that's mrs. mediocrity to you

into the bedroom
burrow deep into a dream

reminisce with my lost dark side
build long bridges to the past

wander boldly through a labyrinth
of strange rooms

i may redecorate
one corner of my psyche

add some art, fresh journals,
a book on the sibilance of silence

paint a sunrise in each window
moon hung high upon one wall

weave flowers through each door frame
music breathing from the floor

fix tea and toast and nectarines
for every endless meal

watch swallows flitting in and out
bits of sky caught in their tails

think i’ll move
into the bedroom

burrow deep
into a dream

float through brief moments of survival
built on colors from a stream

::

it’s not that
everything’s rosy

or perfect
(the horror!)

but there are flowers

and sunshine

presiding over tea

and i have this minute
(just the one)

to marvel
at the color
of stamina

…

i refuse to say

hang in my heart

on bits

of knotted thread

and wrinkled ribbon

swaying

in a barely moving breeze

wrought

from distilled smile

and cornered

memory

there is this heat you wear like a blanket

there is this weight you carry in a pocket made from penance

there is silence in the mist of white noise

there is sanctuary

hidden

.

.

.

the robin woke me this morning, calling hard and loud to greet another day.

i admire her optimism, her ability to sing the world awake, her ability to proclaim that being alive is the very best thing, without doubt or second-guessing the effort it will take her just to survive.

she has blind faith and i admire that, too. that’s a different thing than standing small beneath the sky of infinity.

or staying inside when all the windows are open, because even though I can hear that robin, there are still all these walls.

and that’s what I keep coming back to.

.

.

.

.

she nods her head

at everything

.

agrees to nothing

.

.

.

i’ve buried all the pieces no one ever gets to see

fickle fallow and everyday shallow
not enough coin inside oversized purse
cold confidence and chartreuse envy

and in between daisies
tiny fingers
of longing

in my garden i am always
over-exposed
and therefore
hidden

sun beat and wind burn
the torture of
bent back
long squat
digging
in the soil of silence

crows
are my charm
and for them
i leave glamour

gifts of
gilded bone and
beaded sinew

and we dance to the rhythm
of hidden heart broken start ritual
refusing to accept the blue bowl bright sky storm

raging just beneath the lost forget me not sea of invitation

.

.

.

A poem a day for 30 days, in honor of National Poetry Month: Day 9
I’m participating in NaPoWriMo, and the Writer’s Digest Poem a Day Challenge

Today’s theme is a combo of NaPoWriMo’s lines that scare you and PAD’s: hide-out.

.

.

rose every morning

with a smile on her face

her heart on her sleeve

and the countenance

of wallflower

.

she understood

that being overlooked

was not the same

as being

under paid

.

.

.

.

for a dance

with a bright blue moon

.

one hand

waving free

.

.

.

remembering the history of love
is not the same as living it

so much of it is
setting seed
and letting go

.

.

.