clouds

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
.
.
.
the night the moon ate jupiter

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
.
.
.
scattered

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.
staring blindly at the sun

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
.
.
.
i set my heart in the light
and offer it to you

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
.
.
.
.
gypsy rose lee

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
.
.
.
saturated

A week of too much that left me longing for balance. The scales are always tipping, on way or another, and we do this dance, don’t we, to keep ourselves in the game.
Too much work, too much rain, and a tiny tornado touch-down one road over… and yet, here I am, still standing, still hoping, still growing.
Resiliency is a beautiful thing. All the ups and downs are connected, somewhere.
The birds are still singing.
And here we are, in a brand new, fresh-washed now.
I look out my window and think: lush.
Too much is just abundance looked at crosswise. Or vice versa.
There.
I wrote my way to a smile.
.
.
.
the scent of dawn

and freshly fallen rain
passing through on its way
to far-off places
leaving sparkling bits of fractured light
and splashed up drops
of holy water
to reflect a laundered sky
gone back to blue
.
.
.
in the garden of forgiveness

purple is the shape
of letting go
and blue is the beginning
of sacrifice
all the scars and torn edges
faded blooms and broken stems
form the canvas of whole
and the soft brush of plenty
as gold fills every sky
with perseverance
.
.
.






