that's mrs. mediocrity to you

in a sky mixed from paint and loose smoky cloud
sung by the song of ophelia’s left wrist
floating home on a river of chasm

we are built with such fragile temerity
says a poster on the wall of indifference

held in place with tacked-up tone diamonds
ripple-torn by the weight of overwhelm

it’s all too much and never enough

because cut glass and cold minded carbon
are futility’s intrinsic fossil

holding on to lost light with the fine-crazed frailty
of their own impetuous gleam

the stars will always hang high
in one corner of sky
but first you must swallow the darkness

.

.

.

in the middle of a day
laced with rain cloud
and robin

singing hymns to unseen
heavens

i found a grave
beneath
the tallest poplar

perfect circle
of blown-out feather

grey on white
white on grey

death
in the center

a ring to fit

a broken finger

a hole for grief

to tumble into

and the echo

echo

of eternal

narration

.

.

.

backlit by storm
and the magic of timing

there is never a moment of silence
something somewhere
is always rumbling

and i learn to take peace
in the pauses

there is never a pillow
of sweet dreams
everafter

but rather

this reality
of storm and sunshine

creeping in
on stealthy paws

and we sit
together

stare each other
down

from the comfortable
distance

between us

.

.

.

thorn of light
thorn of bright

trapped
in the call

of a prussian
blue night

i am gypsy
i am queen

to the hounds
of hope unseen

slipping silent
racing whole

through a screen
of web retold

counting distance
and return

with an abacus
of learn

blood roses
blooming tight

on the skin
of my lost flight

.

.

.

and wishing for clarity

the kind that only comes
when you can’t see anything

a storm passes through
and the trees
bend to meet their maker

as water runs rivulet
to river

to wash away
a tyranny
of dust

and we must learn to beg
forgiveness
or perception

zig and zag
as we run free
in the silence
between raindrops

we must learn
to drop to our knees

genuflect and
bow in a prayer
of defect

broken limb and
scattered branch
the only clues
to guide us

through a cold-cracked sky
of false deliverance

.

.

.

purple is the shape
of letting go

and blue is the beginning
of sacrifice

all the scars and torn edges
faded blooms and broken stems

form the canvas of whole
and the soft brush of plenty

as gold fills every sky
with perseverance

.

.

.

and it’s the magic of twilight that draws me outside, down the hill to a swamp filled with peepers. some nights the sound roars through the darkness, and on those nights, it’s not that i can’t sleep, it’s just that i don’t want to. my primal memory wants to lie outside and count the starts into numbers too large to carry. my feet refuse to forget the sensation of walking. nothing is clear in the darkness, but everything shines, and until you’ve let the moon find your shadow, you’ve never once stood in real light. there are secrets out here, everywhere. the trees are always whispering. i want to walk into the forest and do nothing but listen. that’s where all the answers are, but we’ve forgotten how to hear them. lightning reminds us, but only for a moment. and thunder makes us forget yet again. i want to wash my hair in the rain and leaves my toes caked with mud. i want to run through the color of midnight.

.

.

.

days when i do nothing
but listen

moving my body in the rhythm
of nurture

i care for you and
together we grow

remembering the mirror
i’ve forgotten

wisdom matters less
than sun on skin

i break a bloom off
with one brown shoulder

a mistake to remind me
of gentle

and whisper my apology
to wind

.

.

.

i stood in the sun for three days once
singular and proud of my peacock pretty ordinance
and refused to marry the sky

growth was always my pattern
and bending
my habit

coy and shy
cut and displayed
thirsty and forgotten

i was always
about color

and you
stole my green
stripped my purple
and stomped my chartreuse back
into black and white
grey-lipped
soil

until i became
an abstract painting of perhaps

washed proud and stood clean
in the summer
of the river
of change

.

.

.

.

.

.

mirror-made and tender-footed

all this opening

takes the courage

of forgetting

.

.

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