i need
no other canvas
no brush
but these birds
no paint
but this light
no mood
but these stars
space
to sit beneath
quiet
simple
exposed
and not afraid
rain down
upon this face
silence
i drink you
in
the fork
the curve
the crossroad
we are always there
walking on
breathing in
shade
sunlight
shade
my path
your path
beaten by
footprint
leaf
experience
rain
no one knows
what lies
around that bend
shade
sunlight
shade
sunlight
you can always get in
if you have the right key
but the sun glare might blind you
and the scent will intoxicate
and you will find yourself
asleep on the ground
in a field filled with poppies
red white and blue
flag waving
petal cloud sky
your wounds will change color
scars will form
bones will knit
holes and pain and fear
become distant memories
red and blue
will fade to violet
you might smell lavender
or the pepper of lupine
monkshood will tower over you
baptisia will offer shade
in the rose-filled secret garden
behind thorns and cold stone fences
if you have the right key
you can always get in
after a while, you get used to chaos
hunched up shoulders and a crick in your neck
become the norm
while time plays no tricks
but marches on around the corner
and then you start stealing moments
gathering them up on the sly for hoarding
in a crackled lightning bug jar
so you can see them after dark
the red cardinal feeding his mate
these roses spilling blooms like confetti
this mirror that is always too honest
languish becomes a lost word
a distant memory
the life you imagined becomes
the one you are living
in stolen snippets of illumination
your heart keeps right on beating
you dance beneath the same yellow moon
you fight your way through another nightmare
to see the sun split wide the horizon
you survive
and one afternoon
you hear yourself
singing
on a broken heartsick mandolin
behind this curtain of sunlight
some would call glare
her tears mix with dewdrops
her dress is mistaken
and the wind in her hair
makes her whimper
even as she nods in the breeze
at all sailors passing
just in case
just in case
beauty is meaningless
to a flower
folly prescribed by
obscure tradition
and those who destroyed
her ability to run
but she stands and she sings
and her heart is made
from one shade of golden
heavy ballast to keep her
grounded
ripe punishment
for hollow dreams
of dancing
.
.
.
.
because that’s where i live
just now
and that island is still
a long ways away
and from where i sit
i can see the bottom
all swirling mud and nibbly-toe fish
i see the sun glinting off steel iron
dead weight placeholder
settling down into dawn
and about to be moments
of absolutely imperfect clarity
because nobody wants to be perfect
no how
and this water is cool
and my arms are so tired
all that rowing my way
’round this big blue circle
hollow bowl
amateur can’t hold me in
life cloche
i think
i’m just going to sit here
(beneath this glass)
and laugh for a while
this is the silence
you sing about
echoes bounce off
the fragile egg
you hold
in one hand
sister bits
broken
at your feet
yesterday
owes you nothing
time pays for itself
each morning
tomorrow
waits for you
to color in the lines
growth is not
profound
but a function
of survival
there is nothing
to do
but listen
.
.
.
.
slightly disheveled
always busy
growing (old)
setting seed
rambunctious and tenacious
in equal measure
filled with promise
and hope
possibility and time
overcrowded and
under the weather
(quite literally)
birdsong soaring
on time’s
cheap passing
the same every year
but different
every hour
ants moving mountains
and thunder
looming large
butterflies
and dragons and
wrinkly toad kisses
wasps building nests
on the promise
of tomorrow
always at the ready
to sting you
today
drawn to the scent
of life lived hard
open and blooming
too enamored of the sun
to strive for anything
resembling
perfection
icarus played the molten fool
at mother nature’s ball
and we watched with fascination
as he tumbled to the ground
holding our breath until the sun
returned the gold of favor
and i crawl through this dirt
like an old brown beetle
scarab girl
warmth seeker
latent love hunter
pulling weeds and pressing
white through old lace curtains
looking for a way to singe my
skin and dress my bones
as seed and root are married
in eternity’s hollow middle
i no longer feel the need
to ask permission
.
.
.
.
some i’ve known for years and others
i’ve yet to be introduced to
i’m walking down this road
that always leads me home
remembering faces and places
and voices long forgotten
whispers on wind telling tales
no one ever stops to hear
the white waving flag of
existential discourse
extend your hand
take my place
lend an ear
a shoulder
an old pair of shoes
this is the forest we all live in
trees and concrete and wisps
of tired translucent souls singing
songs less music than ballad
into the surrender of sky and grey
and blue smoke metaphysical ribbons
all these lost stories folding deep
into rivers and seas and oceans
returning later, much later
to rain down upon us
.
.
.
.
