For the One I Love, on Our 33rd Anniversary, draft no. 1

For leaving your last roll

So we could end tied

For eating all sweets

Except those I hade

For having big dreams

To sail the world wide

I'm eternally grateful

To be thirty-three years your bride. 

Love, 

Your wife, 

Jennn

For Niece Emily, on her 12th Birthday, draft no. 1

For getting 10th place

In the dance competition

For learning one ski

Like a girl on a mission

For traipsing the country

This way and that

For studying wars

And stretching your calves

For all of these quirks

And a thousand quirks more

You are the fabulous

Niece we adore. 

Love, 

Aunty Jennn

For Nephew Jacob, on His UnBirthday, draft no. 1

 For preferring your eggs

without pepper spots

for hanging with folks

when you'd rather not

for taking to water

like a fish in a loch

for masterful placement

of red and blue tchotchke

for giggles of protest

when it's past time for bed

for melting all hearts

with your vermillion head

there's no other nephew

that we'd want instead. 

Love, 

Aunty Jennn

For Brother-in-law Chris, draft no. 1

 He drills holes for flags

Carries grocery bags

Works like a pack mule

Maintains boat fuel

He's steady and calm

Cleans bricks like the bomb

Navigates home repairs

Never tries to put on airs

A kinder host there's never been

Hooray for Chris Watts (and his kin). 

857 miles, draft no. 2

by Jen Hunt

I'm not a detail person

or so I like to say

my memory will, at times,

tiptoe--or sprint-- away

But, boy, do I remember 

the 857 miles we drove in one day 

when my brother 

disinvited us to his sixtieth birthday

and we had nowhere else to stay

I'm not a detail person, 

Or so I like to say,

But when it comes to tracking wrongs

my mind's as clear as day. 

4/20/25 Sunrise service Easter morning, draft no. 2

The heavens a chandelier crystal swaying just above my head

The play room is now

Art gallery, prayer loft, tomb, and bed--

I find the porch 

in bathrobe and peony pajamas

and await the sunrise-- 

"He is risen" I write on the slate

The week is bright;

I shall wear white--

The church bells ring and gong

The swallows are in on the song

The air is thin--

Pink clouds reflect on the window pane

Jesus is finally out of trouble

I blow bubbles-- 

Poetry and Writing Workshop 2/21/25 Friday, 3 pm with Padraig O Tuama and ?

Prompt:

Nothing of my life
is what I thought my life would be, draft no. 1

Nothing in my life

Is what I thought it would be

The trail

The company

The residue

Uninvited

 

Nothing in my life

Is what I thought it would be

Yet there is room

For a couch and a footrest pillow

And throw in this eave

 

“Nothing” is quite comfortable

Once you’ve gotten

The hang of it

Loosened the belt

And traded work boots for mules

And splayed whisps of hair

--

Prompt: Let…Let…let..draft no. 1

 

Let the name of the Lord

Be praised

 

Let the hearts of all souls

Hear the refrain

 

Let no one be left out

 

Let every knee bow and even severed tongues

Rejoice

God is here before us

And he is good.

A new song shall be sung

In the neighborhood.

 --

Let no one douse my flame

Let my heartbeat speak the same

Let broken bones rejoice

I have a voice

 

Let locust-scorched land thrive

Let sad bones come alive

Let no one steal my core

Hear me roar.

---

Prompt: For ____, I forgive you, draft no. 1

For Facebook scrolling while

The client was talking

For making the lamp of the body

A Google lens

Rather than a homing pigeon

 

For filling the last rays of day

With fleeting gasps and grasps

For only half listening to my friend

Talk of her illness

While I waited for someone’s autograph

For going to bed early

I forgive you

For picking your thumb scab

Until it bleeds

For failing to notice the

Tint on the side of the neighbor’s house...

I forgive

---

Prompt: All pain is made of longing, draft no. 1

All pain is made of longing

the stretch toward 

that which hasn't been

ball of the foot

the balance on one leg

reaching ballet-like 

to the horizon

the hip joints no longer supple

the plie now incomplete

all pain is made of longing

the stretch forward seeking 

the limberness of childhood

all pain is made of memory

what was lost

what used to be

soon we must stretch arms or 

lie down prostrate on the plain

together we eat this earth