that's mrs. mediocrity to you

these are the berries
that feed the birds that plant the trees

this is the dance we all sway to
inside the circle we draw ’round our feet

a hole and a window were the very same thing
before the mirage of glass was invented

looking out, climbing in, always scrambling for the light
when it’s the wind that moves us

the invisible made visible only through friction
and the lost enchantment of passage

the temporary existence of each leaf
is a mirror

dawn and dusk’s lost reflection
miming minutes dressed in gold

the imminence of flight
ever present

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growing
side by side

putting down roots
sending out shoots

weathering storms and
basking in sunlight

floods and drought
potbound and replanted

moonlight trysts
and daytime dances

messes and loss
triumph and seasons

fed by love and
seven thousand sunsets

here we are,
still blooming

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Happy Anniversary, Mr. M.

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first, you have to dance
arms flung wide
with hope’s last vestige of abandon

you have to care and not care
at the very same time
drop permission from your vocabulary
throat your laugh and hug the sky

your dress must be free and made of history
your face must be painted with your own experience
(hand-me-downs and borrowed wishes
will be confiscated)

you must wear a ring on every finger
one for each time you pretended to know
the answer to anything
and you must refuse to lick the plate
of shallow dictate

this isn’t about being naked
you can do that well enough on your own

this is about your true colors
the ones you wear when no one else is looking
because exhibitionism does not equal honesty
and besides

it’s your skeleton that always tell the truth
skimming shallow skin and baring marrow bone

but it’s your heart that hears the music
and your sleeve doesn’t have to be fancy
or short or even rolled up

if there’s lace, tear it off
drop the bangles
bare your wrist

and two-step the pattern of your flaws
across the floor we all stand on

close your eyes
listen

we’re all here

the beat cannot beat you
or make you special

we’re all here

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Joining in over at Dverse Poets Pub
for Open Link Night...join us!

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you climb to the top and you stand there
inhaling sunshine

the rains will come again and you will drink
not caring for the purity
of washed-out clouds

you will slip and you will fall
and neither one will destroy you

just as long as you keep laughing

it isn’t courage you need
so much as tenacity

lion-hearted is not the same as lion

fighting for survival is not the same
as unenlightened

holding jewels in your fingers
is not the same as sincerity

the seedhead is never as fragile
as bloom

there is no wisdom taller
than observation

and the view is ever changing

sun is the only constant
and even that is actually

star

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all your flaws are evidence of irony

mother nature has a sense of humor
but also, a quick temper

she sends flowers as apology on a regular basis

you have to cut your own path in the forest of existence,
with a quick-sharp, heart-forged machete

courage is your metronome and
labyrinth is another word for learn

live lost and laugh at life’s thunder

the sky remembers every flash of lightning

earth is just a pattern of old scars
hiding shy beneath a veil of tattered stars

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you gave me a shield to stand behind
sharp edged and burnished spike

for protection, you said

and i laughed because
you were always running
and i was always lost

at least it looked that way
when the off center sun came
shining through varicose leaves
of false forgiveness

and i raised my spear
but you said no, like this

and handed me a polished stone
of blue lace agate tied with twine

i held it up
to the center of everything

hoping for music

but somehow silence
was the perfect fit

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is that truth is most beautiful when it’s honest

and it almost never is

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we bury the hard parts, hands scrabbling in hard rock soil

digging a space to place all the real bits

because we can’t bear to smell their lack of perfume

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my yard is littered with these mounds disguised as anthills

and sometimes when i go outside, i kick them

just to make ants scurry

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how dare they make food of my truths

feeling so at home amongst the words

i have buried?

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i tunnel through these thoughts and recognize the folly

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everything i hold sits in my heart

beneath a layer of crimson glaze

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i prick my finger on the thorn of a flower

grown past its own revision

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i let go

i let go

i let go

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and ten drops of blood stain the thirsty dustbin soil

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i cover my tracks with the swipe of a heel

sucking sweets through my teeth

remembering the rhythm of unbroken

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the sun finds my face and claims me

with the scorch

of yet

again

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and all you can do is listen

the sound of petals opening is a whisper of countenance

growth is always louder than stasis

rushing headlong into the light can leave you blind

all the answers lie

in the space between seconds

where the song of eternity echoes

two hands one heart

weaving songs of forever

left to dance on the wind

of intention

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she wore crinoline and ruffles
tacked on with sap and honey

earrings made from dewdrops
and a necklace of morning glory vine

(each leaf a green heart of forgiveness)

she danced with the whirl and the twirl
of a long lost travelling gypsy

(which is to say she was barefoot)

and the music called forth
by the bells on her ankles
echoed throughout the hall

and the prince
(oh, the prince!)
how he carried a shoe
on a satin-faced
sleep-wrinkled pillow

offered up with a bow
and a deeply felt flourish
and (of course)
the perfect fit

but she’d already chosen

the sky as her lover

the moon as her (k)night

and so,
in the end

she sipped champagne
from the toe
of a willow bark slipper

raised her arms
with a smile

and invited
each and every
singing soldier
painted lady
purple wallflower

to tango
a path to the door

and her dance card
left behind

(with gratitude)

became a blank-faced
notebook

of possibility

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the ripe ones are always waiting

closed up holed up sewn up
biding time like the best of new mothers

and you think you know how to birth them

“sounds like so and so” i hear you snort
as you rustle past with your wrinkled paper
on your way to tea and toast

all posh and proper
confessional only on bitter days

the rest of the time you’re sure to rhyme
though you much prefer to couple

and i always listen

ears pressed to the floor with fingers tapping

waiting for more

there’s always more

cadence calls and you’re off to supper
swilling syllable and savory refrain

waving your fork in the air mid-rant

even as the knife continues sawing
through the vein

i serve cold soup and sorry sentence
in a too-tight apron laced with stain

and hope that later
once you’ve finished

we’ll invent a new word
for dessert

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An ode to poets, both here and gone,
and all of my friends over at Dverse Poets Pub,
celebrating their third anniversary this week!
Come on over and join the fun!

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