Radical Acceptance

I wrote this poem after being inspired by my blanket from The Big Blanket Co. It’s the biggest, best, coziest blanket I own and my whole family fits under it together. I wish I could buy one for everyone in the world. And radical acceptance is a feeling I wish I could share with everyone in the world, too. In my heart, they both feel equally warm and amazing.

This warm and fuzzy feeling is like a blanket to my soul. I want to sew a quilt so big it sweeps across the world and everyone can feel a corner. I have a hunch you’d be  enraptured by all that you are if you showed yourself radical acceptance too. It’s soft like velvet, well worn,  and feels like home. I don’t need to seek approval; I have my own. 

Daughters

This poem was inspired by nights with my daughters. At the time I wrote the poem, they were 5, 7, and 9 and all shared the same bedroom. I love our bedtime routine, and I love peeking in on them after they’ve fallen asleep. This poem depicts how I often sit on the edge of one of their beds and reflect on the day while they’re sleeping.

three little girls with lanky arms and legs,  flashlights and a book avalanche peeking out  from under pink-patterned bedsheets pillowcases dotted with drool from pouty lips that have just finished  saying their prayers, thanking their creator for everything one moment, imaginations ablaze,  unicorn and mermaid adventures on glossy pages, and the next minute…sleep. one tired mom with bags under her eyes sits at the edge of the bed, staring at the wall watching the nightlight chandelier cast shadows of snoring children that look more like the dragons they are slaying in their dreams she kisses three soft foreheads before reciting through osmosis, you are brave, beautiful, and kind, you are God’s and you are mine. sleep well, my sweet babies, and remember mama will always love you.

Family Picture

I wrote this poem in two parts. The first part is my memory of the only family picture of my nuclear family from childhood. The second part is a memory of my childhood that occurred every Friday night, and could’ve been a picture if there was ever a camera around. I was inspired when thinking about how few pictures were taken in the 90s and how many pictures are taken now that cameras are more accessible.

My hand on his shoulder, his hand on mom’s knee Mom combed her hair and dad smelled like Ivory soap My brother was riding bike before we left for church  I was doing cartwheels and making chalk rainbows We quickly dressed in our nicest polo shirts Hair wavy and damp with sweat  Sun-kissed arms from a midwest summer The plain blue backdrop was as bland as white bread Everyone smile like you love each other He smirks. Click.  Our only family picture.  That teachers salary doesn’t go far in the summer Mom has a fifty pound computer with dialup  When she’s grant writing I can’t call my friends  Dad's cooler with bologna and cheese sandwiches A Reebok bag of sunscreen and bottled water He paints houses so we can have music lessons At night we are all together in the family room Dark paneled walls, a pullout couch, and a pizza We watch TGIF together after a long day Hundreds of Fridays and we never missed one Dad on a rocking chair. Mom lying down on the couch My brother and I propped up with pillows and blankets An imaginary snapshot of my childhood.  

Decision Makers

I wrote this poem about our beautiful earth that we are damaging through our decisions over climate change. I am imaging everything I love about nature and the senses it awakens within me. I carry that same descriptive text over when I begin to talk about our “decision makers.”

Our earth is sovereign  and we should anoint her, praise her honeyed voice  that trills over fragrant blooms,  sizzling volcanoes, and sweltering deserts. We should swoon over her rich land  and seas, teeming with copious resources that penetrate the senses. Our brooding decision makers Clash against each other like cymbals Their angry voices an incessant peal inside my head That hurts my eardrums and my soul. The resounding bellow of greed and power Grumbling miserably from the gong while frosted ice chips off into the ocean. Without change, this destruction will be the insignia of our generation.

ADHD

I grew up not knowing I had ADHD and spent the first 34 years of my life wondering what was wrong with my brain. This poem is my depiction of what it feels like to have untreated ADHD. Knocker ball clacker, click clacks, and kabangers are all names for the same plastic toy that clacks against itself when you hit it hard in the air.

My ADHD is a knocker ball clacker One of those plastic kid toys from the dollar store  that falls out of the piñatas at birthday parties  I too feel like a novelty sometimes, when people see I’m flighty, spontaneous, easily distracted, and always have new ideas. I love your personality! …thanks, it’s a mental illness.   The purpose of click clacks to knock them together maniacally  as fast and as hard as possible like a million tiny brain cells  beating the shit out of the air and each other like tiny boxers.  An addictive, shitty trinket made in China is much like my brain. I can’t stop the impulsive clacking. Jab, cross, click, clack.  It’s Mike Tyson vs. Muhammad Ali up there in my frontal cortex.   You could break your wrist slamming those kabangers. My brain is mashed potatoes after the beating it takes  from two tiny spheres on a handle, neurons and synapses flying uncontrollably. 

Tourniquet Heart

This poem is based on the area in the “Triangle of Death” which was Iraq’s most dangerous location at its most dangerous time. My husband is an army veteran who served with the Black Heart Brigade. This is my depiction of his time there.

You met Satan in the desert He wrote your name in the sand of Baghdad   stripped you naked of your armor and choked you until you cried acid rain over the scorched bones of people whose sons you were forced to bomb  Orders given by generals who never journeyed  through the roads pitted with explosives Delivering your own eulogy while marching through dusty streets begging the lord takes you before you die inside Anxiety dropping into your bowels  over the terror of having to be your own hero Deranged by grief, you are the walking wounded I place a tourniquet of prayer over your heart  that the curses spoken by people who never want you to feel peace again dissipate, removing your name from the bare, dry soil never to haunt you again. 

Roo

This poem was inspired by a friend of mine that was a donor recipient. He had a long health journey but always seemed to pull through. We compared him to a cat with nine lives. He beat the odds every time and we never expected him to go. He passed peacefully in his sleep, and despite his journey it was very unexpected. He left behind a wife and two young daughters.

I don’t know why he needed to die.  Husband, father, friend, edgy, tattoo-sleeved,  Jesus-loving, concert-going, larger than life,  donor recipient living on borrowed time.  The person who preached about trusting  the promise of heaven went to be there.  God seems really far away, and now he is too.  “Home” is both somewhere above the clouds  and under a hinged lid. Behind the veil  and next to the TV stand. Having a wild  and raucous party with others dearly departed,  and packed away in a tiny vessel,  like the sand his daughters collect at the beach  and save in a little clear plastic heart  that corks at the top. This is how it is now.