that's mrs. mediocrity to you

“If you look for it, I’ve got a sneaky feeling you’ll find that
love actually is all around.”

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When I was younger, I would have snorted at that,
but I have come to believe that it’s true.

Love is so little of what we’re taught
in fairy tales and romantic novels.

Love isn’t found in a box of chocolates,
although, I do love chocolate.

Love is being there.

Listening.

Showing up, again and again.

Making coffee for him the night before,
every single day.

Filling the woodbox for her
because you know she loves the fire.

Holding each other up
when you’re both too tired to stand alone.

A pot of soup for your mom when she’s ill.

Teaching a child to read.

Opening the door for a stranger at the grocery store.

Returning the $20 bill the guy ahead of you just dropped.

Trying your best, always, to do the right thing.

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I know that a lot of people aren’t fond of Valentines’ Day,
saying it feels forced and commercial and contrived.

And perhaps it is all those things.

But in a world filled with darkness and hatred and hardship,
a day to celebrate love feels like a good thing to me.

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So Happy Valentine’s Day to all of you.
May you find love in tiny places
and kindness wherever you go.

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And thank you, for coming here, for reading,
for the kindness and encouragement you’ve offered me.

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And Happy Valentine’s Day to you,
International Man of Mystery,
because I don’t fall in love very often,
but when I do,
it’s with you.

.

.

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(the quote is from one of the best movies about love, ever: love actually)

and what i want

is to tell you to run

the life of a poet

is filled with blood

and you will never be safe

you will always be sorry

your heart will always

fall from your sleeve

to be trampled

but we both know

it was never a choice

so i bite my tongue

purse my lips

squeeze hard

to hold the words in

just like so many other

long quiet nights

when i watched you

sleeping

and the only one

that escapes is

write

.

.

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Linking up today with the fabulous dVerse poets for Open Link Night

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the sun and the moon

and the stars

and all things merry and bright

to all of you

and yours

.

for seventeen years
we’ve been crossing bridges
as we’ve come to them

sometimes together

sometimes separately

sometimes meeting in the middle
from opposite sides

always finding our way home

to hold hands in the dark
watch the moon dancing with the stars
warm our toes by the endless fire

we’ve been here

there

and back again

it all started
on a bridge

from one heart
to the next

spanning years

as together
we watch it
flow

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Happy Anniversary, Mr. M

the collectors pull up first and extra early
no shame for them regardless of the rules
circling like vultures waiting for their chance

and then the kids who’ve saved their pennies
looking for a new to them toy or perhaps a friend
with a frozen plastic smile to hug tight at night

the grandmothers in perfect polyester prints
can’t believe how expensive everything is these
days but are really just looking to buy time

a woman who goes from sale to sale carefully
choosing clothes and shoes to send to children
in africa – we give her everything she wants –

two young women who might be drunk or always
silly and don’t want to leave, looking to spend,
literally, every last dime they have

the boys who come overnight and vandalize
my father’s car, leaving evidence of what they
think is manhood or prowess, but steal nothing

bookworms who know what they are looking for
and are happy to rifle through our fifty-cent
selection, no shades of grey or romance here

the little birthday girl who loves horses and
has saved all her money to add to her collection,
she gets an extra breyer pony or two, free

a new mother searching for that perfect bag
of beads as her husband-boyfriend drives by again
and again saying you got a screaming kid here

the destitute father and teenage son who may
or may not be homeless but manage to tease
each other about kitten posters just the same

all weekend we sit and watch things we have loved
change hands, things we’ve never used earn a dollar,
things becoming the people that take them home

.

.

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Linking up with the fabulous dVerse poets in a celebration of summer for poetics, join us!

Recently, my son moved out. It’s not the first time, it’s the second, so I wasn’t overly traumatized, but it is a big adjustment.

We are empty-nesters once again. Dynamics change, patterns shift, life changes. And goes on.

We miss him very much, but we are happy to see him moving forward in life.

Two weeks after he moved and got settled in, he came to pick up the one of our five cats that is his.

Another adjustment.

She is the playful little girl cat, the one who gets along with everyone, the mediator. My son found her in the middle of the road when she was just three weeks old. We had a hard time getting her to eat at first, she wouldn’t take formula from a dropper, and finally we made a mash of food and formula that she dove into, face first.

Every time she ate, her entire face would end up coated with food, and she cleaned herself so often that she rubbed all the hair off her nose. She is the cat that has always made us laugh.

But, we are adjusting, we know that she is safe and is on the next adventure of her life.

Our other cats however, are having issues.

We can’t explain to them that she isn’t truly gone forever, she is just someplace else. And so, they search for her, they mourn, they wander the house.

The kitty in the photo (Missy)  is our second oldest, the mother hen, the brooder. I took her outside with me the other evening, and she kept searching the horizon with her eyes, scanning the woods near our house, looking for Charlie.

Our second oldest cat, Pepe, is the silent type, the steadfast sentinel. It’s hard to tell what he is feeling, but he wanders the house and keeps trying harder than usual to get outside.

Naughty kitten, “He Who Must Not Be Named,” is hardest hit, Charlie is his best friend, in truth, the only other cat in the house that truly likes him. He is lost. Two nights ago he somehow managed to wiggle his way up under the quilt on my bed, and lay there like a lump under the covers for quite some time. He’s never done this before. He has spent twice as much time inside as normal, he is restless, angsty, needy, sad. He misses his playmate.

