Yahweh answered Moses, “Is MY arm too short?” Numbers 11:23

How often, so often
have I complained
My arm is too short

To reach
What I want

To finish
What I start

To keep
What I need

To succeed
When I plead

Too short
to hold my dreams

Too short
to stifle my screams

How often, so often
have I forgotten
God’s arm is not.

The white noise of the dehumidifier
squatting in the corner
The mock sun of the over-achieving lamp
lording over the bedside table
The slept-in warmth of the disheveled bed
expanding across the room
The filled wonder of the tall bookshelves
standing guard across one wall
The cluttered top of the chipped dresser
resting comfortably beneath the fake window
The latticed doors of three closets
marching across the opposite wall
The closed door

Here I dream of life
rich and full
busy and boisterous

Yet here I linger
notebook open
pen poised
quiet if not quite content
but safe

Here I pray
to a God of my own making
in a room of my own making
easy if not quite satisfying

In a moment
I will click my pen point
close my notebook
crawl out of my covers
ignore my books
open drawers and closets
get dressed
open the door

Can I find God Herself
in a world of Her own making?
Will it be
Satisfying if not quite easy?

Where does God go when I forget about Her?
Does She sit in a dark corner and sulk?
Or go shopping for a pink polka dot umbrella?

Perhaps She gets down on Her knees
and prays that I will remember Her?
Or does She pray I won’t?

Does She like the freedom from my worries?

Can She fly higher on Her golden wings
without the weight of my expectations
without the burden of my sins?

Must I free God from me?
Or is She OK with a forever fickle child?

Blackbird returns
time and again
to the dark red blood
spilled long ago
seeped into the earth’s ages

Blackbird carries a
wriggling worm of grief
soft in its mouth
to feed fledgling sorrows

Blackbird returns
in summer’s bright blooms
in winter’s frightful frosts
to its hidden nest
high in this olding oak

No dove with ah bright wings
nor raven croaking nevermore
unthreatening haint
merely sad
always sad

My blackbird returns
doesn’t stay
comes and goes
now and again
giving body and voice
to living with my dead

The skeletal remnants of a dried leaf lies half-buried in the rattan carpet.
The old green and black Hoover lurks still in the corner, awaiting a new belt.
The dog’s blanket, once long ago a carefully crafted tufted quilt, now indifferently folded, drapes over one section of the loveseat, until the warm heaviness of the black faced cur.
The square tiles of the hall floor look smudged, need mopping.
The black net clothing hamper has tipped over, spilling one arm of the well-worn red knit sweater across the floor.
The washing machine whirs on, working hard to clean the whites from dull to, if not bright, at least brighter.
Unwashed breakfast dishes – grits pot, coffee cup, chipped bowl, small spoon – await their baptism in the stainless steel sink.
(Stainless steel shows every fingerprint, but does not rust.)
From Mom’s TV, upstairs, comes the familiar prayers and the wandering key hymns of Sunday morning Mass.
Old cobwebs skew across the basement window, abandoned long ago by spiders who escaped the double glazed trap.
That ground level window is smudged with toddler finger and nose prints.
Beyond that window
Freed from the ordinary
Oh, snow!

Forever young
Hammerin’ Hank
Hit it out of the park
One last time
Right into God’s lap
Rounded all the bases
One last time
To his forever home.

I figured it out.

Why my poetry is often
short lines
with more implied
than said.

My husband likes big equipment.

When I came in from grocery shopping
with his milk
and Mom’s prescription
he was watching a YouTube video:
men working
with diggers and
earth movers.

I didn’t watch
but I heard.

Beyond the machinery noise,
rumbling and grunting
in the background,
came the voice
of the man behind the camera:

“Yeah, he said leave it.”
…
“I ain’t no worried ‘bout it.”
…
“I figgah, somethin’ go wrong, it’s on him.”
…
“Yeah, let’s go.”

The rhythm of my childhood.

Some find God in the whisper
Some in the whirlwind

Some find God in the liturgy
Some in the light

Some find God in the song
Some in the silence

Some find God in the stillness
Some in the shout

I find Her in my doubt.

Young women celebrate
Middle-aged women cry
Old women shake their heads in disbelief
        (while celebrating and crying
          hardest of all)
Vice-President Kamala Devi Harris

Ms. Shirley, twice widowed, is almost blind
and lives in a Catholic retirement home
just about a mile from our house
Mom lives with us
they were on a spiritual retreat
at their women’s Catholic college
when whispers began to ignite
embers of excitement and worry
some hurried to the radios in their dorm rooms
commuter students like Mom huddled together
in cars with radios

The Japanese had bombed Pearl Harbor.

I was in a sophomore geometry class
at my all girls Catholic high school
when the scratchy intercom came on
in my memory the principal said nothing first
I just remember trying to make out what was being said
on the radio held up to the intercom
slow to understand the muffled words
I was still puzzled
when screams and cries began to ignite
through the building

President Kennedy had been shot.

Alone at home
buried deep in a data analysis project
I was focused only on my desktop computer
when the ringing phone startled me
my daughter living in Toronto was almost hysterical
telling me I had to leave NOW
and come back to Canada
I was confused and impatient
my irritation ignited
as I tried to calm her down

The Twin Towers were falling.

Wednesday afternoon
i-pad open on my lap
I was listening to a news conference
Virginia’s governor talking
about COVID-19 cases and vaccination plans
my step-daughter sat nearby
working on her laptop
when news breaks ignited
across my screen

Our Capitol had been breached.