that's mrs. mediocrity to you

a broken phone
will not deliver
cries for help

an ordinary walk
an ordinary day
sun shining down on both of us

a conversation
standard pleasantries
locked inside a panic box
neither fixable
nor fixed
in place
or time
or mind

it’s like i’m trapped
inside my own body

you said

can i ask you something
are you afraid of me

an ordinary house
an ordinary room
your dog asleep in the sun

as you broke into pieces
again and again and again

…

it’s not that
everything’s rosy

or perfect
(the horror!)

but there are flowers

and sunshine

presiding over tea

and i have this minute
(just the one)

to marvel
at the color
of stamina

…

i wrote a book
and threw it away

planted seed
and failed to weed

learned to play
and broke my fiddle

climbed a mountain
and laughed an echo

mixed the dough
and measured hunger

fought the wind
and ran for miles

counted stitches
and broke the needle

breathed in sky
and failed to fly

opened arms
and held you high

…

scraping ice from a windshield
in the dark cusp of dawn

red-winged blackbirds
flash neon signs
in hopes of feed and sun

three days ago
i watched a hawk
murder a grackle

(never forget to keep an eye
on the sky)

i whisper
and begin walking south
as the silence of north
calls me home

each step a false migration
blurring line
between time and design

a march of soldier
armed with rhyme

and stubborn pockets

leaking trails of sanity’s
seed

i listened for so long i went silent

mute as a river drinking dawn in the forest
mute as a sky bright with stories of stars
mute as a heart bleeding love like a wound

there are no words for any of this
no lexicon
for racing blindly through the darkness of reality
hawking bliss and deprivation in quiet turn

i am echo
singing jagged edge
across each mountain

you are breath
and something
less tangible

or everything

it’s all there
ramshackle and ready
prepared

but we’ve forgotten
history
her story
our collective
mind

i walk this path
i have traveled
too often

watch two bluebirds
savor sunshine
just the way March requires

i remember you there
on my windowsill
all magic and tragedy

survival
so often depends
on kindness

i say nothing

. . . . .

. . . . .

nineteen 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

::

.

.

I wrote this for the 10-year anniversary
of this tragic, horrid event.

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

Never forget.

.

i refuse to say

hang in my heart

on bits

of knotted thread

and wrinkled ribbon

swaying

in a barely moving breeze

wrought

from distilled smile

and cornered

memory

i think about words and the way we use them
sometimes as weapons
sometimes as shields

sometimes to unite
sometimes to divide

i think about unjustness and all the times
i fought the status quo
all the times
people around me rolled their eyes
because i wouldn’t stop couldn’t stop didn’t stop
saying

this is wrong
this is wrong
this is wrong

and now i’m silent

perhaps i’m listening
or exhausted
or a little bit broken

or thinking about the times
when i said
nothing

i rage inside but the words hesitate
just
on the edge
of my crone woman
tongue
as if gathered in their own lone protest

we will not go into the world for you
no one’s listening
it will not make a difference
no one’s listening
all the words have been spoken
no one’s listening

and besides

you must act
you must act
you must act

perhaps this is why
i can’t sit still

or hear my own heart beating

marching alone
through miles of anger

getting nowhere

soaked through with
cold hard injustice
pounding down around me

stepping over puddles
filled with lies

the super sweet blueberries dropped into oatmeal

the smell of lilacs, just outside an open window

a new loaf of bread popped in the oven

a robin, a cardinal, a chickadee

a messy house, a messy garden, a messy life

in need of sorting, cleaning, scrubbing, tending

waiting to be torn from disarray

and pasted back in perfect place

as i sit here

contemplating nothing

sipping tea

and mostly,

smiling

.

.

.

there are leaves on the trees again
and the crabapple is blooming

the robin sings me awake
and then puts the sun to bed with

a story that has no words
and a song that carries sky

there’s a starling
trapped in the chimney
scratching code
in night-blind terror

and i cannot tell you
how much
i need

to listen

.

.

. . .

.

(p.s. i rescued the starling)

.

.

.