that's mrs. mediocrity to you

watch time float by
on the whisper of living

breathe in blue sky
and never exhale

light the candle
of forgiveness
and forget to blow it out

speak the song
of the silenced
or rather, start to sing

watch a heron
kiss the water
in a solitude of sunshine

stand taller
than the mountain
you just climbed

ride the train of broken tears
that barrels down
each side

embrace the clouds
that hover close
to the places you last cried

.

give it all away

.

and watch time

float by

on the whisper

of living

…

the avenue where
you ate the last fish

as it held your lost stare
(contemplation’s false glare)

and the dark apple
current
pulling luck under

in the back row seat
of certainty’s corner

we fed our fill
on the silence of empty

and burnished long scars
still shiny with memory

until sky led to sea
in the bed that was always
losing its way

we reached for warm hands
over-stuffed
with the blind weight
of grief

grasping for sand

as it spilled down
clean sheets

and returned to the water

salt bled us

…

eating nothing

but these hours

that devour

and the

black hole distance

between full

and fortified

in the night sky

lost eye

feast

of raw

subsistence

…

scarred scared and disrepaired
the tagline of last soldiers
loss holders
heart boulders

we are the collection
of collectors
gathering bones and
burying stones

building cairns
in bare memory
corners

and backing away
ever so gently
despite the premise promise
of tumble
and tremor

. . .

and deep dark
late night lists
of the ways we are all
just a little bit
broken

and the revelation
that all we can do
is open our arms
our minds
our fear closed
scared scarred
sacred
hearts

and face the sun

one more time
one more day
one more moment

today
today

today
and love

that’s
all there is

ever

not forever

just this
minefield mountain
of now

the present
of presence

and these shard blue
sheltering smithereens
of moving sky

…

…

like the gathering jay
landing indigo dark
at this goodbye leaves fly sky

waving summer’s
last muleta

…

and this hollow black horizon
fielding landings
for cold flight frenzy bright geese

holding court
in a flurry of age

…

and you treading merlin’s tall night
through a landmine
of lost forest season

no frame can contain
or define

…

and the brink of soft light
through these brittle bone trees
of tender sight not quite description

guiding current the truest
way home

…

listen here

it’s dawn
and the mockingbird
is spinning

suddenly i want

to fly again
straight off the ends
of this square peg earth
into the winding path
of freedom’s glee

burrow deep into the heart
of day-blind skunk
and know the strength
that builds red bricks
from beasts of prey

ripple down
across the shoulder
of this rolled-boulder current
pounded smooth against
a blanket of doused flame

no longer
broken
but
broken open

open

and mirrored
plain

yet again

i climbed a mountain to return a heart-shaped rock,
walked a forest and forgave the past of everything,
broke a leg and knitted living back together,
skirted vulture cliffs and jumped only with my smile,
buried crack-lipped hallelujahs beneath the twisted tree of pain

it’s morning
and the mockingbird

is singing

. . . . .

in that hole in my heart
(you know the one)
left behind in the wake
of a wave

core scoured clean
scored by sand
and detritus
scars scratched
into every blind surface

echo etchings
scratched
into permanent
reminder

water always runs
to the lost lowest point
filling crack and crevice
with surface reflection

magnifying truth
and creating mirage
in the desert
of dutiful
destruction

the way it all shifts
when you learn
to walk through
rather than running
astray

the way trust
is a shell
balanced on backs
until we outgrow
the idea

the way a heart
always knows
its measure of weight
and its own
constellation of scars

the way hope
is not hollow
and just holding on
is more fragile
than strength to let go

.

.

listen here

these days
my time is turned
paying tribute
to lives lost
or never realized

dreams
a heart wove
as you
shoveled sand
into hourglass
of promise
and empty

all the while
pretending
not to notice
the mountain
you were melting

and mostly

it’s all just air

resting ripe in a bowl
far too damaged
for kintsugi

rift-silent and
hover proud

waiting

[still]

and open

always open

for repair

.

.

listen here