that's mrs. mediocrity to you

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

.

.

.

A poem a day for 30 days, in honor of National Poetry Month.
No rules this year, just poems. We will see what happens.

you sing me songs of february summer
and i laugh at the absurdity
because
nothing makes sense anymore
and everything

is a tune
from those long ago years
when we believed
in certainty

still
i smile and i dance
at words
spilled from
wist and sunshine

so ripe with yesterday’s
short season of naiveté

when we were young
and you were golden
and i
was just a rose

.

.

.

if i could choose a memory
to hold in my pocket
it would be that chuckle
the little grin
those mischievous eyes
that always spoke of spirit

and i know
you are here
today
in this room

i know
because the echo
of your heart
has not faded

i know
i need only
just to stop
and to listen

and i will hear

tiny butterfly wings
of flutter and grace

fragile and tenacious all at once

weaving tales of love
and remembrance
into the very air

i breathe you in, i let you go

i breathe you in, i let you go

you’re always there
always there

floating

on the iridescent color
of laughter

.

.

yesterday we said goodbye to my aunt, my mother’s twin.

this was written as a tribute for my mom to read at the service.

you will be missed anut pat.
(an intentional misspelling that was part of our relationship)

may you be at peace.

.

.

.

.

sometimes we have to take a step back

before we move forward

remember all the things we’ve forgotten

forget all the answers

revisit

the questions

.

there is always

beauty in life

life in growth

growth in pain

.

the cartography of tomorrow

is drawn from the pen

of present

.

tenacity is the bloom

of survival

.

open

.

.

.

.

there is gold and there is freedom

you say neither one
matters
in the grand scheme
of things

our hands are always left empty

i mention the scars
of experience

the stars

whisper something
of the moon

the way the sun
is always in your eyes

paper crinkled
and satisfied

or beckoning

i’m not sure which

.

.

.

just ask nature, she’ll be happy to let you know
that dance was invented by willows
weeping at winter’s impostor
and stars are made from moans left hanging
on a breeze in the corner of reflection

.

we are all mirrors on the same wall of eternity
chanting hope and charity with leavening

.

this circle this tree this mind mattering
tossed by cold gale and rent from warm earth
growth and decimation occur concurrently
it doesn’t matter where you stand
it doesn’t matter where you stand

.

darkness always returns
as does mo(u)rning

.

.

.

.

snow falls gently through a sky bleeding sunshine

through the closed door i hear geese
warming their way through a morning
most of them will survive

i cling to small things. moments, really
and wish i could gift them to you

i know a whole list of people with that name

the miracles gather and hover
hoping to land, gently

winter is coaxing autumn to bed
with an ever-changing quilt
of cozy promises

a patch of blue peeks through worn cotton batting

needs no mending

.
.
.

in my dreams i fly

to alaska

build a nest somewhere high

in the trees

lay in a stock of sharp pencils

marry words

to make sense of all i see

.

.

.

.

Today I am over at dVerse Poets, with a prompt about bucket lists and firsts.
One of the things at the top of my list is a trip to Alaska.
Come join us with a poem about yours.

which is not the same as the kitchen sink
because that would mean everything,

and this is just a window.

and just now, there is too much everything,
everywhere,
every minute.

i want clear blue sky and calm cool morning.

but it’s autumn and the colors are raucous
and speaking of raucous,
i’m missing those crazy-loud geese parties
down at the swamp
that aren’t happening this year

because there’s no swamp.

and i’m not writing because there are no words.

so i wait.

and winter will come and i will miss all this color
and wish for things I don’t have
the same way as today

and that bird in the tree,
that bluejay who spends his days
as a beautiful bully

and the monkshood just starting to bloom,
in amidst all the kisses that need cutting down

and this could all be metaphor
for so many things,
but it’s not, it’s all true,
right outside

this tiny kitchen in

this tiny house

this tiny life

half-invisible

portal.

.

.

.

.

on a small lake in maine

i found the color of departure

.

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(title is a line from Dylan’s Visions of Johanna)