Writer's Lament

Fingers tap at keys, without rhythm, to find words,

Trying to tell the story, capture the poem,

Struggling to add meaning to a phrase or two.

The hand scribbles with a pen a stumble of letters

Pulling at the thread of an idea

Untwisting the scrambled jumble of the mind.

The writer, heart in hand, soul in need, mind in fog,

Struggles to grasp the wisp of words whispered by the muse

In a whirlwind of thought during the rumbling roller coaster of life…

...and put them on the page.

Tough Chick

My muscles are pool noodles.

    My ankle is swollen.

I have bruises and a floor burn.

    But I will play on;

        I am a tough chick.

The ball was alien.

    My hands were dead fish.

My head unclear with trash talk.

    But I will play on;

        I am a tough chick.

Like in movies and in history,

    Like in this game and the others,

There are women who stood tall and said,

    I will play on;

        I am a tough chick.

So I will shake it off,

    And I will face all doubts.

My ankle is taped.

    Time to suck it up and go.

Pass me the ball and be ready!

    I will play on;

        I am a tough chick.


For Grace

Passion

                     in brief moments

it erupts

  bursting tears and laughter forth

  from a celebration of the senses

  phoenix born from another’s fire

other moments, a spark ignites

  slowly, nibbling, savoring

  all it takes in until

  it roars desire

melding with the soul

              it hungers for more

              craving to be, create, become

              the art that sustains

passion drives to do

               to go beyond mortal limits

               to the essence of true living

               expressing exuberant form

               in a clash of blood and spirit

               dancing and singing

               to live eternally

                                    in brief moments

Set It Up

SET

Commands coach

As the guard crosses mid-court,

Arm raised, two fingers out.

Two, he yells, running the offense.

Forward cuts to the high post.

Center drops down the paint.

The ball passes left,

Reverse, swing it round.

Shuffle, step, pick is set.

Turn, bounce pass…..

IT,

However, had started on day one

When coach called all to the base line,

Running passing drills, lay-ups,

Conditioning with sprints.

Then it became the go to play,

The bread and butter routine,

Going for the bucket.

Only here, it varies with

Three on the clock, down by one.

UP

Goes the ball,

From the fingertips with patience

To the hoop with urgency;

A title on the line.

A touch on the glass,

Held breath, roll on the rim,

A cheer from the crowd.

Completes the play that took a season.