that's mrs. mediocrity to you

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in a forest of kisses

a flock of geese

bow their heads

with a nod

to the sun

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The word I sort-of picked for this year was open. And it’s a word that’s served me well, a quiet, pleasant reminder to keep growing, always.

And lately I’ve been thinking about words (okay, I admit, I am always thinking about words) as labels. We have good ones and bad ones, but that varies depending on who it is that’s applying them. We can call ourselves old or fat or lazy or any number of things, but when someone else does it, we are hurt, or offended, or outraged. We also test this theory by calling ourselves positive things, goddess and badass and guru and warrior, things that pump us up and make us feel good (or better) about who we are.

But they’re all labels. Definitions. Closed books that allow the rest of the world to see nothing but the cover, even if it is one we drew ourselves.

I want to see what’s on the inside. We’re not supposed to judge books by their covers, but we do. I want to crack the spine and hold the pages open. I want to read every sentence.

I recently acquired a new label: Grandma. (One I love and am happy to claim, by the way). But when I ran into acquaintance and told her the news, she said something about how we were going to have to think of a better word to call it. And then I wondered why. Because I am a grandma. And a woman, and a wife and a mother and a runner and a gardener and a writer and a photographer and a poet and a housekeeper and a business owner and a laundress and an accountant and a cat box cleaner-outer. Labels.

I am an amalgam of labels.

We try to peel off the ones we don’t like, and pretty up the ones we do, adding scrolls and graphics and big bold letters. We wear those proudly, and the rest we try to hide, under clothing and posture and presentation.

But here’s what I say: Release them all. Refuse to let them stick, refuse to be defined.

Be a new word every minute. An ordinary word, an ordinary minute, a real, alive, breathing, changing, blossoming word.

Keep them guessing. Keep yourself guessing. Hold your arms wide open, and let the petals fall where they may.

Set your story free on the wind.

Watch where it goes.

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in the middle of a day
laced with rain cloud
and robin

singing hymns to unseen
heavens

i found a grave
beneath
the tallest poplar

perfect circle
of blown-out feather

grey on white
white on grey

death
in the center

a ring to fit

a broken finger

a hole for grief

to tumble into

and the echo

echo

of eternal

narration

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just outside my window

all the excitement i need

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Happy 4th to you

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backlit by storm
and the magic of timing

there is never a moment of silence
something somewhere
is always rumbling

and i learn to take peace
in the pauses

there is never a pillow
of sweet dreams
everafter

but rather

this reality
of storm and sunshine

creeping in
on stealthy paws

and we sit
together

stare each other
down

from the comfortable
distance

between us

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thorn of light
thorn of bright

trapped
in the call

of a prussian
blue night

i am gypsy
i am queen

to the hounds
of hope unseen

slipping silent
racing whole

through a screen
of web retold

counting distance
and return

with an abacus
of learn

blood roses
blooming tight

on the skin
of my lost flight

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Lately, life has been all about getting stuff done, flitting around like a busy bee in the garden and the house. And while it hasn’t exactly been fun, let’s face it, sometimes stuff needs to get done.

The grandbaby is coming this weekend, it’s already been over a month since I’ve seen her and I am so looking forward to this visit.

And then, summer. Soaking up the sun, reading, relaxing, enjoying life.

Writing again. Paying attention to more than peeling paint and dust bunnies.

I can’t wait.

and wishing for clarity

the kind that only comes
when you can’t see anything

a storm passes through
and the trees
bend to meet their maker

as water runs rivulet
to river

to wash away
a tyranny
of dust

and we must learn to beg
forgiveness
or perception

zig and zag
as we run free
in the silence
between raindrops

we must learn
to drop to our knees

genuflect and
bow in a prayer
of defect

broken limb and
scattered branch
the only clues
to guide us

through a cold-cracked sky
of false deliverance

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I’ve been working on a big design project all week, big as in lots of work hours crunched into a very short time span, head down, late nights, no free time besides sleep.

And this morning I can see the light at the end of the tunnel, so I decided to catch up on the news because I haven’t paid attention to anything other than work since Monday. And now my heart is heavy.

It’s so hard to love the world sometimes, so hard to stay positive when all around there is heartbreak and tragedy and devastation.

Sometimes, all you can do is hold tight, and send your heart out there yet again.

Even as you know it will be broken.

Because the world needs more heart.

And sometimes, that’s all there is to offer.

xoxo

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uncurl, unfurl
into a blooming dance twirl

lay soft or stare hard
but do not be afraid
to show the center of your
self
to the mirror help maid

sit in lachrymose silence
til the end of the sky
fills yours scent cloaked ears

and then dance
to the cloud colored music
you hear

the only absolute
is open

and your interpretation
is the petal spread of living
on a vine scored with rows
of hidden heart thorn

climb the ladder with care
and then jump
into being

scatter petals
shout perfume
nod your head at the coy
wary moon

uncurl, unfurl
into a blooming dance

twirl

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