NaPoWriMo, or National Poetry Writing Month, challenges poets to attempt writing a poem a day for the month of April. Daily prompts and featured poems by participating writers can be found on the NaPoWriMo website each morning.
Since 2021, my morning routine has included writing one or two poems daily, but last year was my first time joining NaPoWriMo. I found the prompts stimulating and embraced the challenge of overcoming my ego enough to publish work that I didn’t yet consider “done” – meaning the poems typically weren’t polished to a shine.
For NaPoWriMo 2025, I’ll be using this webpage to share poetry daily throughout April. Most days it will be new works based on the provided prompts. I may also take the opportunity to work on editing an existing poem or simply share another author’s work in celebration of poetry. Either way, it’s going to be a poetry-filled month!
April 30, 2025
Today, NaPoWriMo’s challenge was to write a poem that also describes different times in which you’ve heard the same band or piece of music across your lifetime. A random turn of events early this morning resulted in me homing in on Eric Carmen and Sergei Rachmaninoff’s “All By Myself” (yes, your heard me right). Enjoy!
Today’s ADHD Rabbit Hole
This morning, I referenced being “all by myself” to a friend.
I had no clue at the time that my day was about to be hijacked.
That’s often the nature of ADHD, though.
One moment you have a plan, a to-do list, a timer set.
Next thing you know, there are 15 new browser tabs,
and all of those lovely intentions become easy to forget.
It doesn’t take much to get us neuodivergents
swiftly steered off course, flowing in a new current.
In fact, I’m doing it again right now!
So, let me get back to the story:
“All by myself” led Ana to think of the song,
then raise a mock microphone,
imitating an epic high note.
Like most folks since the 90s,
she had Celine Dion in mind.
As with Whitney Houston’s cover of
“I Will Always Love You,” Dion replaced
the original performer, Eric Carmen, as the main
cultural reference point for the song over time.
There are even videos of Miley Cyrus and others
covering the “Celine Dion classic” and so on.
I grew up on the original thanks to my parents.
As a youngster, I ran around crooning the ballad,
long before any knowledge of heartbreak.
It fit in perfectly on my mix tape with
Carly Simon’s “You’re so Vain” and
Air Supply’s “All Out of Love.”
Ah, such sweet memories – standing on a chair
singing my heart out in front of a mirror.
That child who was oh so dramatic,
destined to become a hopeless romantic.
Following our chat about this throwback,
I had to give this nostalgic song a listen.
Then I fell into a rabbit hole and
became a woman on mission,
because an unexpected name appeared
in the songwriting credits:
the late, great Sergei Rachmininoff?!
What in the actual fuck?
I screeched, “That’s crazy talk!”
All other plans came to a halt as I
embarked on an all-consuming free fall.
Now I must share what my hyperfocus turned up:
Carmen intentionally borrowed several bars
from the “Piano Concerto No. 2” adagio section.
Enough, in fact, to warrant a lawsuit
arriving several years after Dion’s edition.
Carmen mistakenly thought the piece public domain.
He settled out of court without any dispute.
And so, a portion of “All by Myself” royalties get
funneled back to Rachmaninoff’s estate.
With this twist of fate, I think of all the
spaces where the song has been placed –
Pepsi commercials, The Wedding Singer,
episodes of Friends and The Simpsons.
Even Eric Cartman from South Park sang the
track soulfully in his trademark whiny accent.
I required a listening party immediately –
there could be no other priority, clearly.
Besides, the ear worm was lodged in my head firmly.
So, I loosened the reins on my brain completely.
Let it run wild, diving in full-heartedly:
First Carmen’s, Dion’s, then Rachmaninoff too.
I listened to chunks of each several times through.
And finally, sure enough by Jove, there it was!
I expected the borrowed melodies to be buried,
but I now can’t unhear Rachmaninoff’s
treasured composition weaved seamlessly
all through Carmen’s undercurrents of
loneliness, mourning, and depression.
Its influence is plain, though lost on me til today.
Then again, what would it have meant to me as a child?
“Rock-mon-what?” I imagine Little Heather saying
if my mom had known and bothered explaining.
But today’s Heather is beyond delighted at this
unexpected tie-in to my favorite classical score!
This fun factoid pleases me to my core!
I am awash in sweet, sweet dopamine!
Very worth every other plan becomng displaced!
Such joy for my ADHD brain!
Thank you for allowing me to over-share and explain!
And now, without any further ado,
I imagine it’s time for us all to
get back to our normally-scheduled day.
April 29, 2025
Today, NaPoWriMo’s challenge was to write a poem that takes its inspiration from the life of a musician, poet, or other artist. I decided this was a fine time to learn more about Buddy Hackett (1924-2003), who I only recently learned was not actually a Hackett at birth.
Since finding out earlier this year that he was born Leonard Hacker, I’d been curious why he choose my family’s surname as his stage moniker. The explanation was underwhelming, but learning more about Buddy turned out to be a fascinating rabbit hole that I’m glad I finally dove into.
The poem that follows does not weave in the fact that Buddy, like all humans, was hardly perfect. A product of his times, he did have some off-color jokes that I certainly don’t agree with, such as making fun of and denigrating certain nationalities. With more time, I would have aimed to flesh this out into a more nuanced view of the man. But for a single day, I’m pretty happy with this as a starting point.
Before sharing the poem I wrote, here’s a quote from Buddy himself that cracked me the hell up:
“I found out that if you made people laugh, they like you. Most people got to like me because I made them laugh. When they didn’t, I hit them.”
Not Kin, But Kindred: My Buddy Hackett Discovery
I used to lie and say we were family.
Not on purpose!
I just didn’t realize that for you,
Hackett was a stage name.
People regularly asked of any relation,
and I never made up any elaborate story.
But I usually said there had to be
a connection in some way,
because there aren’t too
many Hacketts out there.
Of those in my awareness,
you were certainly the only one
who made our name famous,
which didn’t win me any points
among the popular kids at school,
but I still always thought was very cool.
While doing some genealogy research,
it came as quite a shock to discover
that Buddy Hackett was
actually Leonard Hacker!
Intrigued, I began to dig a little further.
The explanation for you bearing my name
is dull and underwhelming.
The choice was recommended by an agent,
a backstory lacking any sensation, though
the rest of what I learned was far from boring.
Like many of us creatives, your
talent found its roots as a
natural defense mechanism.
When people were cruel or poked fun,
you readily joined in with the best quips of all.
Quick-witted, with a thick skin and
ability to laugh the jeers and jabs off.
