Ocean

Noordwijk, Netherlands; North Sea Shore. January 2023. Image, my own.

Regret

I stood in the tide of
the North Sea
and I should have dived in.
I should have stripped
off my clothes
like an overgrown baby
and screamed and
squawked into the surf

I should have shrugged
off my care for my
friend’s husband. I’m
sure he would have
politely turned around
if I’d asked.
then I’d have had to
contend with the flotsam

on the beach, but that
wouldn’t have mattered,
half shells, stones, sponges
even the cuts on my
feet would have been
worth it if I’d boldly
yawped into the bubbling
spume, a signal

to the universe that I knew,
I saw what was coming
next (which is a lie)
but in that moment,
to prove to myself I was
animate, to confirm I
could do anything, to
beat my chest at the

edge of the world,
to be alive,
especially if I had
known everything that
would begin– days
later– the layers of dreams
I’d have to divest,
the altar I’d have to burn

in sacrilege, the pain that
would engulf me, the end
This is important because
now I know that my
jaunt into the North Sea
would look pale,
naked, unfeathered in
comparison to reality

and it really wouldn’t
have changed anything.
the tide would have
rolled, salt-gray, rhythmic,
unforgiving, over me
as the lanterns burned
brightly in the beach house
but it’s one thing I may
always regret

Flotsam of the North Sea. Noordwijk, Netherlands. Image, my own.

Ghost

You never think
That someone will pass through you
Like the ghost of who they once were
Like the spirit of a person you once knew

You never think
That it could hurt so badly to unravel
Like every color of who they were was in you
Like each thread that stitched you all together was undone

You never knew
What death while someone is alive feels like
What saying goodbye without saying anything means
What one body of pain can experience

Until you knew

Tide. North Sea, Noordwijk, Netherlands. Imgae, my own.

Comfort

sink into the folds
of an oversized chaise
tuck your body between
the seat cushion
and english arm
rest your head on the
soft folds of the chenille
bolster, squish and
knead yourself into
the billows of down fill
rest all of yourself in
there to see if you’ll
be safe from the storm

Directions. Noordwijk, Netherlands. Image, my own.

Celebrate

listen, don’t you forget
that even days of sorrow
can be days of celebration
that’s the paradox
we were born for this

My House at Night. Noordwijk, Netherlands. Image, my own.

Spoon

if you bring your thighs
right under the nook
of my knees
and the bulk of your
body right into the
curve of my hips
and your chest flush
with my back and
wrap yourself around
me all night, I
may remember what
love, and safety, and
sighing in peace
really feels like
I’ll be home again
quiet, delicious, hazy jazz
you’ll quell my longing

Jazz Café Alto. Amsterdam, Netherlands. Image, my own.

Relentless

sometimes this existence can
feel so heavy
so weighted and wearisome
so relentless

Oosterdok, Netherlands. Image, my own.

Evolve

Scrub Oak in Transition, September 2024. Image, my own.

Autumn Equinox

there is this balance,
this even-keeled consciousness,
an equanimity of the breath
in the air this time of year,
the night and the day coming
into equilibrium, living and dying
reflected in the vegetation,
the need for both action and
rest, moving and pause, all
things in their time and space

Rubber Rabbitbrush, September 2024. Image, my own.

Evolve
-for the elders who’ve shone
a light along the way

I’ve been watching the course
of Life more closely as
I’ve neared ‘halfway’

I’m totally clear, I may die tomorrow
of a fungal infection brought
on by an errant hang nail

This year, I started to see
and understand some parts
about this journey called life,

Facets that had never been
open to me before,
that had never been revealed

In youth. I began to witness
the power of personal
human evolution.

I’m sure I’ve seen it displayed
previously, but now, it seemed
closer, more raw and real

The strength, the peace,
the solidarity, and grounding
that some humans

Offer themselves and others
when they choose to live
with their arms stretched

Up to the divine, when
they’re moving forward in
purpose while trusting the

Siren song of the universe
to guide them to good ends,
and over hard roads, too, don’t

Mistake. I don’t think that
living this evolution is simple
in any way. To allow the

Lessons that life has offered
you to be inculcated into
your core, this isn’t a flat

Path, rather peaks and valleys, I see
my mother who pursues her
passions like watercolor and arts

Grant writing without
prompting or celebration,
and steadily understands

what she loves, what she
holds dear and then lifts
up those elements of her

Life, tending to her own
garden of desire, she invests
her best self in her and us.

All I’m saying is that for a
very long time I felt completely
perplexed with the recipe of this

thing I was witnessing–
evolution– my septuagenarian
friends, were practicing this

Art of living with purpose, too,
with love and with a fair dose
of spicy ironic interjection

Swimming every day,
hiking all over the hills
and valleys of our home

They were another of my
sign-posts. And my uncle,
who spoke the eulogy at

My aunt’s celebration of
life, a woman who also
lived and gave her life over to joy,

He has also chosen
to live in the miracle of the
era of man, to let life

Be the ocean, the teacher, and
he became the student,
he’s allowed those learnings

To become part of him
in the way he loves his
children, the way he acts

In community, the way he carries
the knowing that life will always be
a question, a universal

Query that we can only answer
by living more truly, more soundly,
more surely in verity

To that Flame that was lit within
us at our birth, the miracle of
existence realized, we evolve

Lights. September 2024. Image, my own.

