One Sure Chord

What resonates with you?

April 3

April 3, 2025 / / 0 Comments

I won’t wonder why I rarely get dinner invites after this.

Dinner Invite

I was glad to get the invite,
like a dog wagging its tail for a treat,
but when I walked in,
the smell hit me.

Not the good kind,
but the kind that makes you wonder
what went wrong in the kitchen,
what went right in the graveyard.

She smiled, setting down my bowl,
"Hope you like it, it's my grandmother's recipe!"
I took a forkful,
tried to look human,
swallowed it whole
like a bad poem
I couldn't stop reading.

It tasted like disappointment,
like forgotten dreams,
like the kind of thing
you don't give to your enemy.
But I said,
"Oh, it's very... unique.
Really, very… interesting."

They all smiled,
like they didn't notice
the way my eyes 
were twitching,
the way my stomach 
was screaming.

The beer helped a bit,
but not enough
to erase the feeling
of being polite
and still wanting to throw the bowl
out the window.

I was happy to be there.
Really.
But if anyone asks,
I’ll say it was "delightful."
It’s easier that way.
At least the silence
between bites
tasted better
than the food.

April 2… what to do?

April 2, 2025 / / 0 Comments

This poetry thing always seems like a good idea and then I get started or stuck as the case may be. So I present to you this silly bit… 

Something from Nothing?

I sit quietly; the screen is bare,
No thought to catch, no spark to share.
The world outside, it spins and glows
But here I am, and nothing shows.

No fleeting dream, no whispered thought,
Just empty space where words are sought.
The silence wraps its gentle shroud,
nary a thought in my mind but clouds.

I search for the muse, but none appears,
no inspiration to loose the gears.
The keys are quiet, the page is clean,
an empty space where none have been.

Perhaps, in nothing, something’s found—
In absence, silence does resound.
So here I write, without a theme,
A poem born from quiet's dream.

April is National Poetry Month

April 1, 2025 / / 0 Comments

So I thought I might try writing a poem a day, which after today seems a little more daunting than it did yesterday. I did however get something written for today… enjoy.

The Favorite Mug

I’ve watched him for years—
the steady hand,
furrowed brow,
and tired smile
at the end of a long day
when the world outside the door
has quieted down,
and the room is ours.

We meet each morning,
a ritual of warmth,
the heat of hope rising with each sip.
He doesn’t speak much,
but his fingers,
calloused from decades of paperwork,
wrap around me with reverence,
like an old friend who has seen
too many years to count
and still holds on tight.

I’m there for the early mornings
when he shuffles into the office
before the children’s voices roar through the halls
before the phones start ringing
with problems for him to fix.
I see the lines on his face deepening,
the wear of time that can’t be erased,
not even by a warm cup.

But still, he carries on.
I’ve seen it—
the moments when a young person
knocks on his door,
nervous and wide-eyed.
He listens and encourages like it’s water
pouring from an endless well.

I see his eyes light up,
the cracks in his heart
mended with the smallest of victories.
I don’t mind my slow existence.
I’m just the cup—
faithful,
patient,
a silent witness to the years.

But in these moments,
I’m part of the story.
I hold the warmth
that helps him carry on,
the steady rhythm of his work
stretched across decades.

He leans back,
a tired sigh escaping.
I can feel 
the quiet pride 
and love for the job
that still lingers,
even on tough days.

For more than 25 years,
he’s guided them,
shaped them,
and taught them—
For a decade,
I’ve been his silent companion,
witness to the quiet battles,
the triumphs,
the exhaustion,
and the joy of a life spent
in service to something greater.

I’ll be here tomorrow
and the next
because no matter how he’s aged
under the weight of it all,
he still holds me close,
and still,
I warm his hands
when the world demands too much.

Marching through the year.

March 20, 2025 / 
Warmongering

I carried my truths like stones,
polished by years of belief,
each smooth, sure, heavy—
ammunition I thought was strength.

I brought them to every table,
carrying them like bucklers
as though each conversation were a battlefield
where all must yield or withdraw.

But stones do not grow,
and barriers do not breathe.
I learned this in the quiet,
when chairs stayed empty,
and silence lingered longer than any guest.

There is a loneliness in certainty,
in the need to be right,
to be whole only when others
reflect the shape of your mind.

I now know that gentler things endure:
the curve of a question,
the pause of listening,
the quiet folding of hands
without answers between them.

Now, I carry these stones quietly
and leave them in my pockets.
I feel their weight but do not cast them.
I meet eyes instead of waging wars
and touch shoulders instead of taking sides.

In the absence of needing to be understood,
I am known more deeply—
not by what I believe,
but by how I connect.