“So what if they don’t like me? I’m rich!”
you were known later in life for saying.
Like you, I’d like to become
impervious to critics,
not let them get into my head.
I’m not quite there yet.
In spite of being lighthearted and funny,
comedy was a craft you never took lightly.
The professional supplying your initial routines
couldn’t touch the talent you possessed naturally.
So, as a novice, you did a brave thing:
Letting them go, you pursued
your dream independently.
Recognizing over-saturation in your market,
you boldly moved cross-country.
It turns out you had a chance to be a
big shot sooner, but it meant sacrificing
your independence so you passed.
As I explore my own artistry,
I aspire to have confidence like that!
Before it was socially acceptable to be “blue,”
your humorous sets became rather bawdy.
Yet even your risqué dick jokes often
came across as safe and fairly harmless,
thanks to your knack for being disarming.
You also knew how to read an audience,
sensing when a joke had reached its conclusion.
Not driving it into the ground,
riding it out for too long.
I am especially impressed with
your gift for improvisation.
Instead of a set plan and canned jokes,
you arrived on stage with ideas and notions.
Creatively nimble, each show varied wildly.
You delivered whatever struck your fancy,
always with unrehearsed expert timing.
Though comedy was your niche,
you expanded into acting comfortably.
What a surprise to learn Caroll Burnett’s
launch into fame began on a show
credited to your name.
And in spite of crass jokes that
many considered offensive,
you wound up a regular in
children’s films and shows.
In fact, I bet the first time
I encountered you personally,
was as the voice for Scuttle the Seagull
in Disney’s The Little Mermaid!
The more I read about you,
the more delight my learning brought.
You seemed to do anything
you damn well felt like.
Even writing a book of poetry –
a regular Renaissance man, truly!
People have only good things
to say now that you’re dead.
A talented man and an innovator, yes.
But, also, a mentor, loyal husband,And even a good dad.
You certainly weren’t perfect,
but you seemed to be a decent man.
As a 3-year veteran, it’s a blessing
you returned from World War II
still possessing a sense of humor.
You became a philanthropist
who regularly gave back,
as well as a person who
freely lent others a helping hand.
I loved the story of your young driver
from Communist Hungary, who you
helped immigrate, then paid for his college.
Well beyond the level of kindness
we’ve come to expect from our celebrities.
If more famous, wealthy people were like you,
how different this world would be!
Thank you, Leonard Hacker,
for being so worthy of admiring
and doing so well by my surname.
Though I’ll never again falsely
rep any ties to your legacy,
I think I’ll still vicariously claim you.
Not as kin any longer,
rather as an inspiration.
April 28, 2025
Music features heavily in human rituals and celebrations and today’s NaPoWriMo prompt challenged writers to create a poem that involves music at a ceremony or event of some kind.
Musical Mix-ups
At high school graduation,
my Class’s song was
“Good Riddance” by Green Day.
Lord only knows who chose it –
I certainly wasn’t consulted.
Otherwise, I would been quick to
point out that it’s melancholic.
Sure, it says:
“I hope you have the time of your life,”
But it’s not a happy song, obviously.
It was about a breakup.
He meant that sarcastically,
i.e., “to hell with you,” quite frankly.
What a way to ring in a new day
and say farewell to one’s classmates.
No one can control how their song is taken,
but it’s baffling something so apparent can be mistaken.
Billie Joe Armstrong isn’t the only songwriter
reaching misguided listeners.
Another classic mix-up a la The Police:
“Every Breath You Take” is an
obsessive, possessive, and
neurotic hot mess of a tune.
Sting himself refers to it as a
“nasty little song, really rather evil.”
Apparently, no one received
his message in a bottle.
Romance was far from its truth.
But sure, play it at your wedding –
you do you.
Cling to your new spouse,
as you both spin round.
It’ll set a lovely tone for
your wedded days to come.
Do they hear without listening?
Just pretty words, strung together.
Then there’s Leonard Cohen’s “Hallelujah.”
Apparently, repetition of that
single word is enough to
deafen listeners to the meaning
of every other verse.
Now it gets played at weddings
Or, more often, as one
gets carried off by a hearse.
Nothing like a songwriter’s
argument with God to
send you off to meet Them.
Will the piper ever lead us to reason?
Oh, my hallelujah, y’all must be teasin’.
It really makes me wonder:
do fans ever bother to listen?
Or do they just go by vibes,
skewed by misperception?
Is it even worth having
meaningful lyrical development?
Maybe as a fledgling songwriter,
I’d be wise to take a cue from Mike Patton.
He says words are secondary to
tunes, sounds, emotions, textures.
The voice is another instrument –
lyrics just arrive to fit the noise.
And yet, so often, his words arrange
themselves together with great poise.
So, his approach isn’t necessarily
a strategy to avoid.
It’s just that as a poet and writer,
words to me always mean a great deal.
They explain what I think and feel.
But maybe they are actually beside the point –
considering how few seem to get the point.
These questions find me
somewhere in between
my love and my agony –
I’ll find a way to pick up the pieces.
April 27, 2025
Today’s NaPoWriMo prompt challenged poets to write a poem that describes a detail in a painting, and that begins with a grand, declarative statement.
I’ve already written about all of the paintings of me, so I wanted to mix it up. I then recalled the recent experience of watching an artist who I body double with on Deepwrk (learn more about body doubling in my recent blog post here) develop a canvas from concept to completion that struck a chord with me.
Free and Unbound
Dedicated to Tiffany Nickel (aka: Bare Naked Tiffany)
I am enough and beautiful as I am.
Fuck anyone who ever made me feel otherwise, less than.
And that’s most certainly including me!
To every woman who ever had to bear witness
to my self-hatred in the form of harmful shit-talking,
inadvertently strengthening the patriarchy,
I owe you a sincere and heartfelt apology.
I reflect on this as I behold these gorgeous figures,
each canvas painted in all manner of colors –
brown, neon green, purple, peach, blue.
They represent every woman regardless of their hue.
Each is faceless; all are nameless.
These archetypes express every version of me and you.
Whether full-bodied or flat-bellied, lightly-contoured curves or
belly pouches and rounded hips, every possible variation of tits.
The one I’m now admiring is all the more special because
I had the opportunity to watch the artist birth it.
Over the course of several days, she went from blank canvas,
to outline, to adding color, then texturing the fullest reality in.
Each azure brushstroke along the way decisive and vibrant.
At first, my sentiments while bearing witness were of curiosity.
As the silhouette filled, the deeper I began to look inside of me.
