Farewell, Rondeau. May We Never Meet Again


I believed the lie that all were free,
Because no one stopped to challenge me.
With freckled skin and clear blue eyes,
With straight brown hair and modest size,
I skipped through life quite thoughtlessly.

That privilege I could never see—
It meant no more than wealth to me:
Work hard and you can claim that prize.
I believed the lie.

Those who suffered while society
Taught this white-washed, biased history
Lived a different truth, of compromise
With a world I didn’t realize
Still existed. Oh how easily
I believed the lie.


Almost Done


We are shadows, you and I,
Insubstantial as a sigh,
Only noticed while the sun
Celebrates its victory won
Over clouds and darkened sky.

To the harried passersby
Our existence is a lie.
They walk through us, one by one.
We are shadows.

Can we ghosts solidify?
Rejoin life? and occupy
Space reserved for others? None
Will trade places. They all shun
The simple truth we can’t deny:
We are shadows.

A Lot of People Don’t Want to Hear It


Speak plain the words held in your mind.
Don’t worry that you’ll sound unkind.
Speak every thought you hold so dear,
The ones you silence out of fear
For others feelings. Soon you’ll find

Those words, with others intertwined,
Weave magic of the fiercest kind,
As all truth does when spoken clear.
Speak plain.

Speak up, speak out, speak unconfined.
Your words are power unrefined.
To all who do not want to hear
Your message, send it loud and clear.
With power, truth, and heart combined
Speak plain.



You are welcome, I say to the dead,
Like a prayer that I chant in my head—
An acknowledgment that in this place
I make room to remember each face,
Every soul who’s moved on. So instead

Of assuming your essence has fled,
I invite you to hear what I’ve said
And draw closer, inhabit this space:
You are welcome.

I can’t count the tears I have shed
Missing you and the life that we led.
I ache for your love, your embrace,
But you’ve gone without leaving a trace.
So I pray—open heart, soul outspread:
You are welcome.

Vacation’s Over, Rondeau-Month Isn’t


I lie awake and listen to the night.
She breathes the pain, the birthing of the light.
She cannot rest; her work is never done—
Holding space for moon, awaiting sun,
Believing everything will be all right.

Can that be true? Will she survive this fight?
Will we? And if we do, can she unite
This fractured family? Has she begun?
I lie awake.

I cannot sleep; I pray with all my might
To every god and goddess. So contrite,
I offer my own life and beg that none
May suffer for my sins. May peace be won.
I listen to the agony of night.
I lie awake.

What Comes Next?


The mother weeps, not holding back her tears.
She watches as her children, full of fears,
Consumed with hatred, escalate their fight,
Hurl filthy bombs, obliterate the light.
She watches, yet she never interferes.

Her children, warring foolishly for years,
Refuse her counsel, covering their ears.
They won’t be swayed, convinced that they are right.
The mother weeps.

How patiently love waits, she perseveres,
Though terror grips the world as midnight nears.
The clock counts down. She wonders if they might
Change their minds and choose to reunite.
They squabble still. Hope slowly disappears.
The mother weeps.

The Unexamined Life


A book unread, a story waiting,
A promise held. Invigorating.
The sense of wonder always growing,
The pleasure of not ever knowing.
And so they keep accumulating.

The silent stack communicating
Every wonder, emanating
All without one sentence showing.
A book unread.

Ignored, they turn intimidating.
Once comforting, now irritating.
A bookcase crowded, overflowing,
A burdened soul now undergoing
A shift toward reevaluating
A book unread.