By Heart: ‘Kindness’ by Naomi Shihab Nye

*perhaps my all-time favorite poem*

Published July 26, 2019

Children’s Book Club: ‘Blueberries for Sal’

Published July 12, 2019

Woman of Interest: Baylor Acrobatics & Tumbling Coach Felecia Mulkey

Published August 2019

Finished, a poem

Finished

You have been diagnosed with Yesterday’s Disease

not Today’s, for which we have promising new therapies

not Tomorrow’s, which we are currently studying in a petri dish in an underground, sealed laboratory

but Yesterday’s, the one with quality pharmaceuticals (inexpensive, since the patents expired decades ago)

Yesterday’s Disease exists outside of time. Centuries old, it both narrows and widens the patient’s perception of hours.

It affects families, but everything does. Even weather.

No, there are no articles you can read. Yesterday’s Disease is passé. No title would generate enough clicks.

Quality of life is generally good, until it isn’t. There is no practical way to prepare. I suggest

you go outside, fire up the grill, put on some kabobs—You do have skewers, don’t you?

Open a bottle of wine and pour two glasses—one for you, one for someone else. Someone

who won’t ask you anything about Yesterday or Disease.

Reader, Come Home & a little lectio divina with Harry Potter

Published July 5, 2019

By Heart: “The Star” (as in Twinkle, Twinkle)

Published June 28, 2019

WACOAN: ‘The Big Event’

Published June 2019

In Celebration of Joy Harjo

In June, Joy Harjo was chosen as the new U.S. poet laureate. I’ve spent the month getting acquainted with her poems, which are unlike any others I’ve read.

This poem was written after reading and journaling through her poem “She Had Some Horses.”

The Horse

He got some disease but before we could figure out what

it was he ran off, at the solstice. If he could’ve talked, he

might’ve said he’d had enough of us, was joining the wild

mustangs. But he was no mustang, and the mustangs knew

it.

He didn’t know how to find shelter, didn’t realize horses

don’t kill to eat, like raptors, or scavenge, like coyotes.

Found no pillows in the wild, no blankets either. Never

patient, always a runner, he ran on, through the sepia

landscape, learning absolutely nothing as his tail swished

behind him.

Back at home we debate: What could we have done?

What should we not have done? Each bit of news of him

pierces us. Not in the heart (it is long grown cold) but in the

retina, retelling ever thing we see and have seen of him.

Walking in the Dark: A Path to Poetry

Published June 21, 2019

Children’s Book Club: ‘Wangari Maathai: The Woman Who Planted Millions of Trees’

Published June 14, 2019