that's mrs. mediocrity to you

Day, night. Inhale, exhale. Simple, complicated. Beautiful, ugly.

Rose, thorn.

Life is filled with opposites that cannot exist one without the other. We tend to reach for the bright spots, the highs, the pretty. But we would never recognize these things if not for the shadows, the lows, the unattractive.

Some days I try to rest in the middle. Pause and embrace both sides. Some days, it takes long arms and a big reach. And after awhile, I am exhausted.

Some days, I choose a side. There are times when it cannot be helped. And those are the days when I feel most alive.

Darkness is not the same as evil. Beauty is not the same as good. Answers are not the same as wisdom.

I want to be the wanderer, moving in and out of light and shadow, reaching for the sun as I grow deep roots.

I want to be pulled in all directions, up, down, in, out, left, right.

I want to scramble up a trellis like a vine gone wild and throw rose-scented light to the world.

Here, catch.

you have your chair and i
have mine and sometimes
at night after you’ve
gone to bed and i finally
get around to pulling on
my night owl
i move over and sit
in your chair
to view the world
through your eyes

every so often
i see myself sitting
there
in that other chair
a book of poems
or a baby
in my hands

and remember that
these chairs
have seen the best
and the worst of us
at times merely innocent
bystanders and at others
the only thing keeping
us from tearing holes
in the walls

and then
i put my feet up
and pretend to be you
watching baseball through
half closed lids and
i never get there really
never quite transition
into a sports fan
but who would have thought
a jock

and a poet could share
these two chairs
side by side all these years
worn and tired though
they are still strong and
mostly sturdy
always silent
about those nights
when neither one of
us could tell
the difference

.

.

.

Linking up with the fabulous dVerse poets for Open Link Night, join us!

up at midnight up at dawn
shift-wearing shape-shifting
through a night of dreams and
words that write themselves
on the chalkboard walls of
slumber

blue and gold are the colors
of anarchy (or valor)
i cannot tell one from
the other in this toned
down version

of sanity but i know where
my heart is always easy
to find that loud obnoxious
whisperer {not}

that there’s anything to
hide in this corner with
sunrise always there

out of sight
perhaps but never

out of mind

.

.

.

Linking up with the fabulous dVerse poets for Stream of Consciousness Writing, join us!

This is my favorite tree. Actually, I think of it as my tree, though it is nowhere near to being mine, it being some 30 miles away and all.

Still, I have claimed it, at least in my heart. It stands in the middle of a farm field. I’ve always wondered how that comes to be, one lone tree left guarding all those seedlings, offering the best perch for miles around.

I’ve never gone to sit beneath this tree, though I would like to. I’m fairly certain the farmer wouldn’t appreciate me trampling his crop, and so I resist.

But I sit there in my mind, enjoying its shade and wondering how it came to have that finger pointing straight for the sky. Secretly, I’m glad I don’t know. Secretly, I know it means my tree is a survivor. It’s much larger than it appears to be in this picture, and I want to know the stories of the years that formed this anchored, ancient witness. Stories of hope and disaster, good years and bad years, floods and drought. I get the sense that if ever there was a tree that needed hugging, it is this tree.

I bet it remembers every Spring.

Scarred but not broken. Standing tall while bending with the wind. Rooted in one place as time marches on.

Yes, this is my tree.

I’ve got this quilt and this basket and this book, and if you squint a little, you can see me there, whiling away the afternoon.

i’ve never been in the ocean
oh, i’ve been to it, i’ve seen it,
marveled at the vast expanse of
nothingness that equals everything

but i’ve never dipped my toes.

chances are, i never will,
me being a fire sign and all
hot, hot, always burning myself out
before anyone can douse my flame

content to sit with the embers.

i’ve never been to the moon
either and i’m okay with that,
who wants to travel all that distance
and besides, i’m fairly certain

she looks better from afar.

i spend my days in my backyard
which makes me small and rather
boring, but i don’t need to swim (or
drown) in a salty vat of bitter sorrow

i’ve got this puddle at my feet,

this reflection that paints blue sky
as well as any maxfield parrish and
every so often a water bug stops by
to skim the surface, creating

ripples the size of tsunamis.

.

.

.

Linking up with the fabulous dVerse poets for Open Link Night, join us!

::

her exterior

gave no indication

of the astounding

beauty within.

::

there’s always something creeping
through the cracks and crevasses
peeking out, peering in
whispering instruction

camouflage can only take you
so far into the forest

stillness is a temporary reprieve

your scent will always reveal
the truth of who you are

you can run and hide
bolt and fall
get up again and stare down
your predator

scream at the sun
for daring to shine

if you are wild enough
your strength will save you

a multitude of days
add up to make a life

you’ll never know about

you might see edges
and corners

shiny bits
held up to the sun
(reflecting parts you
thought you’d hidden)

or the flip of a skirt
might reveal
a flash of skin
you’d gone
to great lengths
to cover

but in the deep dark
dead of reality
we can’t see
each other

cannot travel
light years
to meet

in the middle

of a universe
always able to add
expand
hold
one more

beginning

bones buried
scrubbed cleaned

polished

on the shores
of gravity’s
existence

.

.

.

Linking up with the fabulous dVerse poets for Open Link Night, join us!

::

We are the music makers,

and we are the

dreamers of dreams.

~William Edward O’Shaughnessy

::

Last weekend, after having rediscovered some music that I hadn’t listened to in years, I declared it the summer of music.

Just a few days later, my friends at the New World Creative Union
issued a challenge to create a piece of art
based on the quote above.

Serendipity, me thinks.

And so, let it be.

(no pun intended)

It all started with

The Ubiquitous Mr. Lovegrove

which is one of my favorite song titles, ever.

And a favorite song, as well.

And now I hear that Dead Can Dance
are back together for a new album.

It was meant to be.

The Summer of Music.

Care to join me?

Let’s dance…

::

running, especially in a light misty rain

lilacs and forget-me-nots

popcorn and movies with bare feet and windows open,
lemonade on the side

sundays in the garden with nothing else to do

hummingbirds and dragonflies

an endless stack of books

thunderstorms

staying up late and counting blessings like stars

notebooks filled with words

notebooks filled with empty pages

the golden light of sunset filtering around that corner
and landing just where george used to sit

music i’d forgotten i knew

music i haven’t discovered yet

baby robins

strawberries, dipped in dark chocolate

midnight

an outside fire with dylan and a glass of red wine

a morning serenade by a mockingbird

these buds that spell hope

again and again

::