that's mrs. mediocrity to you

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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In the morning,
I am always part bird.

Ready to fly
and hungry for adventure,
lightweight
and grateful for dawn.

I live in a heart filled with song.

The sky is a playground
of minutes,
ticking off wingbeat and
leaf warbled landing.

A canvas of sunset,
undrawn.

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you climb to the top and you stand there
inhaling sunshine

the rains will come again and you will drink
not caring for the purity
of washed-out clouds

you will slip and you will fall
and neither one will destroy you

just as long as you keep laughing

it isn’t courage you need
so much as tenacity

lion-hearted is not the same as lion

fighting for survival is not the same
as unenlightened

holding jewels in your fingers
is not the same as sincerity

the seedhead is never as fragile
as bloom

there is no wisdom taller
than observation

and the view is ever changing

sun is the only constant
and even that is actually

star

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few things

are more lovely

than the blush

of hope

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thirteen years later
that’s what we call it

not nine eleven oh one
not September 11, 2001
just
nine eleven

two words

three digits

two towers

four planes

thousands

of

mothers
fathers
daughters
sons
sisters
brothers
wives
husbands
aunts
uncles
girlfriends
boyfriends

not statistics

falling

from

the

sky

not dates
or where were you’s

just whole hearts
in odd numbers

each one

the only necessary

evidence

of love

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I wrote this last year as the 10-year anniversary
of this tragic, horrid event approached.

I am re-posting it again today, in honor of all those hearts.

Never forget.

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some days
i let my camera choose the focus
and fall in love
with imperfection
all over again

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i dream myself awake and wander
through corners of remembrance
there is no hope
there is only hope
there is only keeping on

we all climb the same mountain
weight-bearing and moon lifted

and the snail that eats
the lily
must surely taste
sunshine

i cannot blame her
for surviving
though i admit
there are times
when i toss her into weeds

where she will climb
and eat the flavor
of absent-minded forgiveness

just as content
with a broken down aster

alive

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some days

you just have to tell the rain

where to go

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