Sometimes, in the mornings,
The morning crows don’t sing—
Perched and preaching by a loblolly.
Breathe in this metanoia,
We all live for it.
And if the morning crows never reverenced,
Sitting at my doorstep,
Waiting for my feet to touch pavement,
I might’ve deemed you worthy of abasement.
But the morning crows chant my indiscretions,
To the man in the moon,
Too far to touch, too distant to see—
So I cannot tell him
Of my worries.
Fill up this cup with your americano—
It’s been so long since I’ve tasted of it.
The morning crows fear I will be different
When the sun sets
And daybreak ends.
So I hide in my sleigh bed,
Too frightened to tell you
That I am revolutionizing myself.
The morning crows now mourn the loss of youth.
As I settle down to become holy,
They sing my death—
Heedlessness,
Widening your eyes,
Sharpening your grin.
When I wane once more,
The morning crows will say,
They told me so.
Perched and preaching by a loblolly,
I am reclaimed, rosy-eyed.
Breathe in this metanoia.
We all live for it—
1981 was a year I’ll always remember
The movie “On Golden Pond” debuted
I saw it on the big screen
It was nice nothing special
Right up until that horrific scene
The one that changed our lives forever
My jaw suddenly dropped
Instantly realizing its significance
The camera ever so slowly zoomed in
From ever so far and ever so deviously
Closer and Closer
On Jane Fonda in her mid-forties
Sporting a skimpy bikini
Revolutionizing expectations forever
Life as we knew it ended that day
Ever since then
Women have been heard muttering
Across the land
See what you did, Jane Fonda
AP: Honorable Mention 2020
Posted on November 5, 2017