Sunny Spring afternoon

March 5, 2025 /

It’s been a beautiful day and I was able to see the kids relish language. I’ve been fiddling with this and decided to put it up for your … enjoyment? I enjoyed it… 

A Penny for a Thought

A jar of pennies sits on my shelf,
half-full, half-empty,
a peanut butter ghost
with a dull copper shimmer
as afternoon light drifts in.

They are small, forgotten things—
loose change from hurried hands,
pockets emptied after long days,
tossed in without a thought.

Once, they meant something.
A time when a penny could buy a moment,
when they jingled in palms
instead of settling in dust.

Now, they sit—silent, waiting,
a slow-growing fortune
too small to matter,
too much to throw away.

A weight. A whisper of almost.
Yet somewhere in that jar,
there is still enough for something—
a child’s smile, a lucky find,
a start.

I turn one over in my fingers,
watching the way the light catches,
letting it be—
turning small things into gold.

What’s this? Another poem outside December?

February 21, 2025 /

He gives…
because he sees the weight they carry
and knows how heavy the world can be.

They come to him with open hands,
needing kindness, needing time,
needing pieces of him
that he offers generously.

They take—
because it’s easy.
Because he always says yes,
because he never asks for anything in return.
Because he is the steady ground
beneath their unsteady feet.

But when he is empty,
when his voice shrinks,
and his hands tremble,
when he asks for a moment…
they disappear.

No messages.
No calls.
Just silence where they used to be.

He wonders if they ever cared
or if he was only an oasis,
a convenience,
a stop along the way
to something better.

Still, he gives,
Not because they deserve it.

He gives because he can.

Sometimes though, he wonders—
why?

What’s this? Something outside December?

January 17, 2025 / 
Untitled

The man who wrote letters and poems for decades
had no reason to stop. 
He sat at his desk,
hands steady on the paper, 
watching the words
move into the envelope 
like small birds
flying away.

The years passed; 
the silence grew.
He knew his words had wings,
but it was the absence of response that troubled him,
like a garden he tended 
with no flowers in bloom.

He began to wonder if the world
was not missing something,
but if he himself had somehow
never truly arrived.
There was a moment when 
he looked at the door
and couldn’t remember 
if he had ever crossed through.

Messages were sent, 
but did they touch anyone?
He folded the final one, 
sealed it with care,
and placed it in the box. 

Perhaps, he thought,
it was not the world 
that had forsaken him,
but that the world 
had never known
how to call his name.

December 31, 2024

December 31, 2024 /

Aaaand here ya go…

This is the year I stopped worrying
about things that might never happen—
the sky falling, the floor cracking open,
the wrong turn into a life I didn’t recognize.
Instead, I learned how to be here… fully.

I think about last January
I couldn’t move without pausing.
What did I learn in the past 12 months?
Not to fear what doesn’t come
but to be grateful for what does.

It was a year of small lessons,
like how tea cools quickly on the counter
or how the morning light shifts
quietly across the room—
even on days when I thought I was done.

I learned that the days slip in and out of focus,
like pages in a book you’ve already read
but are still a little surprised by.
There were hard days, certainly,
those unexpected visits from grief
or loneliness, the ones we can’t ignore.

But there were also golden afternoons
when nothing seemed wrong at all,
and I learned how to sit with that peace,
how to be grateful
for just that.

The calendar page turns,
but the year that’s passed
is still in me,
a soft weight,
like a coat
I forgot to hang up
but now can’t quite put away.

And with that, the 2024 December Dailies season comes to an end… good night. 😊

December 30, 2024

December 30, 2024 /

It’s a week into the break, and the school feels like another world, a place I know only from memory now. This poem is not a finished product, I think I cut more than I shared, but I’m tired of messing with it so you get what you get…

Resting

I woke this morning
to the slow crawl of light
creeping across the windowsill—
no harried rush to get out the door,
no list of tasks
waiting to be ticked off.
Instead, the warmth of the holiday,
the comfort of a time that stretches
like a blanket across the days.
A breath, deep and slow,
without the weight of tomorrow
pressing on my shoulders.

It’s strange, this feeling of not being needed,
of not needing to be anywhere,
but I let it wash over me.
There is peace in the stillness,
a kind of grace
that I can only feel in these empty weeks,
when the halls are quiet
and I am no one’s principal,
just a person with time to breathe,
and nothing in particular to do.
I think I’ll enjoy it while it lasts.

December 29, 2024

December 29, 2024 /

Bright Shiny Day

The sun comes in like an old friend,
quiet and familiar,
warming the chair where I sit
with no reason to move.

Outside, the trees stand still,
bare branches reaching
like sun worshipers.
A squirrel darts past.
I don’t care to follow.

The house hums softly,
and sunlight spills delightfully 
across the room.
The world has paused
just long enough
for me to watch it go by.
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