After she bravely told her searing story of
incurring persistent childhood sexual assault,
she stood under a waterfall in the cool, tumbl-
ing waters at the bottom of the canyon. Later,
she ascended to the top of the canyon and joined
her friends. As she stood in the bright, desert
light of day he wondered how he possibly could
stand in her shadow.

We set our goal.
Our genes said, “Go slow.”
We thought we’d strive.
Our blood said, “I’ll drive.”
So we set our goal,
heeding our genes’ no.
Through arteries and veins
the blood will drive
while we’re along for the ride.
If we don’t compromise,
a crash lies ahead.
If we aren’t wise,
“You’ll be dead,”
the blood said.
It’s time to change course.
It’s time to enjoy the ride.
Living with one’s genes —
a goal for which to strive
in pursuit of staying alive.

goldfish in the pond
float still in cooler weather —
harbinger of frost.

looking intently,
the sculptor picked up scissors
and began to cut
a complex pattern from cloth —
prelude and process of art.

The poet wrote, “Death’s greedy hands,”
and for the reader it struck a note.
He thought about all human plans
and how for the young death rests remote.

It seems adolescents are never fraught
thinking death they can just ignore.
Didn’t they rise after being shot
in childhood games of war?

And so, with bravado and bluster
they move through life oblivious
to the dangers life can muster —
concerns of safety considered frivolous.

Until, as an older person laments,
Death’s greedy hands reach out
in youths’ careless moments.
Then they know and protest with shouts —

crying that life is unfair and unjust.
Sadly, coming to such a conclusion they must,

for importunely,  Death’s greedy hands are thrust.

Sunny is a single mom who works two jobs.
She loves the written word and writes poetry
and short stories. She reads her poetry at
poetry slams. Below are three of her poems
which she has kindly agreed to let me post.
Enjoy….

The Girl in the Yellow Dress

The girl in the yellow dress
Stands and smokes her cigarettes
And she regrets
Not saying the things she feels

It is a perfect day and the way
The sun hits your face makes her want to
Say, “hey, let’s get out of here”

But out of fear
She does not
And she ought to just let it out
But she’s in doubt
Because without you
Life would be so blue
It’s true

And so

The girl in the yellow dress
Stands and smokes her cigarettes
And she regrets
Not saying the things that she feels.

Do You Love Me?

Do you love me?
Or are you afraid of being alone?

Last time I called
You didn’t pick up your phone.

And the time before that,
You spoke in a different tone.

So.

Do you love me?
Or are you afraid of being alone?

The last time I saw you,
I felt chills in my bones.

And the time before that
Was filled with touches and moans.

So.

Do you love me?
Or are you afraid of being alone?

Clothes

I still have your pajamas,

They’re in the bottom drawer
But the funny thing is
I don’t wear them anymore.

I still have your t-shirts,

Clean and tucked away
They sit there in the darkness
They never see the light of day

I still have your sweater,

It’s hanging on the rack
It serves as a reminder
That you’re never coming back

He doesn’t often use “The Woe Is Me” card,
But he could if he chose.
He could cite how life has been ever-so-hard
And enumerate vividly all his woes.

But if he tried, he would have to stop in his tracks
And think about this and that privilege.
He might try to say that the deck is stacked,
But he would be standing close to a steep edge.

Counting all the obstacles he has encountered,
He still is simply a privileged white boy
Who could be seen as a sniveling coward
Demurring that he is simply part of the hoi polloi

Who has pulled himself up by his bootstraps.
But for all his protestations, he suffers from a racist reality lapse.

After the shock of the death,
After the preparations,
After the service,
After the scraping of chairs being
Put back in place,
After the casseroles have gone bad
And dumped in the garbage,
All the work begins,
All the grief work begins,
All the terrifyingly, agonizingly frightful
Work without the loved one begins.
After the loved one is gone, never to return,
Never to walk home
Down the street, toward
The house
The grievers are left in that house
All alone, all alone
Waiting for the loved one to come home.
Will there be any new adventures?
Only time will tell if the adventures will come.
In the mean time those who grieve
Will wait for the colors to retrieve
And for the time when it is time again
To believe,
Maybe, maybe, maybe
Again,
But it will never be the same belief
Ever again…
Ever again.

The adopted girl was six going on a puppy.
We couldn’t let her off leash for a moment
Because the girl off leash might be
Gone in a nanosecond, our new opponent.

We found exactly the right harness —
It fit just fine and kept her in line.
So we put it on with trepidation and stress
Wondering if she would be fine.

She did just fine, jogging right along
This path and that sniffing only slightly.
She stayed the course regardless how strong,
She could have pulled against us mightily.

Thirty minutes we were on that trail
And grateful to get back to the car.
We arrived safe at home without fail
Looking forward to a noon nap without a care.

In his dreams, whenever he
is in a dream, he has thick,
luscious, dark brown hair not
unlike the mane of the male
model son of actress Sofia
Vergara in the commercial
for Head and Shoulders
Shampoo. When he wakes,
he sits up and the first
thought that comes into his
head, the thought that he
utters confidentially but
quietly so as not to wake
his wife is, “Yul, yes,
but of course, Yul…or,
perhaps even…Bruce,
but most definitely Yul.”