As if a baby for the first time recognizing themselves in a mirror,
baffled at the discovery: “Is that glorious creature me?”
Tiffany is a gifted woman who allows her talents,
like her flesh, to be unrestricted and unbound.
One might call it body positive art, but
I consider it nothing short of revolutionary.
Her bold brushstrokes empower women to embrace radical
self-love and autonomy over the male gaze and toxicity.
Since meeting her, and enjoying her art,
I’ve come to appreciate my own body more.
Not in spite of – rather because of –
what is considered less beautiful in our twisted society.
Every inch of me is exactly who I’m meant to be.
And, quite frankly, you can go straight to hell
if you happen to find any aspect of it unsightly!
April 26, 2025
NaPoWriMo’s prompt for today was to write a sonnet, or something “sonnet-shaped,” that is perhaps inspired by the idea of it being a song. The rules of traditional sonnets are:
- 14 lines
- 10 syllables per line
- Those syllables are divided into five iambic feet. (An iamb is an unstressed syllable followed by a stressed syllable).
- Rhyme schemes vary, but the Shakespearean sonnet is abab cdcd efef gg (three quatrains followed by a concluding couplet).
April 25, 2025
The NaPoWriMo prompt suggested writing a poem that recounts an experience of hearing live music, and tells how it moves you. I immediately knew I wanted to write about building a cross-country roadtrip around a Nils Frahm concert in Seattle in 2023.
Similarly to the Rachmaninoff piece earlier this month, my thinking was much too expansive to reach a solid place in a single day. This time, though, I at least feel okay with sharing the current draft in its entirety.
If you have thoughts on which title you think works best, feel free to reach out and weigh in! Options are:
- Versions of Myself: A Decade with Nils Frahm
- Ten Years, One Song
- Love Music, Will Travel
As Nils Frahm strikes the first chord of “Toilet Brushes – More,”
I feel a thousand past versions of me come alive.
2013 Heather…
…was grateful for Spotify’s recommendation
I am troubled at how they rip artists off,
but the algorithm definitely knows me so well.
This time the bastards really hit a home run.
2016 Heather…
…was listening to an old ex’s mix
The CD rarely gets played because he turned out to be a dick,
but a rare B-side on it from a favorite group needs to be reminisced.
After its conclusion, I’m shocked to discover early Nils here.
When did I receive this – back in 2005?
How did I forget he existed?
So many years of listening got missed!
2018 Heather…
…was ecstatic to see a tour posted up
Planning an entire foot surgery accordingly,
ensuring it will be no trouble to stand.
When the day finally arrives, I am terribly sick,
this flu has me out of my mind.
As the performance goes on, my fever radically spikes.
I feel sweat pouring down my back, gathering at my temples.
I am racked with guilt, trying to limit what I touch and
holding every cough in, lest I pass that plague on.
But I couldn’t have stayed home and missed it!
Not with how many times his music has
lifted my heart and cleared my vision.
Especially in those long nights recovering post-op,
filled with pain and nauseous from the drugs.
Those pills that didn’t even seem to help.
My husband at the time already in bed for hours, and
me huddled on the couch with my cat under the covers.
For months, she is my only solace,
besides Nils and his collection of ethereal songs,
played on repeat accompanying
my silent pleas to finally fall asleep.
2020 Heather…
…was depressed and lost
So many things are going wrong — divorced, jobless, terrifying finances.
This master’s program is dragging out far too long.
Why did I accept that board presidency I really didn’t want?
Now a global fucking pandemic atop it all?
Lying in bed til noon, even though I woke up hours before.
(Often hungover; this is when that pesky drinking problem had begun.)
So many of these days, the effort to be alive feels like too much.
I turn again and again to Nils, knowing the album Spaces has the power to heal.
Some days it gets me out of my head and coaxes me out of bed.
Other times, it cues a window into my soul and forces me to feel.
2022 Heather…
…was struggling to surf the urge
Moderation Management recommended having a toolbox at the ready;
a known collection of resources that would help me stay steady.
That’s what Nils is for me and this song is the perfect length —
supposedly 15 minutes is about how long it takes.
If you can keep the desire to drink at bay for that long,
you’re likely to avoid making bad decisions and critical mistakes.
And so, I sit here with my headphones on and I meditate,
thinking to myself, “Don’t drink, don’t drink, don’t drink.”
2023 Heather…
…was making impulsive choices
A cross-country roadtrip needed to happen, regardless of finances.
“Love music, will travel” is a motto I’ll never regret,
and thanks to it, I found myself driving from Pittsburgh to Seattle.
A magical trek, a soul-seeking quest, a journey I’ll never forget.To be here tonight is worth every dollar spent, every exhausting mile.For very little else could bring to my face such an enormous smile.Music is life – or at least it makes living worthwhile.
April 24, 2025
Today’s NaPoWriMo prompt suggests writing a poem that involves people making music together, and that references – with a lyric or line – a song or poem that is important to you.
April 23, 2025
NaPoWriMo’s prompt today suggested writing a poem that’s inspired by birdsong. I took a long walk for inspiration. Then, for some reason, I felt compelled to do mine as an acrostic poem. Happy spring!
April 22, 2025
Today’s NaPoWriMo prompt challenged writers to write a poem about something you’ve done – music lessons, playing soccer, crocheting, fishing, learning how to change a tire, etc – that enlarged your life with something beautiful and offered a great deal of satisfaction, and perhaps still does.
The poem shared for inspiration was “Thanking My Mother for Piano Lessons” by Diane Wakoski. Reading it made me very emotional, because I also have a mother who I often (but probably not often enough!) thank for my piano lessons.
I wish I could have spent more time on edits, but here’s what I came up with on my first pass:
From Another Daughter to Another Mother: Thanking My Mother for Piano Lessons
Inspired by: Diane Wakoski
Dedicated to: JoElla Swinehart
Growing up with a player piano inspired me
I could install the rolls all by myself
by the age of six without need for help
Then I’d watch the keys depress and rise
Eyes wide, Little Me mesmerized by
“The Entertainer” and “Time in a Bottle”
I even sometimes picked hymns and classical
Anything to watch this elegant display
that I found so magical
That must be why I chose to learn piano
When I was later given the choice
I must have been only nine, because
it was less than a year after Dad passed away
Mom was doing her best to navigate those difficult days
Single mothers always have to be so brave
I’ve seen her credit card bills from back then
Piles of debt even though she scrimped and saved
Nonetheless, she made my piano and lessons happen
No matter how many jobs she was juggling,
She found time to drive me weekly
When recitals came, I could count on her alone
to show up for me in the audience cheering
Many things in our relationship went far from perfectly
But this talent is a never-ending gift she’s given me
Following a 20-year break, the keys again called to me
Picking my old lesson books back up has been humbling
But even now it brings me joy to play, however clumsily
And no matter how many clunkers I hit,
I can still rely on her to say what she so often used to say,
“Heather, I love to hear you play”
April 21, 2025
Today’s NaPoWriMo prompt instructs poets to write a poem in which something that normally unfolds in a set and well understood way — like a baseball game or dance recital – goes haywire, but is described as if it is all very normal.
