that's mrs. mediocrity to you

.

.

(in)
digestion

when the
world is so
unpalatable

.

some days
you can only
stomach
dessert

.

. . . . .

.

.

.

on lilac buds
and scattered leaves

in the garden
there’s a metaphor
for everything

today i see
new growth

the cycle of decay

a patchwork
of green promises

i see the backache required
to corral tomorrow

i feel the sun
on the lines of my face

i hold the love
the toil
the acceptance
in the palm
of gnarled hand

i control nothing

.

. . . . .

.

.

.

a bed of frost

and a moment of calm
pull me deep
into a center
swirled with doubt

this is my cage
hung with beads
and sparkly bits
and holding me
camouflage
captive

while these
angst-coated questions
beat their tin-cup music
on pretty bars
and purple painted
barricade

.

. . . . .

.

.

de

(con)struction

is the shape of flame

roaring consummation
in the face of absolution

exposing spire
and ancient skeleton

burning history
back
to blood-soaked
prayer-lipped
earth

and
mortality’s
imminent
stain

.

. . . . .

.

for Notre Dame

.

.

crescent

i am howl-edged
and harp-hounded

running miracles
through tattered
branch-armed
paths
in the darkness

of sanity’s

lair

.

. . . . .

.

.

body & soul

and the inevitable

push

pull

of attempting
to define
either

one

.

. . . . .

.

.

and we laughed
at the eternity
of sunsets

happy to be alive
and married
to our own vision
of mystery

the future
wrapped up
in wire-edged
gold mesh
ribbon

a gift
we will
never quite

open

.

. . . . .

.

.

frayed

if i had a word to sing

i would hold you
accountable

pronounce you
intractable

whisper false
accents

trace a clef
on a wrist

or a sixteenth
elsewhere

in a dissonant
concordant

letter

.

. . . . .

.

.

when it’s over

let them say
i grew
a garden
of
compassion

.

. . . . .

.

.

virtual reality

all i need
is a mirror
that reflects
the shape
of memory

.

. . . . .