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
.
.
.
i think that’s what she said while trying to smile
and i never was one to argue with deliverance
even after tilt-shift became a normal point of view
i wanted to hold you
at least your hand
but paper thin skin
kept rising between us
none of us means to die
even when we want to
trying to smile at her own lost joke
fingers scrabbling at the corners
of a crooked mouth gone dry
like the wind i drank
to forget your sky
.
.
.
negative space holds the shape of things
we know this, but choose to dance in the open plains
because existence enjoys being contrary
explain to a child the difference
between holey and holy
wholly
or the nature of sanity
and the way the stars all revolve
around one direction
or why i’m bound to sit
facing southeast
watching a halo of hair
glint off the arms
of the distant day
you embraced me
.
.
.
and you wear them on your heart
like a badge or a pin
or a reminder to remember
you expose them
to the elements
harden them off
rub them raw
until they weave
their own shield of shadow
and eventually
stop hurting
when they’re touched
.
.
.
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.
.
.
.
and the call of a sky turned crooked
on a day that grows dark like any other
the sun always rises
the sun always rises
the sun always rises
she hears the whispers in the leaves of the tall poplar trees
she has blisters from planting possibility
she is a storm raging gales of regret
she is silent and patient and sometimes
she bends
ever so slightly
towards a house
filled with reflection
and polished
glass
.
.
.
Comfort zones. They get tighter as we get older, much like that favorite pair of jeans. We get set in our ways, and we like that, mostly, we find comfort in routine and pattern and the familiar.
But life is too complicated to allow us to stay in any one place for very long. Just when we settle in and start feeling all warm and fuzzy, something happens, something changes, and we have to learn how to move through life all over again. And I’m okay with that. It keeps things interesting at the very least.
We go through phases. And they’re called phases because they are slices of time that have a beginning and an end.
The leaves on the oakleaf hydrangea just outside my studio window are just about to open. Dozens of buds waiting for just the right moment. Each one unique, if you look closely, yet all part of the same mother plant. Yes, that’s a metaphor. A nice reminder to myself this morning, a sunny moment in a week that’s been filled with clouds both literal and figurative.
I am learning new things. It is making my brain hurt, which happens as you get older. My body is holding me hostage with hormones, and I keep reminding myself that I am becoming. Moving on. Getting ready to open to a new season of life.
Pfft. That makes it sound pretty, and quite honestly, it’s not. But it’s going to happen just the same, and I’m going to embrace all of it, even the rage. (Yes, there is rage.)
Maybe you lose something as the years go by, bits of innocence and wonder, but you don’t forget they exist.
I think.
Maybe I’ll find my way back, or perhaps I’ll end up in a different place altogether. Yes. I’m pretty sure that’s the answer.
But I’m still asking questions. And I’m still going to open, even when it is painful.
Because there is sun to feel on my face, and a garden to plant, again, and all these people to love with the heart of a crone.
Reasons enough to spread my arms wide.
Reasons enough.
.
.
.
and you cling to the thread of recognition
stitched up your arm proclaiming you
mended
when torn is what you are
not broken
torn and sewn
back together
with the needle
of forgiveness
and these aren’t neat, tiny stitches
these are meant to leave a scar
a mark you’ll wear as badge
as you walk into battle
fragile and crumbling
paper thin
unyielding
.
.
.