I try to explain to him that she is not gone like George, she is just somewhere else. But, of course, you can’t explain these things to a kitten. And yes, this means I talk to my cats.

Only our oldest cat, the Queen, is unaffected. She has never cared much for any of the other animals that have come into our lives.

You may think that I am crazy, attributing all these thoughts and emotions to cats, but I have lived with them all long enough to know their patterns and habits, and the change is clearly visible.

This weekend, we plan to have my son bring Charlie for a visit. Hopefully, that will make everyone feel a bit better.

Because as far as these cats are concerned, this empty nest stuff is for the birds.

And I am a a slightly crazier crazy cat lady.

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gruff

sometimes prickly and mostly silent

really quite hairy and a bit grey ’round the edges

forever watching over the brood

determined and hard-working

always ready to tough it out

even in those times of drought

beneath the barbs and bristles

a gentle heart of gold

beating in a forest

of fortitude

::

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Happy Father’s Day to my old man

and all fathers everywhere.

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photo: old man cacti at Longwood Gardens

::

and live in this spot

with this view

with the man that drives me here

and stops for ten million photos

and thinks i’m a little bit crazy

but never says so out loud

::

instead,

he buys me dip-tops

::

.

.

(a dip-top is my favorite kind of ice cream cone, chocolate ice cream
dipped in chocolate coating, and hard to come by where we live)

he rises every day in the hours of deepest
darkness without complaint and filled
with the satisfaction that duty calls

coffee is prepared the night before
a cup stands by as silent guard
clothes are arranged in proper order

morning’s puzzle is solved without variation

he is dressed while you are dreaming
and at work before the sun

sweat pouring from his brow
for no one else to see

from one day
to the next

steadfast

::

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In honor of National Poetry Month, this post is part of NaPoWriMo. see more here.

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List the tribes you belong to: cultural, personal, literary, etc.

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If you had asked me this question when I was a teenager, the answer would have been: none.

I never fit into any of the available slots, too smart to hang out with the cool kids, too cool to hang out with the smart kids, too shy to hang out with the popular kids. I was not into sports, not into parties, not into chess, or designer clothes or smoking cigarettes out by the fence. I was the proverbial square peg. My senior year, when everyone else was wearing Calvin Klein jeans and high heels and curly, permed hair, I dressed like a hippie in torn jeans, gauzy shirts, Jesus sandals, hair long and straight and parted down the middle. I had learned just enough by then to allow myself that much.

I belonged to the tribe of angst as a teenager, this is when I started writing poetry. This is when I learned to enjoy being alone. This is when my heart was broken for the first time.

::

If you had asked me this question when I was in my early 20s, the answer would have been: I AM WOMAN, and yes, I would have roared.

These were my feminist years, learning what it meant to be a woman in the world, the unfairness, the injustice, the constant thread of sexuality that ran through every interaction I had with men. I spent months, years, reading sociological studies, learning more and resenting everything I read. Resenting men, resenting the fact that I was not one. I never learned to be coy or charming, never used my gender in my favor, never stopped fighting the unfairness of it all.

Until.

In my mid-twenties I joined the tribe of mother. And then I understood the true difference between men and women. And yes, I’d love to be able to say that parenting is the same for men as it is for women. But it isn’t. And I’m not saying that men don’t make fabulous parents, or that they are inferior as parents. My own father was the best one a girl could ever have. It’s just different. As a mother, you become protector. Teacher. Moderator. And more, so much more.

But when it comes right down to it, you are a she-bear. And then you will REALLY roar.

::

If you had asked me this question when I was in my 30s, the answer would have been: artist, mother, wife, reader, business owner.

This was the decade of doing, too busy to have much angst, too tired to complain. I accomplished. Whatever needed to be done, this is what I did. I was happy with who I was, happy with where I was, and there was always something that needed to be done. These were the years of too-little sleep and not enough time. There was always someplace to be, a deadline on my forehead, a child that needed tending, a house that needed care, a husband that needed time, a life that needed living. I wrote very little in these years. I put all of that on the back burner and let it simmer.

I belonged to the tribe of family in my 30s, and this is when I started to be comfortable with myself.

::

If you had asked me this question when I was in my 40s, the answer would have been: invalid, daughter, seeker, and finally, writer.

In my early 40s I was sick for a year. And though it all worked out in the end, turning out to be something fixable, it was a lost year. I learned what it’s like to be invisible, that there are two pronunciations to the word invalid. But this year taught me a simple, valuable lesson: to appreciate the fact that I am alive.

My parents started aging in these years, and I came full-circle as a daughter. I spent time care-taking and appreciating everything they gave to their children.

I stretched beyond what do I want to do with my life into it’s time to start doing something. I started writing again, unfolding those pages one layer at a time, testing, exposing, learning. I brought along all the tribes I have ever belonged to and we had a big party. One that went on for years and made a big mess, and in the end, only the strong were left standing.

I belonged to the tribe of hope in my 40s, I came home to a place I hadn’t known I missed, and words became my companion.

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Now, as I am ready to enter my 50s, I have come to understand that the tribe I truly belong to is that of humanity.

No matter how we try to section ourselves off into groups, we can’t escape this simple fact.

We are all here, in this one tribe, together.

The tribe of grace.

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this post is part of the scintilla project. see more here.