that's mrs. mediocrity to you

remembering the history of love
is not the same as living it

so much of it is
setting seed
and letting go

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pass by slowly

in a white-hot slice

of sky

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Or struggle vs. acceptance, and how to know which one to adopt.

These days I lean towards simple, where less always feels like more,
and grace, where struggle always dresses in silence.

And I’m not sure it’s wisdom.
I fought life so hard when I was young,
these days I prefer to acquiesce to the nature of opposites.

The good with the bad, the light with the dark,
the tears with the laughter.

It’s not giving up, it’s honing in.

It’s not compliance so much as forgiveness.

It’s arms wide open to whatever comes.

Life rains down upon us and washes us clean.
Again and again and again.

We live in the dust and we live in the dirty.

And then comes the downpour and we live some more.

Soaked and sodden, a bit downtrodden.

Bending in the wind that did not break us,
the breeze that dries our hair,

the sun that warms the shadows on our skin.

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in a sky mixed from paint and loose smoky cloud
sung by the song of ophelia’s left wrist
floating home on a river of chasm

we are built with such fragile temerity
says a poster on the wall of indifference

held in place with tacked-up tone diamonds
ripple-torn by the weight of overwhelm

it’s all too much and never enough

because cut glass and cold minded carbon
are futility’s intrinsic fossil

holding on to lost light with the fine-crazed frailty
of their own impetuous gleam

the stars will always hang high
in one corner of sky
but first you must swallow the darkness

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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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