On Being

be who you are and
who you can be,
and meet those two
verities inside yourself
with loving kindness
and compassion and
let it be enough to
experience the joy
of living as you see fit
as you love yourself

Andrew Wyeth Grasses, September, 2024. Image, my own.

Steady in the Fall

the sun and moon
move into equilibrium
waxing crescent to quarter

peloton of geese ride high in
the wide blue sky, calling
and answering back, headed south

flowers still bloom, delicate violet
saturated yellow, vibrant magenta,
as grass fades, sepia to umber

fully bronze dragon fly the size of
a silver dollar flickers past in the sun
chased by a saxe blue fly the same size

grasshoppers bunch on mustard rabbitbrush
in the sway of breeze next to dark-chocolate
velvet cattails, stalks steeped in pond-water

cooper’s hawk cries from the brush
high and free like an alter ego
finding the next rodent in the undergrowth

the air takes on the rush and pulse
of crisp wind as the sun’s rays angle
longer, cooling field, flower, and fly

Paul Klee, Night Flowers.

Sense

Poppies, West Yellowstone, 2021. Image, my own.

Hunger

I won’t make it. He said. With a seriousness beyond seventeen. I’ll seize up. Freeze.
I won’t be able to crawl on the ground to the escape exit, to climb the bookshelf
To project myself through the ‘hypothetical’ broken glass where the star
Quarterback threw the desk through the shatter-proof window. I won’t move.
He said. As his brown eyes swam in a sea of fear and knowing. Lean limbed,
Hair the color of a house wren’s feathers, sandy brown. Eyes knowing and wide.
I won’t make it.

Desensitization comes from experiencing the same thing over and over and over
So it comes as no surprise when there’s another school shooting many teachers
Parents students don’t even blink, we don’t even pause to take a breath, to wonder
What it would be like if someone brought a gun to our school, what would we do
Instead we slip over to social media to hear snippets of the aftermath, we read
A New York Times article that offers a couple more of the details of the shooting
We go to work early to prepare our lessons and students move through the hallways
Seemingly unaffected. But the reality is that we, as a nation, worship guns more
Than we worship human life. Isn’t that strange and sad. We worship a mechanism
Designed for death—to kill, to end, more than we believe in the sanctity of breath of exist-
ence. What are we afraid of?

You will. I reply. You’ll make it. I’ll pick you up. He was small enough I was pretty sure I could
Do it. I’ll pass you to the closest person to the window. We’ll jump through the shatters,
Shards of glass all over the floor and grass beneath my classroom. We’ll make it. You’ll make
It. It was the first time we’d really had to sit in the corner of the classroom, our back
To wall, practicing waiting die is one of the most cognitively dissonant experiences I’ve tried
Blood beating, pulsating, trembling in my ears. Cheeks hot, heartbeats rise. I won’t make it.
He said. And I knew that he was probably right.

Deer Creek Reservoir, Sunset, September 2024. Image, my own.

Wonder

Open-eyed
Glimmer
Smile that lifts
Every part of the
Human frame
Awe that creeps
Into cheekbones
That breaths
On lips ready
For uplift
Sacred tilt of
The head
Stillness of shoulders
Confirming
Listening
Sensing
Magic

Pasture Plus Cows and Wheel Lines. September 2024. Image, my own.

Bike
Pedal, pedal, push
Push, huff, huff, up, up, over
crest the tipy-top

Double Rainbow over Soldier Hollow.September 2024. Image, Corbin Wright.

Sticky

So these poems are actually micro-narratives. You can play with these at the kitchen table. I triple-dog-dare you. The premise is simple. Write a ten, 10, word narrative about yourself. Key: do not overthink this. This is such a fun little enterprise to play with in the 1010 intro to writing class I teach.

Micro Narratives. September 2024. Image, my own.
Micro Narratives in Tech. Canva. Image, my own.

New Moon

Full Moon, February 23, 2024. Ryan Moat.

With a new moon and the beautiful transition to autumn upon us, some poems for your week, month, moment. XX, Megan

September

draughts of cool morning air
carried on dry-sighing leaves
respirate, whispering: rest, stay,
plan, see, manifest, begin, in every
breath the order and
organization of Earth
are upon us as gardens bear
fruit, hay is left to cure,
baled in sun waning
warmly in late afternoon
fields of golden bristle,
summer to fall, denouement
to eight months of moons
new and full and new again
transitions cyclical, circling
in the darkening sky
just after the last gasp
of cerise light crests over the
western mountains at sunset
wind chimes low and resonant
toning oooooh-aaaaah, bracing
rush and sweep of air transmits
that ocher timbre of September

Wasatch Mountains, September 2024. Image, my own.

