so. summer. its here. (sustain)

Its tuesday, it is technically the fourth and a half day of summer. (not counting the weekend when they are at their dads, if so, that would be two more days, because facts matter. actual facts, i mean.) I have had children tell me they hate summer salads. I have had children crying because they can’t do something every day. Teenagers have cried on the inside at my absolute bitchery. what happens on the outside is sullen, and often involves speed-dialing their dad to complain. this makes me feel SOOOOO good.

Also? this is the second day of non-beachy weather and so, kindof home-bound. I have had talks about how we can’t get ice cream every day and if we’re going to buy the ‘pitch back’ and the ‘gymnastics bar’, then we are going to have to figure out how to like summer salads, because take out is for special events, not EVERY GODDAMN DAY. I have had talks, to deaf ears (not my own) about how to fill time when bored. Today I will take a phone away, for the charges I found when I woke up this morning. It will be banner. BANNER.

GUys. This is tuesday, of the first full week.

(and i have 30,000 words to write in the next ten days.)

(i’m getting up very early. werk.)

I’m fine! I really am! I’m going to be fine! I’ve done this before. I’m totally chill. I don’t mind driving them around, I don’t. I could do with a little less complaining for their charmed lives, but I’m fine. we’re good. Next year, everyone is getting a damn job. Less time means less complaining, right?

Not my bunnies. But just like ’em..Photo by Pixabay on

I’m still poet-ing with my old friend and I just love it. There is a piece of me that is so damn happy to still be alive, alive enough to be poet-ing.

the latest thing I wrote in that exchange? This:

-am watching a baby bunny outside,

clover and green are what sustain.

and me too, these small things sustain.

Sweet, right? So tiny. but so lovely.

sustain, baby.

love love,



Poem: not sure you’ll get it. s’ok tho.

Kids running, street lights buzzing- on, repetitions unplanned for. Distraction, uncoupling, loose car on a track.

My daughter cracks because mom didn’t look. How many times have I wanted to be witnessed? Just WITNESSED… i understand and it still cracks me. i can’t be looking all the time. she must learn to be her witness, and me too, i must.

lack, i am aware of how it plays, how it pays, the dividends of remorse, fear, mistake, compulsion. there is no thing to hold me then.

plenty. there is that too, and i spin in my time alone. each day making up for a sleepless night, a horrified waiting, a heartbreaking arrival. the ratio has not been worked out. but i’m gaining.

young female blowing huge balloon in sky
Photo by Gelatin on

*tried something new today. talked with an old lover yesterday who always challenges me with his words, and i remembered how much i like to twist and turn in poetry, and in challenge. so, i shared it. don’t know if any of it will resonate. but it does for me.

old dogs. new tricks. welcome summer.

love love,



new moon mishmosh

  1. New moon… means no moon, to us visual folks. Of course its there, just shadowed enough that we can’t see it. Crazy right? Why the ‘new’? You think it would be some ‘darkest hour’ feeling, or some ‘stay home and safe from the werewolves’ messaging. so poorly branded, she chuckles. If only the new moon had a better ad campaign.

And happiness rolls on like a gold hoop

Someone else is guiding,  (Mandelstam)

2. That is just a line from a poem by Mandelstam, written in 1920. The poem it is from is lovely and can be found in this… I wrote so much about it this morning, how happy I am that I get to run alongside, how little I need to have control of it, and how much joy it brings me to gallop with a flushed cheek.

3. The new moon is actually time to look around and see what’s what. How can you clear a path for yourself? what do you trash? what do you sort? Go plant your plants, give them a fresh go ahead, a return of the light at night to watch. Set out on your new thing. Call the dream girl.

4. Do it one better. Go sit outside in the darkness and remember gazing at the stars. Don’t capture it in any way besides those eyes of yours. They are more than enough. Remember when you ran for the sheer exhilaration and joy?

5. sigh. i love you guys.


silhouette of person holding glass mason jar
New moon, no moon. Get you some stars.. Photo by Rakicevic Nenad on

Its poetry month, y’all.

And, inspired by Cynthia Lee, I’m sharing a good one with you. This poet is younger than I am, and there is part of me that is shocked by that. Age!! she yells and shakes her fist at that slate sky!!

(if you click on the website, you can hear Ada Limon read it herself, which is always nice.)

Instructions on Not Giving Up by Ada Limón – Poems |

More than the fuchsia funnels breaking out
of the crabapple tree, more than the neighbor’s
almost obscene display of cherry limbs shoving
their cotton candy-colored blossoms to the slate
sky of Spring rains, it’s the greening of the trees
that really gets to me. When all the shock of white
and taffy, the world’s baubles and trinkets, leave
the pavement strewn with the confetti of aftermath,
the leaves come. Patient, plodding, a green skin
growing over whatever winter did to us, a return
to the strange idea of continuous living despite
the mess of us, the hurt, the empty. Fine then,
I’ll take it, the tree seems to say, a new slick leaf
unfurling like a fist to an open palm, I’ll take it all.


now, me. not poetic today. well, i mean, i am. i always am. but i don’t want anyone holding me to it, no feet to the fire, not today. I am proud to have produced another holiday for the kids, strange as they are, happy to not cancel, happy to not have throw up laundry still to do, happy to have been surrounded by candy, family and a beautiful sunny day. As the green of the tree says, in resignation and pride, ‘I’ll take it all’.

I’m doing better than surviving, loves.

love and bursting love,


burning bengal bombs on shabby surface
Photo by Griffin Wooldridge on

You do not have to… you do not need to.

This is a Cynthia Lee prompt, and in reaction to a Mary Oliver poem, Wild Geese.

Sigh. Exceptional poem. EXCEPTIONAL. Please just go inhale it.

To myself I say:

You do not have to pretend to have it all together. You do not have to show your disaster.

You do not have to look like the other moms. You do not have to make small talk just to prove your humanity.

You do not have to consider every single person’s point of view every time. You do not have to argue with yourself when you get an interesting idea.

You do not have to buy any more candy. You do not need to satisfy the unsatisfied.

You do not need to explain yourself again. You do not need to explain your bad dreams. You do not need to hurry through.

You do not need to demand anything from anyone.

You do not need to settle.

You do not need to brand, niche, conform to the ‘way to make money’ writing.

You do not need to give up. You do not need to wear beige just because it goes with everything. You do not need to make sense to anyone else.

What do you say?

love love,


background of natural green leaf with veins
Upclose leaf . Photo by Skylar Kang on