Poetry Friday: The Blue-Gray Dome

The Blue-Gray Dome

I misplaced myself a little while,
lay on the balcony with a jean quilt
looking at the stars.

The blue-gray sky domed over me,
draped over the mountains and the city.
Dewdrops hung from invisible strings and
crickets sang a chorus of night,
a song to carry my soul to sleep
in a lonely land of inhales and exhales.

Cool autumn wind danced from my toes
to tickle my face, blowing under the quilt.

I memorized the scene of silhouette branches
and tiny hurried satellites,
faint light spilling out the window.

Wrapped snug in the patterns of blue,
the varied stitches of white,
I closed my eyes and shivered,
warm and cold all at once.

Poetry Friday: The Old Oak Door

The Old Oak Door

They beat the old oak door with metal, hot
With orange flame, they cast a holy scene
Through windows of stained glass, an afterthought
Of sacred things that men have turned obscene.
The pastor in the chapel holds his face
And worships at the feet of Christ the Lord;
The mob is all enveloped in God’s grace,
Though fire and blood deface the old oak door.
The pastor cries, “How can these souls be starved?”
For long he has been faithful to the cause.
So many years have passed that God has carved
Lines on the pastor’s face with holy laws.
The pastor takes a passage through the floor;
And, shrouded, joins to burn the old oak door.

Note to Torscho

This piece is just breathtaking. The language, the story–beautiful.


When I talk to you, fear deep from inside finds me.
It grows worse as we become closer.
What about her feelings, are they the same?

What did she mean by that period she put at the end of that sentence but not the other?
And what of the other?
My heart begins pounding, and the longer I wait to tell you;
the more, more, more.

Sometimes I am just racing, chasing my thoughts-invigorated by doubt and become saddened and distraught. Maybe it’s all this time on my hands that makes our interaction feel like I’m a clumsy ball of flailing hands.

But then I hate it, how I feel; the anxiety all too real for some text on a screen.
I want you there to hold my eyes with yours and tell me there’s nothing there
it’s just a period. How could some one be afraid, afraid of grammar.

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Poetry Friday: Sleep Reflection

Sleep Reflection

Waking to the chill of morning,
I open my eyes
close the window
turn off the blaring alarm
turn on my loud music
throw off my PJs
pull on a sweater and jeans
because it’s cool outside.

It’s warm in my bedroom so
I strip off my clothes
put on light PJs
turn off my quiet music
turn on my morning alarm
open the window
and close my eyes,
falling asleep to the warmth of night.

The Pink Shoes Stand Alone, At Home

“And so I am reminded: nothing is simple. Allowing your son to choose bedazzled pink shoes does not magically arm him to deal with criticism and feeling singled out.”
Beautifully written with a resounding call for inclusiveness, sensitivity, and love; which is what we all deserve, right?


Earlier this year I wrote about how I struggled to let K-Pants—then five—pick pink, bedazzled light-up shoes.

Pink Shoes. MomsicleBlog

I was worried about the world making fun of him for wearing girl shoes, but we decided that was not a good reason to say no. And those pink shoes have been worn everywhere.

K-Pants Six, Voodoo Doughnuts. MomsicleBlog

Pink Shoes on the Road. MomsicleBlog

The pink shoes post inspired my good friend Kelly to let her preschool son pick out a My Little Ponies sweatshirt he craved. This picture is of him and his sister blissed out with their new shirts.

MyLittlePonies. MomsicleBlog. Photo Credit: Kelly

I was so proud to see this—to know that we can walk these paths together.

But this past weekend I found myself back in the shoe aisle with K-Pants, looking for a pair of bright sparkly shoes that weren’t girl shoes. It only took one day at his new, big elementary school for K-Pants to be made fun of. I was heartbroken.


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