that's mrs. mediocrity to you

there is this heat you wear like a blanket

there is this weight you carry in a pocket made from penance

there is silence in the mist of white noise

there is sanctuary

hidden

.

.

.

in a world filled with
shard and degradation

i am lost
i am silence
i am beauty

standing bent
but barely broken

i am thirst
i am hunger
i am courage

bleeding scent to
shadowed corners

i am beauty
i am silence
i am found
.

.

.

.

holds everything

.

.

.

.

.

she nods her head

at everything

.

agrees to nothing

.

.

.

or the belief, at least, that somehow
morning always comes with a sun bold or hidden
bringing new chairs to sit in
beneath a ripe old sky
and gnarled hands knitting hope
by the basket
full
of memory and knotted bits
all the stars you gave
away
and all the sunshine
you gathered

.

.

.

clean white corona

pulled from hard-packed earth

both more

and less

fragile

than

sky

.

.

.

.

and hummingbirds, too

.

tree frogs and sunshine

and a big bowl of sky for breakfast

.

my heart dances on the morning

when spring came to town

.

.

.

i’m pinning all my hopes on you
tired of this ride and this blue tide and
this ancillary stream
of consciousness
you pull my way
every day
may
slips away
weeds twining
up parallel ankles
everything’s growing
and this mud is downhill shifting and
i’m pinning all my hopes on you

.

.

.

is not the same as a flower
but neither is a picture of a person

either way

a tulip sings of hope
and i
always listen
because if you can grow
even after
being cut

there is a story

.

.

.

A poem a day for 30 days, in honor of National Poetry Month. Day 8
I’m participating in NaPoWriMo, and Writer’s Digest Poem a Day Challenge

Today’s theme is a combo of NaPoWriMo’s flowers, and PAD’s: write a doodle poem.

.

.

or

forever

as long as you

never

touch

.

.

.

.