that's mrs. mediocrity to you

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

your hand trails through water
and the boat down the shore
dips a bow to polaris

and

we all break waves
on sanity’s shore
just trying
to find

direction

::

as the truth
sands us down
to blurred edges

…

yesterday i saw
just floating along
on this river of tall information
a tiny white scrap
inscribed with the words:

survival isn’t enough

a meme or a tweet or a post by a host
dropped by someone post-haste in the knowing
as with so many lines caught deep in the waves
of this infinite brick-brackish water

and i smiled to myself
just a flash
before thinking
oh child just you wait
because darling
survival
is
plenty

and yes
there is always much more
we can do with its gift
more to learn
more to love
more to cherish

but oh, my friend

in the color of end

survival
is quite simply

being

clumsy and violent
in our destruction

carnivore
herbivore

sure-footed-thunder
bearing down
on no future

the world is burning (turning)
turning (burning)

bleak mornings
endless nights

fear stirred by anxiety’s spear

searching for hope
in a world
already scarred
(scared)

i have a pebble
to offer

worthless

polished
smooth
by worry

set high on a shelf

worn
whole
silent

waiting

.

.

.

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

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

.

.

.

people say you’ve changed
and i say

hallelujah!

about time!

how high?

my feet got bigger
and my hips got wider
and crone was painted every
where i looked in
big red scary letters
or long retracted grey whispers
(and both sound exactly just the same)

i inherited all this anger
from the girl that came before
this rage
raging all around

i’ve been breathing rage
for a year now

a year that broke my heart
in every sideway possible
and screwed it back together
with those cheap screws
that break
when you crank too hard

that makes it sound worse than it was
that makes it sound easier than screaming
that makes it sound so grandiose

when really it was just hours
and minutes and tears and breathing
sweat equity pouring down my back
as i walked for miles and miles and miles
and never did get far enough away

i have calluses stronger than my silence
i have plastic words and a purple parachute
i have this empty body standing tall

and we all sag under the weight
of whittled-down survival

…..

this afternoon
the sky
was filled with geese

winter is coming

winter is coming

at night i hear these words
in the darkness

outside my window

inside my head

your voice

my voice

whisper scream

the possibility

of resurrection

.

.

.

they said youth was the currency
and beauty the price

but we knew better
on the streets
of anarchy

where blossom
was never
as fragile
as ego
and thorn
was the tally
of vice

.

.

.

the ladies gathered every evening
tap-tapping with canes and shuffling mules
to talk about the storm that was always coming
and the girl that walked to Seattle
pain always sitting on somebody’s lap
and death on a bench in the corner
pretending to be ignored

no one rose up to kiss away the chip
on a bony-cold squared-off shoulder
no one was afraid and
no one was falling
for the pout on the face of resistance

by this time they were all old friends
acceptance was the belt
holding the bathrobe closed
and besides, thelma told
the best stories

.

.

.

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

.

.

.