that's mrs. mediocrity to you

sadness weighs
the opposite of happiness

and everybody wants to fix
the world

we’ve fooled ourselves into
thinking we’re in charge
simply because gravity is
kind enough to keep us here

but look at these clouds
painting mother nature’s
fury

only she knows the truth

and being the good mother

she’s not telling

(for our own good)

you storm out
all stomping feet and
slamming doors

pretending it’s your job
to change the view
to make it clear
to reconnoiter

rescuing hope from
boxes marked fragile

playing god
and hide and seek

olly olly oxen free

at least, you think
you’re free

rain weighs
the opposite of
light

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Linking up with the fabulous dVerse poets for Open Link Night, join us!

Happy Birthday to Open Link Night!

earth cracked and dry
like the skin on my knuckles
the only difference
is the blood that seeps
through my skin

signs of life
cannot be mistaken
as proof of growth

sapped out seedlings

burn bury burn

crackle crumble

the will to live survives
the pain of scorch in
this desert of days

moisture moves
beneath the surface
with a ripple and a whorl
as the weight of memory
pulls me under

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.

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::

whispering promises
that always come true
because if nothing else,
we’re always changing

and i stand in the
star-shaped shadow
of everything you’ve
ever given me

trust and hope
filtering down through
to my roots

blushing pink
and smiling
at the sky

::

“For the joys a garden brings are already going as they come.” ~ May Sarton

that keeps you
pokes and prods
pricks and feeds
from the marrow
of your soul

blood and toil
aren’t that hard
to come by

we know this

there’s always
someone willing
to work for less

more to come
hurry up and wait

tread that mill
like you mean it

mean it

fill the empty spaces
places
faces

with
traces

of heart

that will later

be erased

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::

you stand there
in a dream
with all the right words
held up on cards like
Dylan’s Subterranean
Homesick Blues

::

and i smile
at the ones
you throw away

::

i don’t have to walk far
to get to perfect
and by this i mean
perfectly imperfect

because the other kind
(impossibly perfect)
exists only on paper
and in the smiles of children

and it is only
in the learning to admire
the imperfections
those tiny bits of life
with scratch and bruise

the rose half eaten
by a japanese beetle

the lines
on your face
that spell
time

the chip
in the polka dot bowl
you bought me

the tan lines
caused
by my
flip flops

the skin i settle into
a little further each year

that i can stand here
hands cupped
trying to hold
the fluidity
of life

and of course
(imperfectly)
it slips through
my fingers

drips

bits of hope
and sadness, tears
you caught with kisses
and a gallon or two
of little girl
giggles

and

i don’t even try
to catch them all

just
the three left
resting in my palm
like shiny
mercurial marbles

washed clean
on the shores
of today

.

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is always the one
no one’s expecting
always tiny
and full of
…….other
…….possibilities
…….and the burden
…….of its own dead weight

…….i pretend my back
…….is stronger than
…….this mess you’ve left
…….in the kitchen

…….dirty dishes,
…….muddy tracks,
…….a trail
…….of crumbs

…….leading to
…….the places you’ve
…….always
…….kept secret

…….and i could follow
…….if i wanted
…….solve the puzzle
…….work my way up
…….to the big
…………reveal

…………but instead
…………i gather up sponge
…………and broom and
…………this tired old
…………dustpan

…………and whistle
…………as i work

…….and when
…….the job is finished
…………and my floor is
…………clean
…………but my hands
…………are dirty

…………then
……………..and only then

……………..i call your name

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it’s june and i sit before this fire
wearing socks and a big fleece blanket
wondering how it is that just last week

i sat outside in the breeze dripping
sweat with my feet in a bucket of water
and i was sad then and i am sad now

and it was may then and it is june now
and life skitters away before me on
slippered feet that make no sound

and i think about change and
the way it no longer
interests me

and can’t decide if that’s right
or wrong or somewhere in between but
mostly i think about silence and

flowers and reading books that take me
to places i’ve never seen, no, not places,
i don’t care about places, i’ve never

cared about places, it’s lives i visit
in the pages of books, hearts i hear
beating at midnight and dawn

and sometimes, in summer, i stay up
reading all night just to listen and
wonder and watch the sun rise

on someone else’s

horizon

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she cooked for an army because she had one
yours, mine, ours and this bunch had nothing
in common with the bradys

mostly i remember white uniforms,
being paid a quarter to rub wintergreen
on the hot, swollen feet of a nurse
and i could never imagine her dancing

past the faux-wood metal shelf
filled with knick knacks i was forever
in danger of breaking all mingled with
the smell of starch and the best
molasses cookies ever made

i rubbed pink lotion and collected
my coin but back then
i didn’t know all the stories
didn’t know there was more to be told

in the world my mother grew up in
fairy tales lived in a bottle and evil
slept in the corner one eye open

shhhhh, be careful not to wake him be good be good

except good was never good enough
and in the end the deepest scars
smelled like wintergreen and antiseptic

fingers worked to the bone never quite
disguise enough for a flawed heart
not made of gold not made of love
not made of anything but broken

and broken begets broken
fosters heartbreak and failure
and i like to think intentions were good
i like to think survival shouldn’t mean
damaged children but all i know are stories

and all i have are a teapot and a photo
of a hard-working woman who cooked for
an army because that’s what she had

but the soldiers she raised needed so much more
than the purple hearts they received

.

.

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This poem started out being about my grandmother’s work as a nurse,
and then it took me someplace quite different…

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you have your chair and i
have mine and sometimes
at night after you’ve
gone to bed and i finally
get around to pulling on
my night owl
i move over and sit
in your chair
to view the world
through your eyes

every so often
i see myself sitting
there
in that other chair
a book of poems
or a baby
in my hands

and remember that
these chairs
have seen the best
and the worst of us
at times merely innocent
bystanders and at others
the only thing keeping
us from tearing holes
in the walls

and then
i put my feet up
and pretend to be you
watching baseball through
half closed lids and
i never get there really
never quite transition
into a sports fan
but who would have thought
a jock

and a poet could share
these two chairs
side by side all these years
worn and tired though
they are still strong and
mostly sturdy
always silent
about those nights
when neither one of
us could tell
the difference

.

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