that's mrs. mediocrity to you

evidence of yesterday’s kisses
spill over into the long season
of shedding

new skin lies smooth beneath
the crackle dry surface

of the dream you had at twenty
the one that stole your color
by breathing green into a night
bargaining for darkness

you held hands with the prince
of petulance and whisper gestured
your undying fealty
to the king of lacrimosa

but the birds
pick your bones clean
now
after every word’s been spoken

you feed their flight
with dried up chips and bits

of purple

offering up the life
that was singularly yours

food for folly and for freedom

as the sky rests its head
on your satisfied
shoulders

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some years the monkshood never manages to bloom
before frost bites into tender petal

this year an exception has been made
and purple wins the prize of everywhere

last night i spent hours cleaning words
blowing dust from ancient pages
remembering who i was when i first read sylvia

there’s a book on my shelf
called Nets to catch the Wind
(just like that with a lowercase c)

from aunt blanche and uncle doc
christmas 1929

an unassuming volume marked
by a long ago girl who
probably dusted once or twice herself

i have books signed by anne waldman
robert creeley, olga broumas,
diane wakowski
and the one i bought when i took
that class from ginsberg

but i am drawn to this plain covered
slim dusty tome written by elinor wylie

DISCARD stamped just above
the tiny handwritten inscription

as the monkshood sways in the breeze
catching time in a net made of season

both wind and word whispering
of days long forgotten

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growing
side by side

putting down roots
sending out shoots

weathering storms and
basking in sunlight

floods and drought
potbound and replanted

moonlight trysts
and daytime dances

messes and loss
triumph and seasons

fed by love and
seven thousand sunsets

here we are,
still blooming

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Happy Anniversary, Mr. M.

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some days

the best you can do is

let your hair down

wear your tattered pajamas

be a beautiful mess

and rest

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the clouds
reach fingertips down
brush my cheek
as i wander
wonder
at the paintbox
feast
served up
as appetizer
for a main course
of grey

geese bleed through the fog
like ghosts
or mirage

circling the table
yet again

hungry always
for the flavor
of spring

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How have you been? I’m sorry I keep missing you, it seems like every time you stop by I’m off doing something from the great list of needs to be done. It’s never-ending, that list, and even though you kept bringing me treats and good sunshine, I just haven’t had the time to come out and play. Your cousin, October, has already written and told me she expects better treatment. And I’ll try, I promise. Maybe I’ll even cook her up a nice pot of chili, with a pan of apple crisp for dessert. I mean, a girl’s gotta eat, right?

Anyway, I just wanted to say that I’m sorry for letting you down, I know you tried really hard. I’ll try to do better next time.

I do have a funny story for you, with your allergies being so bad, you’ll be able to relate. This morning I walked to the kitchen straight from my bed, just the same way I do every morning, and turned the stove on to heat the teakettle. While I waited, I talked to the animals, offered treats and fresh water and snuggles, and then I made myself a cup of tea.

I walked into my studio to start getting organized for all the work I have today, and puttered around for a few minutes while I waited for the teakettle to whistle. (Wait, what? I know!) Finally, I figured I hadn’t turned the burner on again, I do that pretty regularly, so I walked out to the kitchen and saw that the kettle wasn’t even sitting on the burner–I usually get that far, just forget to turn it on. And it wasn’t until I saw the cup I’d just made sitting on the counter that I remembered I’d already made it. I think I might be losing my mind. How could I have forgotten something I just did five minutes before?

Apparently I need tea to wake me up enough to make tea. Not sure how I’m going to solve that conundrum, but I thought you might get a kick out of that story.

And just yesterday I made myself a cup without boiling the water first. I realized what I’d done before I took a sip, thank goodness, but still. I’m telling you, these allergies are a killer. I feel like I’m walking around in a fog half the time. Then again, that’s pretty much my normal state of being.

I haven’t been sleeping well either. Some nights I feel like I don’t sleep at all. Damn hormonees. (You saw that movie, right? My Big Fat Greek Wedding? I can never remember if that was you or January.) And have you heard the coyotes lately? They’re crazy loud and it creeps me right out. Sounds like there’s a million of them out there, trolling around in that field right across the road. It makes me worry about Naughty Kitten.

He’s been on a rampage, killing everything he can find. He left us a chipmunk by the back door just the other day, belly up and pathetic looking. Sorry Mr. Chipmunk. I always feel bad about the chipmunks, until I remember that time I saw one in the basement. Then I tell him to get on out there and find the rest of them.

Well, I guess I’d better go and get busy, I have a million things to do today before October gets here. I do hope you’ll come and stay with us again, next year. Maybe you’d like to come for tea. Ha ha.

Love ya tons,
Me

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first, you have to dance
arms flung wide
with hope’s last vestige of abandon

you have to care and not care
at the very same time
drop permission from your vocabulary
throat your laugh and hug the sky

your dress must be free and made of history
your face must be painted with your own experience
(hand-me-downs and borrowed wishes
will be confiscated)

you must wear a ring on every finger
one for each time you pretended to know
the answer to anything
and you must refuse to lick the plate
of shallow dictate

this isn’t about being naked
you can do that well enough on your own

this is about your true colors
the ones you wear when no one else is looking
because exhibitionism does not equal honesty
and besides

it’s your skeleton that always tell the truth
skimming shallow skin and baring marrow bone

but it’s your heart that hears the music
and your sleeve doesn’t have to be fancy
or short or even rolled up

if there’s lace, tear it off
drop the bangles
bare your wrist

and two-step the pattern of your flaws
across the floor we all stand on

close your eyes
listen

we’re all here

the beat cannot beat you
or make you special

we’re all here

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Joining in over at Dverse Poets Pub
for Open Link Night...join us!

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The light you dream of in the dead of night, better than gold, bigger than lack of sleep or broken hearts or silent struggles.

It never lasts, this light, it’s fleeting, which does nothing except make it more precious. You can’t hold it, it will slip through your grasp like the sand you live in, grains of time mocking you as they slide from your fingers.

Let it go. Let it all go. Watch it pile at your feet and then kick it out of the way.

Run. With a smile on your face and sweat pouring down your back.

You can’t outrun your own existence, but every so often you can sidle up next to it, keeping pace for a moment of gratitude.

You see that light? It’s yours. But only if you give it away.

The flowers have known this all along.

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paint by number and color coded
autumn’s billboard splashed
with spring’s discarded paintbox

david hockney meets matisse at eleven
and jackson pollock just keeps painting

brush tips touch sun lips
and time becomes golden
or
tomorrow

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sometimes

you need

the support of others

to help you bloom

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