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.

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

…

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’ve burned through all the memories

walked through fire
sifted ash

blackened fingers drawing hieroglyphs
to guide me through the grief that buries living

i light candles at dawn and bonfires at dusk
build a fortress of flame
and sleep on embers

i’ve been phoenix so many times
my house is strewn with feathers
(ankle-deep and sharp as quills)

i’ve put you out and opened windows
always feeding the desire to breathe
(which i think is the same as freedom)

i remember the night i woke in terror at the blanket of smoke swirling over my bed
i remember the way i laughed later, when it turned out to be a dream
i remember the way it still feels entirely exactly undeniably

real

truth always finds a way to be revealed

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

. . .

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

. . . . .