field upon our backs we lie
with our palms spread out flat against the sky,
like a perfect frame for the gleaming stars.

Around us we hear the swift-moving cars,
racing to their destinations, but ours
is simply here under the summer heat,

For we don’t want to roam the busy streets,
we desire to just wait in peace and meet
constellations, greeting them one by one.

Soon, though, even without illumination from the sun,
our gentle quietude becomes undone,
reminded of life’s chaos by the overwhelming vastness of space.

A disheartening question now we face:
Among the cosmos, what is our place?
It ravages, rages, consumes our brains

until it is the only thought that remains.
Though to the tranquil darkness, it does not pertain,
so we wonder if it needs answered at all.

The beaming starlight once more does call,
and though we may feel stuck and small,
held in by the pointillated dark sheet above,

we notice the heavens surround us with love.
That inquiry flies off like a dove
as we feel safe beneath the galaxies.

We will return to questions of mortality,
morality, reality, and unreality,
but for now, we focus on the view. How pretty!

For this moment,
we ignore memories of the city,
the hustle and bustle, the anxiety,
that simultaneous crowded, lonely curse.

Those thoughts are for another poet’s verse–
We do not dare disturb the universe.

And the World Becomes Still

I hear a voice gently whisper,
“Peace.”

When all the world is upended around me,

When my thoughts ricochet around my mind with unstoppable speed,

When anxiety rattles me to my core,

I hear a voice gently whisper,

“Peace,”

And the world becomes still.

When I am sad and scared and lonely,

When the loss seems too much to bear,

When tears stream down my face and my body is wracked with sobs,

I hear a voice gently whisper,

“Peace,”

And the world becomes still.

When I am filled with anticipation,

When a look of exuberance covers my face,

When jubilation is the only thing on my mind,

I hear a voice gently whisper,

“Peace,”

And the world becomes still.

When I am sitting in a quiet place,

When I am meditating on gratitude,

When my heartbeat is slow and steady,

I hear a voice gently whisper,

“Peace,”

And the world becomes still.



Happy Easter if you celebrate it! Either way, I wish you a day filled with light, love, peace, and happiness!


Photo by James Wheeler from Pexels

I Fell in Love with a Poet

his limericks, like the sweetest perfume
that could fill the air in every room

The verses he once scribbled carelessly
became a type of medicine to me,
his limericks, like the sweetest perfume
that could fill the air in every room,
his gorgeous, timeless, melodious rhymes
just as flavorful as basil or thyme.

He did not know me, nor did I know him,
but I ventured to write upon a whim
a commendation for twisting my favorite hymn,
and giving it a tone so morbid and grim.

A “thanks” was then his meager reply
which caused a teardrop to leave my eye.
I began to think and gave a sigh
realizing sad and ashamed that I

did this to myself again. That poor man
knew not that my love rested in his hand;
he could only know what I had said,
not the million thoughts still in my head.
It was but my own imagined tryst–
a love between us would never exist.

Fake relationship of my own making–
I did no giving, only taking.
Now, once again, alone, I’m quaking,
trying to mend a heart that’s breaking.


Shared with Mindlovemisery’s Menagerie for their Sunday Writing Prompt of “Secret Admirer” because it fits the theme so perfectly!

A Child’s Fantasy

In air thick with haze,
She wakes to a maze

When I saw that this week’s competition for Penable was about fantasy, I wasn’t sure if I should enter. Until now, I had never written poetry that would fall into the category of fantasy, so I wasn’t sure that I would be able to come up with any ideas. I’m so glad that I gave it a shot! This poem is a little different from what I normally write, but I really enjoyed doing it. Thanks Midnightlion for encouraging me to enter!

A Child’s Fantasy

In air thick with haze,
She wakes to a maze,
At the end, a green hedge with a door in.

She picks correct paths
With ease, then she laughs.
This silly place–to her, it is foreign.

Continue reading “A Child’s Fantasy”