Due to my discomfort with being perceived and performance anxiety, I’ve actually joked about presenting my music in a fashion similar to what you’re about to read. Enjoy!
Reverse Peep Show
Tickets are collected at the door as the crowd files in.
We each navigate to our assigned seat in hushed anticipation.
“Have you been to one of her shows before?” a woman asks me.
“Oh, yes! I wouldn’t dream of missing her anytime she tours.
If this is your first time, you’re in for a real treat!”
“That’s what I’ve heard, I can’t wait!” she replies enthusiastically.
We part ways in the hall to enter our individual booths.
I saved up for a premium location this time,
an investment I’m sure will be worth every nickel and dime.
I settle in my seat and watch the other windows fill in.
As I take my jacket off and set my program on the ledge,
I hear similar adjustments from neighboring units.
What a buzz to share this experience and be here together!
As I wait in giddy anticipation for the show to begin,
I admire the stage on the other side of the glass.
There are the usual stations set up for the band,
and, of course, the star’s position front and center.
Soon, I’ll be straight ahead of her – what a thrill!
It’s evident that no expense was spared in the décor.
From rigs on the ceiling, lush red velvet sashes pour,
like waterfalls descending onto the red-lit floor.
All else is red, too, even the drums and guitar.
Fog begins to waft into the circular space,
the fans blowing it around until it forms a cyclone.
The lights lend it an eerie look that’s perfect
for the new album’s mysterious vibes.
I hold in a squeal as the singer enters the ring
and glides to her microphone.
She’s adorned in vibrant jewels and
a silver, shimmering gown.
Its long hem gently trails after her,
unseen as she floats through the dense fog.
Dazzling sequins reflect the red lights.
I’m stunned by the breathtaking sight.
She beholds the sold-out crowd, thanking us for coming.
“We have a great show in store for you tonight,” she says.
As we applaud, her team of musicians file out.
Instruments now in hand, she sweeps her gaze around.
Close enough to read her lips, I shudder with glee
as she silently mouths: “Ready?”
I hold my breath, muscles tensed, as they nod in unison.
I’m tossed in currents of dizzying thoughts,
wondering which song will kick the set off.
As a guitar chord finally sounds, breaking the silence,
the stalls’ shutters lightly whirr as they begin to drop.
I twist in my seat, craning my neck for a final glimpse.
By the time the wailing vocals begin,
I’m left staring at a plain white wall.
I listen to the glorious melodies rise and fall.
Such brilliance, most impressive –
they’re really outdoing themselves.
I snap photos of the divider throughout,
making sure to catch each nuance well.
I capture this paint fleck and that,
tip the camera at an angle to snap my dim silhouette.
A 2-minute video then shot just as the crescendo
causes the speaker to visibly pulsate,
sending my spirit off into the ether.
I can’t wait to share it all when I log-in later,
imagining all the envious comments to come.
The hour setlist quickly goes by,
60 minutes I’ll never forget in all my life.
The final haunting note of her most popular tune fades out.
Slowly, the partitions dramatically rise.
The revealed stage is filled floor to ceiling with milky fog.
Eyes open wide, then squinted to slits, I can’t see anyone.
It’s as if the hidden musicians were a mirage all along,
a shared hallucination imagined by the crowd.
Then she steps forward from the haze,
an ethereal, sparkling earth angel
who just hasn’t made it to heaven quite yet.
To see her this night was to truly be blessed.
The audience offers appreciative, thunderous applause.
“I hope you enjoyed the show,” she says after a long pause.
With tears in my eyes, I reverently nod.
April 20, 2025
Today’s NaPoWriMo prompt suggests writing a poem informed by musical phrasing or melody that employs some form of soundplay (rhyme, meter, assonance, alliteration). They suggested thinking of a song you know and then basically writing new lyrics that fit the original song’s rhythm/phrasing. I landed on “The Crystal Ship” by The Doors, so this is a less mystical 2.0 in response to the original.
April 19, 2025
Today’s prompt suggested writing a poem that tells a story in the form of a ballad. I will forewarn that the subject matter I wrote about is grim and triggering. I would like to edit it further to pay my respects in a better-polished way, but I’ve decided that instead I must go regulate and take care of myself for a while to recover from diving into this awful tale for several hours this morning.
If you have the ability, I recommend making a donation to the family of Victor Perez, to support their lawsuit and work to speak out against their son’s wrongful death at the hands of the Pocatello Police Department.
Nine Shots Found Their Mark
In remembrance of Victor Perez
April 5, 2025, marks the day when
Victor Perez began to die.
Questions remain about his
possession of a knife
Still, bodycam footage irrefutably shows
a premature end being put to his life.
Thanks to modern technology,
each of us can be a spectator.
The police likely did not know the
17-year-old was not intoxicated,
rather he had cerebral palsy.
Nor were they aware that he was
autistic and non-verbal.
The photos circulated of him
with the spotty mustache of a boy
still becoming a man,
juice box and marker in hand,
writing out a shaky 1-2-3-4
won’t circulate until later.
After it’s too late for hesitation.
Too late to take back choices
so tragic and fatal.
Will these badged men be punished?
We can only guess now what will happen later.
But there’s an undeniable pattern,
with justice often illusive.
What conditions may actually change this
remain unpursued and inconclusive.
Nine shots found their mark and
now the protestors gather.
Twelve seconds is all it took.
As officers approach, you hear someone offer
them calm reassurance – “No, it’s okay.”
As the police gather, women wail in protest.
The rest is drowned out by repeated cries of,
“Drop the knife! Drop the knife! Drop the knife!”
Then bullets cascade with little pause.
These deadly methods were chosen
based on the very little that these
supposedly well-trained professionals saw.
Approaching the scene, guns already drawn.
No questions asked to clarify their thoughts.
A fence stood between Victor
and any threat to these officers’ lives.
Family members on the inside
are seen in the background,
out of his reach and line of sight.
