I’ve been equal parts smitten and terrified by the process of creating poetry since high school.  While I loved writing poetry so much that I earned a masters in the topic, I feared rejection to such an extent that I publicly withheld the vast majority of my poems.  Thus, they ended up in a series of three ring binders, stuffed away in the closet of my Summit Avenue apartment in Sioux Falls.  When I moved to San Diego, I figured Goodwill could use the binders more than me and emptied their contents into a big green tub, knowing in my heart that I was unlikely to revisit them. 

The big green tub took roots in my closet, serving mainly as a stepping stool when I needed to reach the furthest contents of the top shelf.

Fear seems to do that, to keep things hidden.  

For much of my life, I talked much less than I wanted to because I was ashamed of the sound of my voice.  Since I refused to deal with this shame, it spilled over into a refusal to share my passion with the people around me.

Are you hiding anything away in a metaphorical green tub in your own life?

As those of you who read this Newsletter know, the same voice I used to hate and hide away has become an integral part of my career.  Yet, most of the green tubs’s contents have remained hidden to this day.

However, last week I decided to let some fresh air into the tub and discovered a poem, laying on top of the pile, that I liked a great deal.  After some revision, I share it with you here.

You might like it, or the poem might not be your cup of tea.  Either way you would never have an opportunity to feel one way or another about it if I didn’t give you the chance to see it.

If we don’t share our lives, the people around us don’t get the benefit of who we are.

Our friends, families and communities don’t need our perfection, we add so much more value by showing up and doing our imperfect best.   

Where Is the Earth That Is Both of Theirs?

Last month she refused to rock

in the porch swing as he placed 

a hand on her knee and smoked.

The July sunsets are left

for him alone.  She seals

herself in a cloud

of sanitizer, scouring

their bathroom, while cursing

his sloppiness through tight teeth.

Last week he landed upon six lighters

for the price of five, discounted Camels

and a case of Miller High Life.

She remains without vile

habits, demanding he wake up

for blistering walks in the Phoenix

midday.  He had campaigned for Spokane.

She clenches his hand,

presses the wedding ring.  Decorative

dogs are her thing.  He grits 

out a smile.  Porscha

and Mercedes, her poodles,

are eternal car alarms 

in tiny bodies.

They keep going until he is choking

on air and desperate

for a smoke.  His stomach heaves, 

hungers for rain falling

gentle on black, fertile loam,

a nakedness of joint passion

that just might be enough.