that's mrs. mediocrity to you

.

the changeling

post-mortem
and i’m still standing

here

in front of
scarcity

just the way
i did

when you
were
more

.

. . . . .

.

here i am again, doing this again–30 days of poems, hoping the words will come.
hoping hope will come, as well.

i swallow purple and dream of bluebells
blanketing a field made of permanence

they put me under and i bleed in tandem
with color-blind heart
and restless fingers
tapping love songs to spiders
in starlit soliloquy

and we run
through red rivers
black oceans
dead forests

never out of breath
or short of currency

trailing ribbons
weaving knots
stitching sides

un
raveling

.

.

.

eighteen years later
that’s what we call it

not nine eleven oh one
not September 11, 2001
just
nine eleven

two words

three digits

two towers

four planes

thousands

of

mothers
fathers
daughters
sons
sisters
brothers
wives
husbands
aunts
uncles
girlfriends
boyfriends

not statistics

falling

from

the

sky

not dates
or where were you’s

just whole hearts
in odd numbers

each one

the only necessary

evidence

of love

::

.

.

I wrote this for the 10-year anniversary
of this tragic, horrid event.

I am re-posting it again today, in honor of all those hearts.

Never forget.

.

a giggle escapes
through the space
between
clouds

blue sky
bleeding
promises

and you
in the corner

throwing choices
at cracked white walls

always looking
for the one
that will stick

i hear an ocean of epitaph
singeing torn curtains

a whale on the roof
leaking tears
into gutter

grey gull
limping flight
through white waves of sand

a bead of laughter
rises up
beneath the surface

breaking skin and
creeping starfish
that will die
of too much sun

and the ball
rolling back in my
direction

comes to rest
at the edge
of false fealty

cliff hanger hopeful
and harpy sated

siren

marking grid
on fields of silent

glittered gauze

(as if it didn’t)

you held my hand and pretended
to be charmed, or charming, i forget

witch

as i wept the ocean, starfish and octopus
all legs and phosphorescence

circling

imprints in the sand that marched
back to the depths on a wave,

indifferent

.

.

.

.

.

kintsugi

three parts shard
and one part molten

we’ve forgotten how to fix things
         (it’s easier to discard)

we all have cracks
and fissures
dents and holes

some of us hide them
better than others

some of us fill them
with gold

polish edges
display as beauty

and some of us
sip from a cup

no longer leaking

.

. . . . .

you can find a definition of kintsugi here.

30 days. thanks so much for being here.

.

.

.

almost

the economy booms
and the shrapnel’s
made of lies

truths untold
litter fields
of reminiscence

the opposition
lining up
along one side

preparing for
a battle
no one wins

and poppies
line the forest
strewn with pride

.

. . . . .

.

.

.

asked and answered

in the middle of the afternoon
a long walk through urban forest

trees replaced with towering glass

jostling heads on unfurled shoulders

cement and asphalt impersonating
soil

heat pounding

heart pounding

noise rounding
corners

life
bleating
everywhere

unseen

.

. . . . .

.

.

.

april snow

falling gently from
your grey ancillary sky
belated goodbye

.

. . . . .

.

.

.

the world turns

and i watch the sun
rising patiently
again
patting cheeks
and shoulders

there, there

the grass is green again
(on this side)
color replacing grey
with no qualm
whatsoever

there, there

and the gang of cardinals
splits off into pairs
hoarding territory
and black oil
seed

it’s all political

.

. . . . .

.