Why, then, did these men, who are
tasked to serve and protect, enact
violence with all of their considerable might?
Gathered up in a row by the fence,
looking very much like a death squad
queued up in their firing line.
No shots to an arm that could disable,
easily ensuring the knife’s removal.
No tasers or methods less lethal.
Instead, a barrage of bullets fired
at Victor from multiple angles.
Nine shots found their mark and
now the protestors gather.
Justice is sought by the grief-stricken mother,
but will it be realized?
For nearly a week, the 17-year-old boy
fought to stay alive, his family by his side.
They were responsible for an inevitable choice
after being told Victor’s brain had already died.
So even though it was the police who murdered him,
this poor family had to speak those final killing words,
using their own voice to end their beloved’s life.
This after a week spent trying to bring
their ailing boy comfort, pillows tucked under
arms amidst the many tubes and wires.
Seeing the pictures in the news, I practically hear
the rhythmic hum of air support pumps,
the beeps of countless monitoring machines.
I envision nurses popping in regularly to
check, remove, and refill countless bags of fluids
running into bruised arms through taped-on IVs.
Nine shots found their mark and
now the protestors gather.
Justice is sought by the grief-stricken mother,
but will it be realized?
As we all know, the question of fault
and the outcome to come are
likely to be two separate matters.
Meanwhile, the officers are home on paid leave
having every reason to anticipate a full reprieve,
given this country’s track record and history.
What was going through their heads is hard to imagine
and their innocence impossible to believe
if you can stomach watching the footage
and you see what I see.
“Those police broke our family,” his aunt said.
As an aunt myself, her words are lodged in my head.
I wish I had more to offer Victor’s loved ones
than my tears and bearing witness.
They are recognized and supported in their grief
and held in love by the neurodivergent community.
It has not escaped our attention that this tragedy
struck within Autism Acceptance Month’s first week.
Nine shots found their mark and
now the protestors gather.
Justice is sought by the grief-stricken mother,
but will it be realized?
As we all know, the question of fault
and the outcome to come are
likely to be two separate matters.
Still, we wait, we pray, we mourn, we hope
for accountability and changes to come.
April 18, 2025
Today’s prompt suggested crafting a poem that recounts an experience of driving/riding and singing, incorporating a song lyric. I don’t love this, but I’m tired of messing with it for the day.
April 16-17, 2025
Today’s prompt suggested writing a poem about a life-long friendship. I’m really pleased with the draft I came up with, but I’m feeling a little shy about sharing it with the person it’s about, so I’m holding off on sharing it publicly.
Yesterday’s prompt inspired me so much that I bit off more than I could chew. It invited poets to: “Try writing a poem that imposes a particular song on a place, along the lines of a soundtrack laid on top of the location. Describe the interaction between the place and the music using references to a plant and, if possible, incorporate a quotation – bonus points for using a piece of everyday, overheard language.
I immediately knew I wanted to write about Rachmaninoff’s Piano Concerto No. 2 and its relation to my mental health journey. This gorgeous piece of music has three movements, so I decided to construct my poem in three sections. While the first started off strong, the second and third meandered around a bit much and got clunky. There are many kernels of detail that I am sure I want to retain, but they need a great deal of work. So, I’ve decided for now just to share the first crack at Movement I. There is more surely to come!
An Ode to Piano Concerto No. 2
I once again listen to Piano Concerto No. 2 en route to therapy
Oboes, strings, and piano mourn and soar as I weep
Its moody variations have long suited me
Recently, it began to take on even more meaning
Connections to myself arose after learning the back-story
Modern listeners don’t question its rightful popularity
It’s high on “best classical piece” lists regularly
But to create it, Rachmaninoff had to face many demons valiantly
He was navigating a 3-year lull creatively
This block was attribute to the premier of his First Symphony
Its unveiling went rather disastrously
A critic said the performance would “delight the inhabitants in hell”
Its reception was complete with jeers and catcalls
All heard by the composer, despite hiding backstage with ears plugged
Shattered, he fell into depression and paralyzing apathy
How relatable I found it to read his reflections
Over a century before my birth, he wrote pensively:
“I did nothing at all and found no pleasure in anything.
Half my days were spent on a couch.
I had given up in great despair.”
Me, too, Rachmaninoff. Me too.
But, as they say, what can be named can be tamed.
And so, here I am again, showing up at this office
and praying none of my efforts have been in vain.
April 15, 2025
NaPoWriMo’s prompt for today suggested writing a 6-line poem that has enthusiasm, repetition, simple language, a sermon-like quality, and ends with a bang.
Six Lines are Quite Alright
I know what you’re thinking: “What can a poet do with six measly lines?”
I’ll tell you what, wordsmiths: you can actually do a lot – you might be surprised!
Seize the day and tell yourself, “These six lines are mine!”
Make every line count – don’t rush the process – take your time.
You might play with strategies like alliteration, repetition, or rhyme.
D’oh, shoot – those went by fast – I’m all out of lines.
April 14, 2025
Happy Birthday, Dad: A Gift Set of Haikus
Happy birthday, Dad
You are now a great-grandpa
I wish you were here
Happy birthday, Dad
Your grandson looks just like you
He hears that often
Happy birthday, Dad
I think I would make you laugh
I forget that sound
Happy birthday, Dad
I began singing again
I hope you hear it
Happy birthday, Dad
I hope I have made you proud
You are sorely missed
Happy birthday, Dad
You were taken far too soon
I’m healing at last
April 13, 2025
NaPoWriMo’s prompt for today suggests using a form invented by Donald Justice, which includes six-line stanzas with lines of twelve syllables + the lines don’t use rhyme, but they do repeat end words. Specifically, the second and fourth line of each stanza repeat an end-word or syllable; the fifth and sixth lines also repeat their end-word or syllable.
“Pep Talk with Myself” isn’t the best poem I’ve written so far this month, but I did enjoy working with the form’s criteria. Learning about Donald Justice creating this structure also inspired me to consider making my own forms!
April 12, 2025
NaPoWriMo’s prompt for today: “Try writing a poem that makes reference to one or more myths, legends, or other well-known stories, that features wordplay (including rhyme), mixes formal and informal language, and contains multiple sections that play with a theme. Try also to incorporate at least one abstract concept – for example, desire or sorrow or pride or whimsy.”
This one was a doozy! I wound up falling into rabbit holes around two major concepts: the legend of the phoenix rising from the ash and the stages of grief. Both required some research before I could begin writing. With several hours invested, I’ve only gotten through two drafts. This is the roughest cut of a poem I’ve shared to date, but it’s extremely expansive and I’m excited about where it’s heading. I’m giving it a nap for now, but I can’t wait to come back to it soon!
