that's mrs. mediocrity to you

you cannot tame an ancient lion.

he already knows more than you

and besides, his claws are real.

::

you cannot fill a bucket with hope.

if you try to contain your longing

it always spills over the edges.

::

you cannot hide your bruises.

they are the map of your existence

and without them, you are lost.

::

you cannot whisper to a rose.

there is nothing you could say

it has not heard before.

::
you can only smile at the mountain.

let it climb its way through your heart

and then listen, for the echo.

dancing spots of light and echoes of cathedral
whispering of things
i never learned

evening draws near once again
sunsets in february
so melodramatic

all pretty and loud but still frozen,
lacking any sense
of the ethereal

there,
the real,
ether

all words that live inside another
the way these spots of light
live inside a shadow

a pew inside a church

a heart inside a life

periwinkle exists

but only in my imagination.

green sifts through my dreams

flirting with my senses

a tease.

pink stays close by

just under my nose

where i can’t see it.

yellow and gold

have been forgotten.

violet winds its way

into my heart.

promises,

promises.

:

this post is part of one shot wednesday

i am empty

i am open

i am waiting.

in this place

of impatience

trying hard

to be patient.

i am vessel

i am basket

i am bowl.

air spins round

inside me

cyclone of promise

taking up space

present

but not quite

there.

i am empty

i am open

i am waiting.

blood red

on a backdrop

of gray on white

color of life

life hidden

inside

waiting

watching

for warmth

to burst into

leaf

in summer

this color

goes

unnoticed

frozen, though i sit before a fire.

whispering, though no one else is home.

asking, though answers seem irrelevant.

hungry, though my body has been fed.

the romance of winter

begins to give way

to an endless restlessness,

this craving for forest,

this longing for moon.

such a long way to go

before i get there,

as i sit here,

melting snowflakes

in this room.

There is always color to be found on the greyest of days,
food for thought when your mind feels so hungry.

Seeds cling to these branches because that is life, regenerating.

Cold winds blow and we scurry inside, hibernating, resting,
staying still, so that later we can race spring’s first breeze.

These cycles of life hold the promise of tomorrow.

The shortest day of winter is behind us, already.

The longest day has begun inching its way towards us,
slowly, almost imperceptibly.

The trees feel it first, but trees are so good
at keeping secrets.

shadows dance around corners
to sing their own version of blues

morning frost leaves patterns on windows
unique as the day that will melt them

hope jumps through hoops in the garden
as a chickadee searches for seed

and i sit in this chair in my kitchen
watching life through a smile
and a curtain

::     ::     ::

::     ::

this post is part of one word wednesday over at jillsy girl
and one shot wednesday at one stop poetry

breathing flowers in, after dawn.

simple words that get stuck in my throat, for days.

moments in mid-afternoon that bring tears to my eyes.

sunsets waiting on the horizon, always with a promise.

a mirror that refuses to show what lies beneath the surface.

seasons that rattle through my chest, calling me to remember.

blisters that heal and become callouses, rough evidence of pain.

a heart that breaks in its own small way each time you turn a page.

the constant digging for my soul that wears my fingers to the quick.

a silver necklace that says hope, left broken on the dresser.

making molds of the moon to keep in a glass jar.

standing in the dark, listening for sunrise.

a song that whispers even as i sleep.

threading words on needles and pricking my finger.

that one drop of blood, there, on the corner

of the page.

::

This post is part of One Shot Wednesday

a moonlit night

forsaken on a bed
of wilt and roses

ophelia
we loved you all
dancing in the pale
silver spotlight

singing in the breeze
of your reflection

seeking love’s own touch
beneath the darkness

::     ::     ::

A poem I wrote 25 years ago,
25 years of life and love and living
and the words still ring true,
still fit, perfectly.

So I wear them this day, this day to

Just sit there and look pretty

having never felt pretty, never thought of myself like that
never just sat there either, always got up
always was the butterfly, no, the bee
head down, gathering bits of honey

working hard to add some sweet
to a slightly bitter world.

:

::     ::     ::

.

this post is part of the just sit there and look pretty challenge.

go here to see all the pretties…