that's mrs. mediocrity to you

prom dress pretty
and filled
with fresh hope

the irony
of this tall vase of tulips
primp-sitting
all bare and innocent
amidst kitchen-table clutter
and the convoluted
detritus
of a too-busy week

but these are my days
and no matter how messy

there are always flowers

sometimes fresh

sometimes dying

sometimes too long
past gone
for shame’s sake

always
flowers

always a smile

on a short-sheet friday

and life’s
funny bone
antics

silk purse
sow’s ear
and all that

.

.

.

suddenly
there is all this color
all this light
shining green through
blue glass
and
it seems absurd
to think winter
equals hibernation
but i awaken
and there it is
a new year
that did not exist
yesterday

.

.

.

busy
and the days grab me away
from the paying attention
to that color, that lilt,
that perfect light

one breath

one moment

take it in

notice

this is what matters

this one fleeting second
of pure, silent beauty

remember

.

.

.

and i am still right here

these are the words
that ring through my head
on a hamster-wheel day
when running in place
feels just as exhausting
as covering distance
and all i really
want to do
is fly

.

.

.

spring comes and the birds start singing

and that’s not poetry
it’s truth in a dress
made from hope and hybrid dancing

but we wear it on days
when the swamp
spills over
and
every tiny miracle
understands the word survival
and thrive becomes the promise
of tomorrow

less season
than rebirth
perhaps even
a holy transformation
or simply life
refusing
to go gently

but the birds learned all this
long before Plato
and that
in a word
is
poetry

spring comes and the birds start singing

.

.

.

of your outrage and your joy
your frustration and your ploy

your glad-to-be-alive
or about-to-take-a-dive

the mystery of light
and the hollow of each night

your complaints and your praise
of survival and spent days

the youth that was lost
and the parody of cost

just sing

.

.

.

and are they
one and
the same?

the questions roar
and the answers
take flight

and the trees just
stand there

growing

.

.

.

in the mirror of everything
sky raining down around you
in a pattern of potential
with the fortitude of grace
dripping cold from
squared-off shoulders
as if sunshine
could be ordered and
magnificence
presumed

.

.

.

or if velvet could fly

and the way i watched that hawk
yesterday
brushing a new painting
of sky

as i tried to write a poem
that was not about death

and smiled at simple
impossibility

.

.

.

i’m dizzy all the time

and i’d like to say that’s metaphor,
(and it is, a little)

but i can’t seem to stand
in one place
long enough
to stop the spinning

i thought age
would keep me steady
strengthen roots
chart my course

but the world is cockeyed
and ambitious
and i get closer to antique
every day

rebellion is for youth
(or so i thought)

but here i am
(here we are)
fighting for things
i thought already won

and that’s just the way of things
isn’t it?

nothing is certain

we fool ourselves
into new beginnings and lit
lights and the mirage of
equanimity

but the truth is
it’s a never-ending battle
and i think understanding
that one simple thing
sustains us

i grow old on the banks of a river
running circles
around us all

.

.

.