Grieving like a Phoenix
Denial
My grief would be bearable if I was like a phoenix.
I could sip on its bitter taste with ease
knowing rebirth will find me.
Maybe not soon, but eventually.
It’s only a matter of time
until I’m once again swooping and soaring.
Except I’m not a phoenix,
so I convince myself I’m fine.
Everything’s fine.
Just keep going.
Anger
My grief would be an inferno if I was like a phoenix.
I could release this rage in a blaze.
Find myself peaceful in the flames, unfazed,
scorching myself back to purity.
I’d just step into my self-constructed pyre
and let myself be consumed by this fire.
No need to wait for the unfurling of divine timing.
Or succumb to wailing, “God, why must you deny me?!
Why must this be my destiny?”
Maybe they don’t even really care.
What a damn travesty.
Bargaining
My grief would be non-negotiable if I was like a phoenix.
No need to ask for restoration to my prior life, for it’s a given.
I wouldn’t wonder how I’ll ever manage to go on living,
or beg for a reprieve from these terrible feelings.
With 540 years ahead of me, I’d have a stoic certainty –
even a heaviness this profound will reach its limits certainly.
Instead, I’m groveling and blaming myself for all that’s happening.
I feel control slipping from my grasp – will there be no end to this tragedy?
No matter the stakes, I’d make any deal to put an end to this quite happily.
Depression
My grief could move
slowly
if I was like a phoenix.
I could honor the
space and time
I need.
Give into the heaviness
of the present gravity.
Let my ashes sit.
Embalmed in a cocoon,
coated with myrhh.
Not accessible in my bubble.
No activities to perform.
No reason to stir.
No one examining
or poking
or prodding at me.
Allow the disconnection.
Sanctify this numbness.
Recognizing the sacred
within this mess.
Acceptance
My processing of grief is far less elegant than a phoenix.
Nor is it nearly as grand and decisive.
I’ve spent months frozen in a block of ice.
Lacking the willingness to take the needed plunge
into an ignited ending bright and fiery.
Without a clear indicator, I’m not sure how to
confirm I’ve reached the next phase at all.
Its quiet arrival barely makes itself known.
I almost wonder if I’m wrong and mistaking my calm
as an indicator that I’m accepting my new reality?
I feel life resuming in spite of my uncertainty –
not boldly, heralded by trumpets.
Rather, slowly, amidst a soft, gentle compassion.
With something resembling faith, I proceed gently,
dreaming each day of flames that I am fanning
Reconstruction
Perhaps I have learned to grieve like a phoenix,
for somehow, I’ve managed to reach the apex.
The journey was messy and unwieldy.
I navigated each step of its unfolding with feet dragging stubbornly.
Still, with one step forward and two back, I plodded to my destination.
Far from linear, this transformation may not yet be done completely.
But hallelujah, I’ve healed enough for the return of my vitality.
I see myself at last, emerging from darkness excitedly.
Scarlet and gold plumage filling in, crown of feathers on my head again.
I’m feeling ready to make a reality out of countless dreams of flight.
Hear now my melodious cry and see my glorious halo reignite.
Thank God I found the strength to rise from the ashes and burn bright.
April 11, 2025
Today’s NaPoWriMo prompt offered me an introduction to villanelles. This poetry form has a rigid rhyme scheme and is highly structured, with five tercets followed by a quatrain, with two repeating rhymes and two refrains.
If that makes no sense to you at all, don’t worry – I spent a while puzzling over it too! The Poetry Foundation website has a nice overview. It helped me even more to see the form in action with Dylan Thomas’s classic, “Do not go gentle into that good night.”
The NaPoWriMo prompt included an additional challenge, which was to incorporate song lyrics – ideally using them as opposing phrases or refrains. I had a lot of fun with this one and turned to one of my favorite hip-hop songs: Lovelife by Atmosphere. Enjoy!
April 10, 2025
Today’s NaPoWriMo prompt suggests writing a poem that includes alliteration and puns + refers to one word that is tough to spell and one word that I often forget the meaning of.
I didn’t feel terribly engaged with the prompt and phoned it in a bit with only one round of edits before calling it quits. Not my best work, but this was still a fun little brain game to start my day.
Linguistic Lunacy
My brow furrows each time I type
“judgment” and “accomodate.”
I earned an English degree –
plus I once won the spelling bee –
why can’t I keep these straight?
Maybe it’s because there are two versions of English –
the fancy kind (UK) and my country’s kind (U-S-of-A).
Though that’s only an excuse in one case.
So, I’ll still pass judgment – and/or judgement –
of my recurring mistake with accommodate.
No matter how many times it’s encountered,
I’m also still lost with biweekly’s duplicitous meaning.
How is it twice in a week and every two weeks?
What kind of sense does that make?
Not very much, if you ask me,
and word has it I’m not alone.
Here’s what I find especially baffling
about the way these words wobble and weave:
There’s no need for this ambiguous double duty
thanks to the elegant precision of semimonthly.
This term ought to make things nice and tidy.
Yet when I use this alternative for crisp clarity,
no one seems to possess familiarity
and it only leads to more hopeless hilarity
thanks to the messy human handling of words.
It’s like language-makers intentionally created confusion,
keeping us spellbound with minor, yet constant, complications.
But I suppose that critique is a subjective judgement,
unique only to my personal perspective.
I can’t expect the whole world to accommodate me,
so I’ll just keep googling to meet myself halfway.
April 9, 2025
Today’s NaPoWriMo prompt suggests writing a poem with rhyme and uneven line lengths, plus optional extra credit for playing with alliteration and incorporating sounds.
As a neurodivergent writer, I explored sensory overwhelm and mental flooding. If you’re curious about the TV news appearance that is referenced, you can check out the limited print coverage still on KDKA’s website.
April 8, 2025
Today’s NaPoWriMo prompt is to write a ghazal that meets these criteria:
- 5-15 couplets forming a poetic love song
- Includes my own name or a reference to me
- Repeated words at the end of the lines forming a refrain
- Each stanza should have independent lines around a single theme – aiming for a meditation, not a story
While the prompt said there wasn’t a strict interpretation of rhythm or meter, I would like to tighten this up to a more uniform syllable count and get the musicality brushed up a bit. Nonetheless, I was pleasantly surprised with how nicely this came along today – definitely one I’ll keep working on in the future!
