that's mrs. mediocrity to you

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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i remember when romance and hope were the same thing
he loves me, he loves me not
tattooed in a circle round my ankle

an ink drawn fresh dried forever shackle
offered in exchange for the customary key

but a young girl’s heart is always moving forward
ready to burst into star-struck song and
a brief exchange of whiskey serenade

until she learns with a crone’s bold eye
love is not the flower, but the root

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Linking in over at
Imaginary Garden with Real Toads for July’s Word List prompt.
Join us!

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all the memories
become a jumble
of forgotten chances

paint peels
and the sky
blinks

clouding birds
with gun flint
steel

a southern hurricane
whispers blindly
through the poplars
i planted

one day long ago
when i could not
say your name

now those same trees
shade our bedroom
telling secrets to a
clear clown canvas

and i paint circles
on your chest
with knobby-edged
fingers

wondering
if the rings
at the heart of those
tall twin trunks
are made of time
or gold

or if it matters

shadows dance
as leaves shimmy shake
across the surface of a lake
we never managed
to explore

and we watch the sun
set down color
like a promise

or a platter
filled with food
from a picnic
never taken

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half is half and whole is whole
and open is never closed

the sky is unconcerned with your welfare
even as it paints your evening red

silence is impossible to silence

full or empty
black or gold

drink it in with your pessimist’s stare
pour it out with an optimist’s grin

overflow

and the earth will take your offering
run it downhill to the pool of purpose

gather
mingle
transmogrify

despair and hope and courage

and puddle them all
at the feet of fortitude

an elixir of entropy
reflecting

cirrus clouds
and broken blue

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some days
my heart breaks four thousand times
and that’s all before
i open my eyes

heartache is the farmer of contentment
planting seeds he knows have little chance
of bearing fruit

if you want 40 plants you sow 68 seeds
and if you’re lucky you’ll end up with 50

think too much and you’ll always have just enough

but no one ever said happiness
was a permanent state
and no one ever said
survival was a given

we stand in a field of black soil
and cry when our feet get muddy

the rain will wash you clean
as long as you don’t run
and sometimes the sky has to cry
just the same way a mother
has to worry

have you ever tallied the scars
on the tree that shades
your bedroom?

missing limbs
broken branches, gashes
peeling bark

sap runs slowly through the veins
of existence

but every spring
green
new growth
insists on piercing the cloud
blocking your view
of the sun

and four thousand leaves
never seem
overwhelming

until tomorrow
when they’ll fuel the flame
you find impossible
to douse

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Linking in over at dVersePoets for Open Link Night.
Join us!

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keeps me tethered to the anarchy of fortitude
and i am calm most days
as long
as no one looks behind the curtain

the robin sings at dawn and dusk
celebrating light and darkness
with the very same song

and i wonder
how any of us make it
through a night
that lets us

slip

through the grasp
of reality’s fingers

even dogs dream and
no one
ever told them they couldn’t

every morning
bird call becomes bell or music or
shrill-strapped screaming

but i always wake up

to this tree
this red breasted thrush
this half-hearted thrashing
against the weight
of a twisted
damp-mouthed

sheet

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here is the hardest word

not sorry

nor forgiveness

though both are solid rocks
in the shoe of living

but

here

you cannot stay
you cannot leave

you cannot sing yourself away

or back again

from the eternal sunset
of lavender libation

all you can do really

is open

your eyes
your heart
your arms
your mouth

drink it in

inhale

exist beneath this ever

changing

umbrella of now

here

listen

hear it

raining down

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(title is from the song “Stand” by R.E.M.)

because

each moment holds its own redemption

each sunrise is a dare

each drop of rain was once a cloud

.

yesterday

this flower slept in a bed of mud

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but look how pretty it wears

today

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i stood in the sun
and watched a storm
circle north
around me

pulling clouds in directions
impossible to follow

thunder rolled beneath my feet
as i stood

still

planted in a world
refusing to acknowledge

bolts of lightning
ripping through the grey blue steel
of sky’s lost eye

there was no rainbow

but off in the distance

rain reached down
in gauzy
worn-through sheets

someone else’s
dirty laundry

left hung out
to rinse

dry

and petrify

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