that's mrs. mediocrity to you

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the ghost of a bloom

holds the seed

of survival

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the man in the moon
has always been woman

crone shaped and goddess curved
skin pocked with wisdom

hiding coy in the disguise
of sun’s darkest shadow

the stories she whispers aren’t meant to be heard

but rather

inhaled

bathed in

whirled to

and some nights she goes mad in the space between beats

as the music over echoes
the pounding labyrinth of steps

stretching out behind us
in a field filled with stones

circled by the forest growing through
our mother’s bones

white-silver ghosts

swaying hand in hand

round the fire

of eternity’s remembrance

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{for Mary Ellen}

the color of sky in anchorage at midnight
the eyes of a girl i never quite met
the forgotten sound of my mother’s voice

none of it was gravity enough
to hold me in place
and so i wandered among you
straddling two worlds on the razor’s edge
of my own incomplete sanity

i fell often, cut and bleeding
through the fabric of a shroud
no one else could see

this wasn’t my decision
it was my destiny
and no amount of fighting
kept me whole

the whisper howl of the wind in a pine dressed forest
the warm slide of good whiskey down a life-parched throat
the crackle of a fire lighting words on a page

i was cold and silent night
played loud on the radio
in a room arranged to be
my last companion

i grew up in a house
the color of empty
raised by ghosts of worn out intention

i laughed like a child
until i was thirty
and then i started leaving in a circle of return
all the things i never had
packed into tattered pockets

the call of a loon on a star scattered lake
the warmth on my skin of a sun gone to silver
the weightless cry of a hawk soaring through hunger

one saved letter pressed tight
against the thump
of my own flawed heart

proof of existence
in a shadow
shaped by please

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Linking in over at dVersePoets for Poetics today,
where Grace has us writing poems from the perspective of the dead.

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whatever the weather

you can always

sing of sunshine

from your heart

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The grey months are coming, and I look to them with a mix of longing and trepidation. There are so many things I love about winter, I just wish it could be a bit shorter. But no matter, just now there is color and contrast on the cusp of November, many trees are bare, especially up here at the top of this hill, but others are holding on to their color, clinging to it, really, not ready to let go of another year’s palette.

Mother Nature is a magical painter.

October was a month of scurrying, like a squirrel packing away sustenance. Getting things done in a rush and flurry, because November will be busy in other ways, and this year will fly off into the next before I can catch my breath. But that’s what winter is for, here, nights by the fire and days lit by the sparkling gift of snow.

It’s so easy to talk myself into loving winter in October. By March I will be singing a different tune, and longing for the first hint of green. But that is what I love about the seasons, each one so distinct, with the comfort of their pattern woven in to the tapestry of years.

The forest of kisses that kept me company all summer long is gone. The purple monskhood outside my window is fading quickly, the last bit of color in the landscape of change. I didn’t know, when I planted it there without thinking all those years ago, that it would become my favorite bit of autumn. It’s a plant that asks only to be left alone, a plant that performs without coaxing. There have been times when it has bloomed through the year’s first snow.

We’ve become old friends, perennial sisters, moving through life together.

Bloom, rest, grow, bloom again. Each step in the process just as vital as the next.

The lesson my garden keeps trying to teach me, in whispers and in shouts as loud as the red of this dogwood’s branches.

I listen, I ignore, I listen. I force myself to pay attention.

I learn.

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out of focus by default

feathered in darkness

made invisible by midnight

reaching higher

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a silhouette

formed by stars

and expectation

spinning tumbling diving

straight for the heart

of a nest

made from twig and

woven promises

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always landing

skewed and off center

grasping finger and foothold

holding on letting go

fluttering

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my ancestors
ate bones for breakfast

rolled skulls downhill and
named them boulders

i sit on the shore
of borrowed time

listening for home and
waiting for whispers

knitting stories with wool
gathered from the vines

on these ice carved hills

a cradle of lakes strung together
by the unraveled skein of impermanence

and history warms my skin as the sun
slides down between grand houses

built for wide-eyed strangers

once, in winter
i walked over this water

a solid white surface laced with holes
left by disappointed fishers

and my father caught my hood
just as I slid into the calm crest of frozen

saving me with love and quick reflexes
on a morning filled with grey-solid echoes

a memory of almost ending

lost beneath the bleached white
surface of ancient fealty

crackled feathers floating down
through tributary motion

slipping silent from a pocket
left behind long ago

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I’ve spent the last several months wrestling with time, and of course, time keeps winning. And that is the way of things. I accept the truth of that, but keep fighting just the same, always looking to eke out those few extra minutes.

I wonder how long I can subsist on this low-level adrenaline, when I already know the answer. Even so, I keep pushing. Most mornings I wake up and work on my story, struggling to remember what I wrote the day before. I have packed my mind with white noise, and there is no room for remembering. Lists take care of that for me, at least most of the time.

What I need is a week of writing, what I need is a vacation, what I need is always something other than the circle I stand in. Except it isn’t, I know this, and so I plod on, marching in place and putting down words I hope are coherent.

I refuse to give anything up. Even though it would be easier and smarter and even better, perhaps. There is a sense of urgency coursing through my veins, and I’m not sure where it comes from. In the dead of night I find it frightening, but by light of day I take advantage of this feeling, allow it to push me one step further.

Projects I started last autumn are slowly being finished. And maybe that’s what’s behind all of this, making up for the lost time of last year when being sick kept me from doing anything. I have more energy these days, and I take advantage of that, too, forging on.

And it’s all okay. Winter is coming and I will hibernate and rest more than I care to before spring arrives, to save me once again from my own ennui.

Life is full of contradictions. Cute curlicues and sharp-edged points. My focus shifts between them, but always, my eye seeks the light.

And it’s words that lead me there, even when time tries to stand in my way, even as we circle each other in the dance of existence.

This year, I lead, next year, who knows? I just close my eyes and listen for music.

My mind keeps humming.

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i find strange comfort in knowing it’s all been said before

the same sun rises every day
to watch us evolve
yet leaves us in darkness the half length of night

the differences between us do not show in our shadows
those shape-shifting liars we cannot escape

and we rise to every occasion
donning hero aprons and pattern painted nails
to whip up the false strength to fight
or some new brew that will do the job for us
alter reality just enough
to make one of us believe
the mirror is honest

but none of us can see what’s beyond that glare
sparkling decoration conceals our blind spot

and history tells the truth every day
even as we turn our bent-backed bodies
because hope is the secret that leads to survival

while the moon reflects only true light

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even when

you feel spent

and fragile

you are scattering

tomorrow’s seed

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