Jan 11 2023

precipice

i got so stuck looking for the map
i forgot to wander

these hills and valleys of deliverance
knocking down signposts
and standing there
smirking
at my own confusion
in the same way you led me here
as if it mattered
as if i mattered
and the trees just keep breathing
their dark ragged breaths
as if dying and winter
are the same

: :

i built a red cairn
in a bowl of misfortune

balanced everything
just long enough
to understand

falling is a journey
of its own
and landing
is not
destination


Jan 4 2023

serving time in disillusionment*

as a child, i was often told I saw the world through rose-colored glasses. i could use a pair of those these days, when my sky is gray and life keeps handing me hard lessons.

these days, i’m thinking a lot about truth, betrayal and strength, and grace. digging deep, healing wounds that keep re-opening, cutting a crooked path through the tangled forest of fortitude.

it’s dark in here, but i never have been afraid of darkness. how else can we measure the light? besides, once your eyes adjust, it’s easier to see what lurks in the shadows, who your cellmates are, who reaches out a hand to guide you.

perhaps i’ll put a new garden over there, just around that bend. maybe a bench and a book with a view of the sunset. perhaps i’ll build my own mountain in the backyard of bafflement.

and then, just when i am ready, i will climb to the top and belt out the song of my survival.

 

. . .

 

writing again, winding my way through some things. finding my way home.

*from The Ubiquitous Mr. Lovegrove by Dead Can Dance

 


Nov 23 2022

the truth of it

is the seed
you never saw

dropped by bird or breeze or
gnarled fingers

holding silent
in
the cold of dark
the dark of cold
the carapace
of old

tend the bloom
discard
decay

worship petal
over promise

the grey kitchen
sings in whispers
to the rainbow
of brevity

each flower is merely
the camouflage of purpose:

grow
continue
circle-cycle
rest in soil

the light was always
your beginning


Nov 1 2022

under his eye

in the crooked end
of a thunderous day

all these colors
marching cross the floor
in turncoat uniform

the way you meant to go
in dark straight lines
but the labyrinth picked you up
on tiny golden bird wings

dropped you down
into the well

of expectation

deliverance in perfect
pirouette form

spinning leaves and knitted landscape
into this holey shawl

of absolution


Jun 18 2020

all the goodbyes

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

 


May 23 2020

weeds

the super sweet blueberries dropped into oatmeal

the smell of lilacs, just outside an open window

a new loaf of bread popped in the oven

a robin, a cardinal, a chickadee

a messy house, a messy garden, a messy life

in need of sorting, cleaning, scrubbing, tending

waiting to be torn from disarray

and pasted back in perfect place

as i sit here

contemplating nothing

sipping tea

and mostly,

smiling

.

.

.


Mar 11 2020

last night

i let the dog out
and the moon was singing

down at the swamp
one thousand geese
honked the words
to a universal melody

polaris twinkled

guiding each of us

home

.

.

.

 


Jan 20 2020

sitting with all of it

because what choice do we have

and besides
the sun made a rare appearance this morning
dishes needed washing
we need to eat

and

some days
it’s fair to say

i’m tired.

part of me thinks
revolution
is for the young

and we’re all just
spinning

waiting
acting
watching
fighting

for
another
day

to stand
or soar
or sit with it all

once more

.

.

.

 


Jan 9 2020

hot flashes

I couldn’t sleep for weeks
and then I remembered that I needed to write.

Ariel was always a dream, but a wakeful one,
whispering pictures and posturing portent.

I don’t need to sing, my body
is always happy to do that for me.

There’s a fire burning inside me (literally)
at the same time there’s a fire
burning down the world.

I lay awake at night and rage at everything,
but in a peaceful way.

I eat grace for breakfast and anomaly for lunch.

Everything has too many calories.
Something else I have to burn.

I can only sleep when my feet are cool
and mine are scorching these sheets
like my mother’s old iron.

This room is never dark enough,
and I am never really here.

It doesn’t matter.

Matter is energy and I am combustible.
I float like a gas just south of the ceiling.

No one ever notices, which is funny.
Except when I get stuck in cobwebs.

I’ve lived in this house longer than I haven’t.
It’s small and tiny and we are always tripping over each other.

I trip over everything anyway.

It’s winter and I miss the sky.

The snow geese are down at the swamp screaming injustice.

On New Year’s Eve the fireworks gave them fits
and I smiled as I stood
alone in the center of road
as white sparks drifted down
like lost feathers.

.

.

.


Dec 31 2019

tapestry

i swallow purple and dream of bluebells
blanketing a field made of permanence

they put me under and i bleed in tandem
with color-blind heart
and restless fingers
tapping love songs to spiders
in starlit soliloquy

and we run
through red rivers
black oceans
dead forests

never out of breath
or short of currency

trailing ribbons
weaving knots
stitching sides

un
raveling

.

.

.