Temple
for Danny and Kat, with love, M

Come into the temple
of my love for
I am sure about
its beauty and its
strength

Come into the temple
of my love for strength
can also mean softness,
stillness, peaceful respite,
home

I’ve learned that lives
change so quickly, so
surely, that surety is
difficult to process, to
prepare

But one thing I am
sure of is that as
the sun sets and the
stars rise, I will love
you

Through the night,
and as the sun rises
on the next morn, in
communion with the coming
day

In shelter of our shared
humanity, loyalty,
commitment, love, and
serenity we weather
storms

Of life together,
centered as we enter
into the temple
of our
love

Book Room, August 2024. Image, my own.

V Yourself:
Violet and Verstue

vivacious
viridity
verve
visceral
vital
vulnerable
voluptās
virtu
verity
volant
vociferous
vehement
violaceous
varsal

Hay Bales and Timpanogos. August 2024. Image, my own.

Let There Be Joy

Let there be joy all
around you

Humming, thrumming
in the air above

Your body, the conduit
from the outside in

That electricity
of savoring the

Small, the ephemeral
first bite of a

Ripe peach the
stream as it licks

And leaps over
each stone, all things

Unabashed and still
known like the

Sun as it dapples
clouds and leaves

Each beam a special
reminder that life and

Love are meant for
you the first kiss

Of a new love fresh
on your lips

Double Rainbow over Strawberry Reservoir. August 2024. Jamie Hagan.

Reclamation

Greenhouse Damage, Hail Storm August 2024. Image, my own


Bill Murray

I remember the day I became Bill
My heart was breaking and I wanted
To save it, so I pulled it out through
The intercostal space between my ribs,
Right through the cage,
Careful not to catch it on my sternum
And I put my heart into a glass jar
Which I affixed around my neck with
A piece of twine, and I clamped the
Lid on tight and proceeded to live
To take baby steps
To walk around town
To ride the bus
Because I knew that if I could preserve
My heart
In that jar
I would make it
I would survive
My love would last
And others could see and understand
What heartbreak looks like
And how one lives through it
Now I understand about Bob,
“There are two types of people
In this world, those who love
Neil Diamond, and those who don’t”

Composition with Double Line [unfinished], Piet Mondrian

August

Something about August is begging to be paid attention. Be here as the gray storm gathers strength, the dark cumulonimbus clouds billow up to twenty-seven thousand feet, the hail batters the roof like an alien ice machine. Deluge. White pellets of rime nearly round and cuttingly hard tear through verdant gardens and iron city drains, pinking flower beds and translucent greenhouse roofs, pocking every possible piece of outdoor furniture and uncovered car hood.

Splatters of rain signal the reclamation of autumn as the scud clouds break from the shelf of the tumult over Mt. Wilson, tumbling as if they may make contact with the grocery store parking lot lines before turning into a fog that dissipates over the asphalt. The gale winds signal the return of fall in the rising apple-crisp air. Time asks if we’ll watch for a moment from the porch as another wind rollicks, racing through the pumpkin fields, wracking the sticky green vines against each other.

August asks if we can move so much more carefully, thoughtful of each precious moment through transition– lightning strike, cloud fall, thunder call. Glorious weathervanes snapping erratically this way then that, trying to keep up with the on-rushing squall. Can we pause and take in the smell of electricity like ozone and h2o, the brouhaha of late summer air. Drink it in.

Vøringfossen, Norway. July 2024. Image, Carrie Madsen

(Re)claim

the girl who ran in
dark canyons and
dry riverbeds when
she was young
she’s there
crunching gravel and
sagebrush under her
feet, up this next
steep incline to
the plains, the meadow
there in the stillness
a tiny creek burbles,
and a garden shed
appears with a low wind
chime, that girl,
she’s deep as a well
wide as an ocean
visceral and powerful
even then, in her
vulnerability, her desire
to love, she’ll find
that no one can
do that for her
love her like
she must love herself,
take that last sprint of the
trail right back home
reside inside herself

Evening Star, Georgia O’Keefe,

You Know

You know,
sometimes
as that little girl
bucktoothed
and freckled
you wanted
the come-up
cause you
believed
you deserved it

You know,
sometimes
you’re aware
that if you
get what you
ask for
everything
will change
again.
Like Alaska

you won’t
be able
to return
to the halcyon days
You know,
sometimes
you get caught
between your
growing and
your fragility

and, god, the
pain of it
can crush,
squeeze,
burn,
You know,
sometimes
everything gets
unstitched, unpicked
by the universe

and you’re reminded
that the old woman
at the end of the
world
must have needed
to tend her
soup
before it
scalded
she still needed

food, herself, she
still knew she
would be called upon
to (re)stich the
tapestry of earth
the raven unraveled
to feed the world,
to tend the soup,
we are her
magic and stories, too

Oregon Coast, August 2018. Image, my own.