For anyone curious, I wrote a blog post a while back about the choice to use the pen name Hez. It wasn’t nearly as deep as all this, but today’s prompt did invite reflection about the significance of the nickname finding its way back into my life while I’ve been doing all the healing work these past few years.
Dearest Hez: A Self-love Ghazal
Diving into stagnant pools of creativity, you heard the call of an old nickname.
What meaning lurks within this childhood moniker’s unexpected return, Midlife Hez?
You recall that while learning to speak, your baby cousin unintentionally created the nickname.
Attempts at “Heather” came out “Hezzer,” which others simplified with the adoption of “Hez.”
At first it was perfectly fine, no complaints from Little Heather about this nickname.
Short and sweet, with a nice little ring that works well for branding. Right, Marketer Hez?
Your name soon shifted and morphed even further into playful variations of the nickname.
Hezzy at first, then Hezzy Bear, even Hezzy Baby to a select few – you were a Malleable Hez.
Even those variations weren’t necessarily terrible, dreaded childhood nicknames.
As you grew up, though, you began hating it – no one wants to be a baby, right, Big Kid Hez?
As you got older still, you finally insisted on entirely shedding the silly, outdated nickname.
So many countless years of impatient reminders until persistence shook off Good Old Hez.
As an adult, even close friends knew nothing of that long-forgotten nickname.
That’s how successfully you killed off your past self and finally ditched that Pesky Little Hez.
Over the years, several folks dubbed you with a variety of other temporary nicknames:
Red, Princess, Lady L, Old Girl. Each endearment faded faster than Long-lasting Hez.
Cue your Midlife Crisis — nay: Renaissance! — and the choice to reconnect with the nickname.
You even paid for a fancy-schmantzy logo that speaks your truth when you create, Bold Hez.
Such a curious thing, isn’t it, to go about reclaiming this not-so-silly old nickname?
Note how awkward you feel at the Open Mic Night introducing yourself as Hez.
You barely even register that folks are speaking to you when they say the nickname.
“Oh wait, that’s me! How do they know that’s me?!” you think sometimes, upon hearing Hez.
I must say, I have a sneaking suspicion there’s a deeper meaning in this revived nickname.
It’s more than a word. That little girl’s whispers are buried within you, Oblivious Hez.
Is it mere chance to excavate many aspects of your past alongside reviving a cute nickname?
Observe all that is being fused together and reclaimed, my dear Passionate, Reflective Hez.
It may be a fleeting phase, this re-emergence of your tender, sweet nickname.
It could just be another symbolic healing effort – you know what I mean, Flailing Hez?
I cherish all that you’re embracing with this return of your long-lost nickname.
Wherever you go, whatever you do, whoever you say you are — you’ll always be My Love, My Hez.
April 7, 2025
Today’s NaPoWriMo prompt instructs folks to write a self-portrait poem, in which the poet explains why they are not a particular piece of art (e.g., a symphony, ballet, or sonnet), uses at least one outlandish comparison, and a strange (and maybe not actually real) fact.
Since I’ve now written two poems about paintings that feature me as their subject (“My Evolution on Canvas” and “The Luckiest Paint Splatter” below), I thought it might be fun to distinguish the “me” that I am versus the “me” that they are.
There are some clunky parts in the rhythm and rhyme scheme that I’ll aim to work on further in the future, but not off to a bad start for a single day!
Beyond the Canvas
I pass myself by regularly here in this hallway
There I am sitting on that shelf, displayed like royalty
Regarding the canvas now, I am struck by a fairly obvious discovery:
She’s me, but she’s not me – because she’s just a painting
Sure, she’s wearing my clothes and that’s my scar there under her lip
There’s no mistaking the eye that’s a tad asymmetrical with its slightly tilted lid
But she’s frozen in time and never ages, so there’s no sign of the past two decades
Plus the artist got the chance to fix flyaway hairs and anything else astray as she painted
Her creator revels in depicting the beauty she sees in others
So this realistic, yet idealized version of me appears damn near perfect,
It’s easy to picture its subject with no flaws, no mistakes, no regrets
She’d surely be more predictable to love with her sweet and calm demeanor –
No harsh words, or that pesky short fuse and explosive temper
And yet, how boring it would be if I were more like her
Kept away from sunlight so her dark palette continues to stay crisp and bright
Watching the real me prance in and our every day and night
Heading off here and there to live my precious, albeit chaotic life
Never getting to smile or laugh – just stuck sitting there all day looking like that
Sure, my messiness can’t be cleaned up so easily as a sock turned inside out for dusting
And if time steals her luster, the artist could always restore her or paint another
But there’s certainly more to life than being low-maintenance
While I may not be tidy and orderly, at least I get to dream and be creative
If I joined her on that steady, consistent black backdrop, things would be simpler
But she’s vulnerable to the slightest variables, even changes in humidity or temperature
As risky and unsteady as the real world may be, I’ll let her keep her sterile, sheltered life
While I continue filling the fullest array of experiences and vibrant colors into mine
April 6, 2025
Today’s prompt was quite a challenge. I was to use the word “cinnamon” in the title of the poem, but not in the poem itself. Then, I had to use the words “golden” and “wheezing” to describe the cinnamon’s flavor. Here’s what I came up with:
Cinnamon Risks
In my early morning haze, I head to the kitchen.
I find my way to the cabinet where delicious tea awaits.
I settle on chai to begin the day warm and cozy.
As the water boils, I grab my favorite spice,
knowing its golden warmth will make life even sweeter.
I open the lid on one side and tip the jar over,
expecting the usual soft, gentle whisper,
wafting toward me some aromatic pleasure.
Except I make a tragic mistake in my tired stupor…
Alas, I open up the wrong damn side of the container!
Now a mighty challenge gets delivered.
No light whoosh, instead a heavy plop,
followed by a stormy dust cloud rising.
The catastrophic blunder sends a wheezing, spicy kick
to my poor, unprepared sinuses.
Half of my brain is now wide awake
while the other half grumbles angrily —
“What the hell is this?”
Perhaps I ought to return to bed
and try this day again later.
April 5, 2025
Today’s NaPoWriMo prompt was a whole lotta fun! There was a list of musical genres and notations, along with a list of words to choose from and incorporate. “Moonlit Banquet” is a waltz with a “hint of frenzy” – note the triplets in the rhythm – and I managed to use 16 of the 21 words provided. Not too shabby!
April 4, 2025
Today’s NaPoWriMo prompt suggests writing a poem about living with a piece of art. Though I ditched most of my possessions when I became a home-free nomad in 2021, there are many artworks I hung onto that are either in storage or tucked away at my mom’s place. This poem is about one of them gifted to me by an old friend after the bus accident.
