Laurie Kuntz’s  bio is as elusive as her estrogen levels. Sometimes, she  remembers she is  a poet and sometimes not. She lived and worked as a writer and teacher in the Philippines, Thailand and Japan for 35 years, but she is now in nomadic retirement mode. Her poetic themes are a result of working with Southeast Asian refugees, living as an expatriate, and being an empty nester. Her  books are: That Infinite Roar, Gyroscope Press, Talking Me Off The Roof, Kelsay Books, The Moon Over My Mother’s House, Finishing Line Press,  Simple Gestures, Texas Review Press, Women at the Onsen, Blue Light Press, and Somewhere in the Telling, Mellen Press. Simple Gestures, won Texas Review’s  Chapbook Contest, and Women at the Onsen won  Blue Light Press’s Chapbook Contest.   She’s been nominated for four Pushcart Prizes and two Best of the Net Prizes. Her work has been published in Gyroscope Review, Roanoke Review, Third Wednesday, One Art, Sheila Na Gig, and other journals.  She enjoyed long walks with her two dogs, Sage and Merlin, named for wisdom and magic, but unfortunately both dogs are running loose in doggy heaven, so now she walks alone with haiku angels.More at:

https://lauriekuntz.myportfolio.com/home-1

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In the beginning,

we had time to tally

who spited, who hurt,

who forgave first.



We could nurse our anger

for weeks turning it into a game,

until one of us cried "Uncle."



We bullied time thinking 

it would never fight back,

but now time wins and winds

around us with an aging wisdom.

 

It hardly matters who dirtied  

the new white towels,

forgot to turn off the lights,  

lock the back gate,

ate the last poppy seed muffin, 

broke the porcelain coffee mug, 

or refused to kill the spider.



One of us will always be left  

hungry, in the dark, afraid 

of things that crawl into open entryways.



In our waning days together,

we can no longer waste 

the time that stretches between us.



Our history is branded by the flames we create.

We can choose to stay in the pan, or jump into the fire.

Epiphany for the Approaching Spring

It always creeps up on me,

this day unmarked by any romantic inkling

but here it comes--spring,

when pockets of flowers arrive in shouts of yellow,

and on the vestige of a windy dawn, an ocean remains stilled,

while the light waxes from frost to shine,

marking us with time and a surprise bloom of bright

red camellias opening into the new season, 

the way we are.

Haiku

Birdsong,  

or my dead mother's voice:

a whisper in the wind