that's mrs. mediocrity to you

and the geese have chased the heron from the swamp.

i know this because he’s just flown straight through my line of vision,
looking angry and put out and reminding me
of something i can’t quite name.

it’s too cold to sit outside at dusk
and watch the sunset

but here i am

it’s that hour when the geese
fly in by the hundreds
to crash the party at the swamp

and i’m drawn outside
to the raucous sounds
of miles-traveled cacophony

a sound that will forever
make me smile

and in truth, i came out here
to sit myself down
and have a good cry

but instead
there’s this beautiful sunset
and my big, big smile

painted in place
by the calls and the haws
of this wild night party
thrown by nature herself
(and the theme
is always survival)

it’s cold tonight

too cold for
windows open
and whispers
to that bold sharp cold
half-moon

but in my dreams
the sash stays up
so i can hear
fresh goose gossip
and broken-wing
promise

tempered only by stars
and the dark ripped sky
of autumn’s
celestial rune

…

and live in the sky

.

he’s my best hero and keeps my eyes dry

the screech owl purrs softly in the trees beneath your belt.
a song of winter’s ending and survival’s lullabye.
we’re both quiet, nursing wounds, warming sounds by the fire.

i remember now
what I’ve been missing
these nights, trapped inside

these stars, this sky,
these ghosts all a-glitter
in the darkness of why

we’re both hunting, he and i.
not for food, but for solace.

the north star sits high just left of center stage
the only truth to believe in society’s cage

the geese are telling stories to the moon’s redundant scry.

it’s such a still night
almost forever

the screech owl serenades the darkness with his cry.

i have burned all the bridges

the ones you built and the ones you buried

none of them were sound
and besides
you don’t understand music

but even so
this isn’t a phoenix story
it’s a tale of smoke and ash
destruction disguised as romance
and filtered through deliverance

i don’t need a god to offer salvation
or forgiveness

i’m not afraid to stand beneath this sky
and speak my truth

absolution
just another false path to reprieve

…

i once told you
forward is the only direction

and then watched you walk away

what you took
was my advice

as i was writing words
to the story you were living

and i saw smoke without noticing
you were the flame

those bridges weren’t built for redemption
they were built to enable your game

…

in my hand i hold one last match
not meant for you after all

wasted time and lost permission
memory scarred by blisters

this one’s for the wick
of my own candle

i am fire
i am light
i am inferno

watch me blaze

…

winter came early this year

and i walked
into the forest

away from the bother
of dust and detritus

clawed a hole
large enough
to hold forgiveness

and left it empty
for the bear still living there

it is not time to scry
with memories that lie

that season of all seasons has ended

now is the time
for journey and joy

with snowflakes
hiding blemish
and the pale impermanence of beauty

the moon sits low
on this frozen horizon

and she is my only

destination

…

i went to bed for week
and the world changed colors

yes, of course, i know its autumn
only it isn’t, quite

and all i’m really trying to say
is we forget again and again and again

to notice the magic all around us
blooming right beneath our hurried feet

as we focus on the fresh vines of ugliness
winding their way up twisted ankles

when what we need is to pay our heart’s attention
to the desperate grand finality of fall

…

twenty-four 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.

.

there are no rules
for endings and beginnings

just food for thought
or wasted flavor

and it’s the light
begging shadow for definition

that makes you hungry
for the agony of full

…

may i never be too old
to sit upon the ground
before a tall and hungry fire
built from gold

trees my only witness
sky my only hold
and the river running miles
through the crackled mud between us
singing hard and true and cold

. . .

the red sun
hovers close
asking why

as if answers
could be crows
crossing distance

in shorn-shortest
feather breeze
paths

when in fact
it’s the meadow
breathing wisdom:

bloom

in the midst
of flamboyant
underused chaos

bloom

like a rose
in a sky
filled with fish

bloom

and surrender
to the hot holy blood
filling each eye

bloom

and forget
to reply

i am full

no
i am whole

i’ve always been whole
i just sat myself down
at the wrong table

i was hungry

no
i was starved

you served hot air
and boiled lies

i added spice

running fingers
through straight plate lines
of drizzled down salt

(someone else’s tears,
crystallized)

i drank all the water
and folded my napkin

an unused swan
taking shape

on the grey chipped platter
of sweet stale tender
and timeworn
overused
coin

…