April 3, 2025
Today I ran out of time to address part two of the NaPoWriMo prompt. They suggested writing a piece that explains why I am a poet and not some other kind of artist. While I only touched on the former and not the latter, I’ll still give myself an A for effort!
Accidental Poet
Growing up I always wanted to be a writer, but I never wanted to be a poet
Most of my university honors course was spent overwhelmed by boredom
The birds flying by the 35th floor classroom got more of my attention
I made friends with a guy who had enrolled in the class with far more enthusiasm
We once tagteamed an analysis; by the end, even he had grown jaded and bitter
We gleefully burnt those textbook pages at the end of the semester
Fast-forward to 2021: scraps of paper covered in stanzas written erratically
These early lines are practically unreadable
My pen couldn’t keep up with the thoughts so rapidly firing
Most were inspired by a love declining rather tragically
The man I pined for had become my muse as much as a source of misery
The worse things got with him, the more verses erupted out of me
Even as the stacks of paper grew, my new craft didn’t feel like a reality
At times, I even worried it was a diversion to my real calling
Where were the essays and memoirs? The mystery novels and fantasy?
Eventually, my uneasiness began settling; I decided to just let things be
I labeled the morning ritual an alternative form of journaling
No need for the works to be good, just keep pouring out whatever came to me
I gave myself permission to write and observe with curiosity
The folders of irregularly-shaped scrap paper grew unwieldy
Yet the practical purchase of a blank notebook felt challenging
Who was I to waste precious pages with my mediocrity?
To make each trees’ sacrifice worthwhile, I scribbled in a tiny, apologetic script
I even turned the notebook sideways to fill margins dutifully
Then, in 2022, I wrote a piece one morning and read it back thinking:
“Wait – that sounded good. Was that good? It can’t possibly be good, right?”
Later that year, I joined a poetry group and began sharing my work online
After publishing with a literary magazine, I finally felt official enough to say:
I am a poet
I’m no longer ashamed of my novice skill level
Nor do I pressure myself to have a plan
It’s enough to simply keep my pen moving experimentally
I’ve now filled hundreds of pages in a growing stack of notebooks labeled “Poetry”
I even upgraded to a more expensive hardbound edition recently
Such a symbolic and expansive investment in limitless possibility
April 2, 2025
The NaPoWriMo Day 2 prompt challenged poets to write something that directly addresses someone and includes:
- a made-up word
- an odd/unusual simile
- a statement of “fact”
- something that seems out of place in time
Somehow my ongoing insomnia issues merged with Greek mythology. Enjoy!
April 1, 2025
Today’s NaPoWriMo prompt suggests using a new-to-me word from the art world and somehow work in a phrase from the Florentine Codex for extra credit. I accomplished both with the piece below, and I’m pretty happy with it, though future edits will hopefully create a smoother transition from Part I to Part II.
I Spread the Black
I.
So-called black paintings often try to convey a sense of darkness and detriment
Yet, when handled correctly, the use of black paint merely draws more attention to the white
The contours of darkness help us to perceive the light
Victor Vasarely was famous for the optical illusions he painted
Often his distinct visual style relied on his use of the color black
To achieve the effect required thoughtful intention and careful attention
Zebra in 1937 had a white background, making the animals’ stripes obvious
A similar effect came with the 1965 variation, yet its black backdrop evoked a sense of lacking borders
It’s easy to imagine the darkness stretching on forever
In both versions, the animals’ feature curvilinear lines
The patterns alternate, with the black on one meeting the other’s white
An illusion of movement is created by playing with the awareness of the human eye
II.
I’ve been hurt and dismissed, yes
But I recognize that I was not attacked
Still, I did not resist the urge to strike back
In efforts to shield myself from the harm done,
much was lost and no gains won
What I tried to correct only ends up worse
Of course I deserve self-protection
But imprudent choices turned my words to weapons
How many times must I learn this lesson?
At the outset, the canvas was white
I thought myself fair-minded as I began the outline
Then, miscalculations and clumsy errors arose
Over-eager and self-righteous, I spread the black
It seeped in too fully, dark stains spread until they overtook everything
Now there’s no light to be found in my mess
I perceive an abundance of lack, seemingly stretching on forever
An illusion of being stuck preys on the fragility of my human mind
Inspiration Resources:
Florentine Codex
10 Most Famous Black Paintings
March 31, 2025
Today’s early-bird prompt invites poets to write a “portrait poem” (e.g., a self-portrait, a portrait of someone well known to you, or even a poem inspired by an actual painted portrait). The piece I’m sharing for this prompt was first drafted during NaPoWriMo 2024 as a love letter to a friend. It’s undergone some light editing in the year since and I even submitted it to a poetry contest a few weeks ago (fingers crossed!).
My Evolution on Canvas – dedicated to Sonja Sweterlitsch
You saw something in me, a stranger, when I understood so very little about myself.
Hollow, disconnected, unaware of how much I was hurting and needed help.
You invited me to sit for a portrait, and when it arrived, I realized I held that painted lady quite dear.
As we became friends, each new canvas brought out a new layer.
Me on gold, eyes on the horizon, wondering what awaited me out there.
Next, dressed in gray, a thoughtful gaze on a heavenly face.
Then, the largest canvas of all displayed front and center at the “Beautiful Dreamers” show.
At the time, I had no big dreams to speak of and felt inferior alongside your other subjects.
They were accomplished teachers, doctors, designers, singers, and ballerinas.
Yet somehow, there I was, larger than life and nestled among them on the same wall.
A decade later, I’d made some progress, but mostly in shallow, flimsy ways.
You suggested another photo shoot, a new installment to paint.
I felt so ugly that day, arriving at your house depressed and overweight.
My job title was better, but my marriage was on the fritz.
My family was unstable, and so little in life was providing any lift.
Months passed until you revealed what your brushes chose to depict.
A profile silhouette featuring a woman with a proud and knowing head tip.
A survivor who managed to mostly keep kind words on her lips.
Eyes that saw much and gave away little.
Approaching her lifetime’s middle yet still finding herself a riddle.
A few years later, you surprised me with another edition that gave me pause.
I’d gotten entirely lost during that season and this unexpected portrait reminded me who I was.
I’m not sure how I became a muse despite all of my flaws.
But I’m grateful for the space you’ve graciously held for so long.
And the gentle, unassuming ways you inspired me with the versions of me that you saw.
hezhub.com 