that's mrs. mediocrity to you

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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up at midnight up at dawn
shift-wearing shape-shifting
through a night of dreams and
words that write themselves
on the chalkboard walls of
slumber

blue and gold are the colors
of anarchy (or valor)
i cannot tell one from
the other in this toned
down version

of sanity but i know where
my heart is always easy
to find that loud obnoxious
whisperer {not}

that there’s anything to
hide in this corner with
sunrise always there

out of sight
perhaps but never

out of mind

.

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i’ve never been in the ocean
oh, i’ve been to it, i’ve seen it,
marveled at the vast expanse of
nothingness that equals everything

but i’ve never dipped my toes.

chances are, i never will,
me being a fire sign and all
hot, hot, always burning myself out
before anyone can douse my flame

content to sit with the embers.

i’ve never been to the moon
either and i’m okay with that,
who wants to travel all that distance
and besides, i’m fairly certain

she looks better from afar.

i spend my days in my backyard
which makes me small and rather
boring, but i don’t need to swim (or
drown) in a salty vat of bitter sorrow

i’ve got this puddle at my feet,

this reflection that paints blue sky
as well as any maxfield parrish and
every so often a water bug stops by
to skim the surface, creating

ripples the size of tsunamis.

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there’s always something creeping
through the cracks and crevasses
peeking out, peering in
whispering instruction

camouflage can only take you
so far into the forest

stillness is a temporary reprieve

your scent will always reveal
the truth of who you are

you can run and hide
bolt and fall
get up again and stare down
your predator

scream at the sun
for daring to shine

if you are wild enough
your strength will save you

a multitude of days
add up to make a life

you’ll never know about

you might see edges
and corners

shiny bits
held up to the sun
(reflecting parts you
thought you’d hidden)

or the flip of a skirt
might reveal
a flash of skin
you’d gone
to great lengths
to cover

but in the deep dark
dead of reality
we can’t see
each other

cannot travel
light years
to meet

in the middle

of a universe
always able to add
expand
hold
one more

beginning

bones buried
scrubbed cleaned

polished

on the shores
of gravity’s
existence

.

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this place is crowded
standing room only
and they just keep coming
d
o
w
n
that one way ladder
forcing everyone to slither
sideways to make more room
some people slink along
slow and quiet and try to
melt away into the crowd
others come kicking and
screaming gathering handfuls
of splinters as they go
and some even take a
flying leap assuming
someone else will break
their fall
(i’ve seen that and it ain’t
pretty) while
i stand just left
of the bottom rung
handing out flyers
all prettied up and
professionally designed
saying
welcome to utopia
we’ve got 397
flavors and
they’re all called
vanilla

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