that's mrs. mediocrity to you

and

the beauty of brittle

the freedom of

letting go

holding hands with life’s sadness
old loves on a corner
with no place to meet

the silence of soliloquy

or the tree
that falls
to tell its own story

setting seed

also known as

forgiveness

…

hawk eye sky circus
circling pattern and crisscross river
wing map walk back
reveal

there are leaves on the trees again
and the crabapple is blooming

the robin sings me awake
and then puts the sun to bed with

a story that has no words
and a song that carries sky

there’s a starling
trapped in the chimney
scratching code
in night-blind terror

and i cannot tell you
how much
i need

to listen

.

.

. . .

.

(p.s. i rescued the starling)

.

.

.

and all these temporary moments
but we crave permanence, don’t we?

i think that may be what makes us human

all these losses
broken promises
little hurts
deep wounds

stem from that desire

and the reality of truth
is always winning

say hello
wave goodbye

each night
each hour
each minute

say hello
wave goodbye

the morning glory
has just one day
to bloom

say hello
wave goodbye

but look
how she loves
the sky

.

.

.

which is not the same as the kitchen sink
because that would mean everything,

and this is just a window.

and just now, there is too much everything,
everywhere,
every minute.

i want clear blue sky and calm cool morning.

but it’s autumn and the colors are raucous
and speaking of raucous,
i’m missing those crazy-loud geese parties
down at the swamp
that aren’t happening this year

because there’s no swamp.

and i’m not writing because there are no words.

so i wait.

and winter will come and i will miss all this color
and wish for things I don’t have
the same way as today

and that bird in the tree,
that bluejay who spends his days
as a beautiful bully

and the monkshood just starting to bloom,
in amidst all the kisses that need cutting down

and this could all be metaphor
for so many things,
but it’s not, it’s all true,
right outside

this tiny kitchen in

this tiny house

this tiny life

half-invisible

portal.

.

.

.

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
.

.

.

my breath caught in the net of my throat
and the dance of a butterfly
held my tongue

and there was nothing to say except
wish you were here

and no camera
can take a photo as real
as my heart
pounding

or the taste of adrenaline in my
never-better peanut butter sandwich

or the way i couldn’t move
for fear my body would take wing

or the truth of never wanting
to come down

.

.

.

.

holds everything

.

.

.

.

the night

i showed you
the shape
of insanity

you called me a liar
and a thief

screaming your colorful
banshee derision and demanding
the return of your soul

i had no way
to make you understand

i’d given up my science
for you

walked away from theory
and formula

left behind explanation
and conclusion

i wanted to show you
my passion

i wanted to offer
my heart

i wanted to light
the darkness
with new stars

and share the pattern
love makes
as it races
through the night
from you
to me

but you
were unable
to see

.

.

.

Hippolyte Baraduc (1850–1909) was a French physician and parapsychologist. He believed that the soul could be captured with a camera, and made the capture of those images his life’s work.

Today I am honored to be hosting over at dVerse Poets with a prompt to write as a member of the opposite gender (hope you’ll join us!). I chose to be Hippolyte in love, where none of those pictures could ever be enough.

Photo (entitled The Signature of Mental Sadness) from Baraduc’s book The Human Soul, Its Movements, Its Lights, and the Iconography of the Fluidic Invisible.

.

told

through wind

and sky

.

.

.