Tag: joy

Because joy helps you to swallow

~ Pleasant Street ~ 11 Comments

Each day my resolve weakens
under a burden of years
with one truth to be self-evident
that we did not
think everything through


I sweep fetid memory
under his favourite chair, with
each disappointment
relegated to the pantry
behind the oatmeal

I find myself leaving room
for new, sweeter moments
when I am kinder
and remember smiles

Reflections of suns risen and set
and each child’s eyes
and even the mundane, nameless
sudden joys


like that time
he left his cup of tea
atop the car
and we laughed

~ Pleasant Street ~ 1 Comment

The sun on my back
and yesterday
is miles away, or
kilometers, if
you sway that way.
Joy, in a squirrel on my porch
Love, in a friend’s family
after death
peace, when I pray
O Father, thank you

Day trip

~ Pleasant Street ~ 3 Comments

Stumbling through town
I catch up on all y’all
with care, to not miss the new
from each one I saw daily
a decade ago–
the coffee shop perking, and
the dress shop showing some leg
through windows, glare
from the risen sun just an hour before.
Turning your head, as
I peek through

It is okay, I can live
without the party–
did I grow up finally?
Still caring, but also carrying
post-50 blues, reds, and greens.
I smile, ending my visit.
It is okay, that you exclude me.
I like me.
The light is burning, and
the cat by the fire stirs the soup
every half hour

April 1994

~ Pleasant Street ~ 4 Comments

Winter was over and the alley behind our place, with its divots and usual smattering of trash and branches, was wet and puddled. It was easier to drive through when it was dry and you could see all the landmines. But spring had arrived, and that made a world of difference. I wasn’t working then, and we were raising our three-year-old daughter. She and I headed outside with our winter coats hanging open, and I felt like I was ten. I never did close my coat up, even if it had been only 20 degrees.

“You’ll catch your death!” I can still remember my mom’s voice. But I liked the air. I still love windy days. We held hands and headed out back. I took the sidewalk and she took the muddy grass, sliding and smooshing, her winter boots not quite the galoshes that she needed, but they would have to do. We started on our walk, meeting at the crux of the alley and sidewalk in back of the garage. But that wasn’t the walk we took, as she headed straight for the largest puddle in the alley and stomped and stomped. We laughed, giggled, splashed. I don’t think my mom would have let me get nearly so wet as she was getting, but I was having a ball.

Later that year would be the OJ Simpson murders, my first miscarriage, and the loss of a dear friend’s husband. But that day was perfect.

The girl played freely–
The woman, she carries much–
The sun rises, we dance.