that's mrs. mediocrity to you

“I saw a murder of crows on my way home tonight. They all lived.”

You laughed when I said that, the way you always do when I make a stupid joke, because that’s what you do when you love someone. You laugh, even when you’d rather be sitting outside beneath a sun that always tells the truth. But you can’t hold the sky, no matter how wide your arms open.

So let it go, leave it for the crows. They know how to blend with the shadows and disguise the clouds, they know how to rise above it. They know, too, that even flight is a means to an end, and we all need a nest to rest in.

Laugh. Toss your voice up high and let it fly. And carry me home the way that you do, all strong and silent and compromised.

The stars are falling.

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i bend to retrieve the slip of paper you dropped last time you were here, tucked beneath the corner of the bed, forgotten in a sea of dust. it’s a list and it’s nothing but you wrote it:

lemons

butter

razors

and i wonder if you remembered all three when you went to the store, or if you forgot the razors, and were you planning to make chicken piccata for dinner?

i can’t remember when it was that you were here. six months ago? eight? i can’t remember the last time you were there, either.

later, after i’d cleaned the floor, swept and mopped and made the bed, i put the list back where i’d found it, just to have one thing that made sense.

.

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rose every morning

with a smile on her face

her heart on her sleeve

and the countenance

of wallflower

.

she understood

that being overlooked

was not the same

as being

under paid

.

.

.

Blooming is a matter of survival. You have to do it, no matter what. It doesn’t have to be big or bold or pretty or showy, it just has to be done.

Even if you’ve been trampled or blown over, even if you’re lying in the mud, even if you’re dying of thirst, even if no one will see.

You don’t do it for the sun or the praise or the perfume.

You don’t do it for the sky or the attention.

You don’t do it for the hummingbird.

You do it for the release.

Open.

Even when it hurts.

Let the world wrestle you to the ground.

Stand up and offer the beauty of resistance.

Find the light seeping in through all the cracks.

Silence is not the same as consent or cowardice or indifference. Silence is a sign of strength. Silence means you are listening.

Breathe in. Grow again, taller. Find a way. Take the path you need, or the one you can find. Keep going. Blooming is a matter of survival.

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.

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the silent places you seek in the darkness
just before the sun comes up

on a summer night

spent

in the company of story

and all the words you wrote
were the echo of your sanity

falling from a perch on orion’s

back

onto pages thin as petal

and the whispers you carried
were your gravity

.

.

.

.

for a dance

with a bright blue moon

.

one hand

waving free

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And pausing to listen.

Because it is a small world, after all,
and the internet keeps making it smaller.
Social media becomes a too-crowded room
where everybody’s in everybody’s business,
and three square meals of outrage
are served every day.

For dessert we have your choice:
a call to arms, a call for slander,
a call to harm.

The world is full of terrible things,
foul injustice,
heartbreaking stories of inhumanity.

Mankind is flawed and we want perfection,
or at least the appearance of it on our screen.

We want everything our way,
the only way, the best way,
and tout this using words
from the list we’re allowed to say.

Celebrity rules and we feed it with our frenzy.

The throng and the masses have all the answers
and nothing ever changes.

 In the minds of the mob,
silent observation becomes the same as cowardice.

Working behind the scenes
is seen as indifference.

Not speaking out, even if you agree,
makes you less than those who do.

Yet if you speak out and say the wrong thing,
you will be thrashed or hunted or publicly shamed
with a virtual scarlet letter.

 .

Hush now.

.

Learn.
.

Live.

.

Listen.

.

The answers always lie

.

between the lines.

 .

.

.

and all the other places
i’ve never been

never seen
never learned
to love the light of

that’s bad grammar
i know
but i’m talking about life
and loss and nevers

and there are no rules
no platitudes
no built-in panaceas
to make my knees
stop creaking
or my hands
look any less
gnarled

don’t get me wrong

i wear my wrinkles
like jewelry
cherished accessories
of sentimental
value

and i smile
when i drive and they remind me
i’ve forgotten to apply
lotion

again

dry skin cracking

me up

and five times a day
i get surprised
by my own reflection

remembering i’ve aged
only when i see proof
or try to get out of bed

time
hides in patterns
paisley pretty and
just as intricate
as the web
i’ve spun
into my
crinkle crackle
carapace

but my shadow
retains the shape
of youth

or at least
remains smooth
and unmarked

by the scars
of regret

and i sip
slowly
from the cup
of forgiveness

.

.

.

and then some

over-analyzing becomes paralyzing

and i just want to dance

in the breeze of simplicity

.

.

.

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Finding center in an asymmetrical world is never easy.

Balance is always elusive, and mostly, temporary.

.

But you can find your axis, even as you spin.

And that’s the piece you hold onto.

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