23 Saturday Sep 2017
Sun drapes her sheer cloth across the hillsides,
Mixed flocks, busy in fruiting trees, chirp amicably,
A chill has crept in at night, the woolens brought to bed,
and nothing so pretty as autumn has graced the canyon
in a long time.
18 Monday Sep 2017
Memories are being given away,
space no longer for rent to the unwelcome.
A wooden chair with woven seat sits now
facing sunrise.
Closets have been emptied, drawers cleared out
and sold.
Neither vacancy nor void, but place has opened,
safe, dynamic, light and warm.
11 Tuesday Jul 2017
To the fierce woman–
not the girl, whatever the age, trying to look pretty,
to be nice,
not the girl in the woman’s body aiming
to be desired, seductive, adored, heroic, cool, mysterious,
No, no-
To the fierce woman who knows the song of her own heart’s beat,
who cares not about how she appears, but about who she is,
who isn’t reaching for the next best outfit, witty comeback, title or
right answer–
To the fierce woman who walks how she walks,
talks how she talks,
ages as she brilliantly ages,
sees how she sees and
loves how she loves,
my God, Welcome.
Welcome to this world.
You
are
needed.
29 Saturday Apr 2017
there’s a place between.
of occupying the holiness of longing,
of seeing
that wanting
is for what we don’t have.
while sensing
what is
is more than enough.
it’s a suspension bridge-
rope strung between two islands-
and how the wind does
make it sway.
19 Wednesday Apr 2017
Did you ever fall in love for the first time?
If not, I can tell you-
you’ll be changed.
The wind will be his kiss when he’s not
by your side,
colors will reach out with incredible loving hands,
the sweetness of a peach will impassion
every last one of your taste buds,
and music will have been composed, amazingly,
just for you..
Yes,
yes, that and more.
But that’s not what will change you-
not quite.
What will, however, rearrange your particles
after both the elation and inevitable suffering rip through,
what will wrap you up, enrapture your heart,
sing you to sleep, and bring you to greet each rising sun
with gratitude,
is a knowledge taught by your own body
that another’s adoration is not only not necessary
but that it was you who had to fall in love with you
all along.
But I don’t mean to ruin the game-
go forth
and fall.
03 Monday Apr 2017
Darkness, silence, brightness of stars,
silhouetted tree crowns,
the beauty of five a.m.
I’m not sure why we forget,
so readily forget,
the preciousness we participate in.
These troubles,
the wasting, threatening, destroying-
maybe turning ourselves right-side-round toward
birthing light
relies upon one task:
Remembering.
27 Monday Mar 2017
Having never felt this old,
nor so young and inept
– and simultaneously –
well,
there’s a fence-crashing, a home-burning,
a finding-one’s-own-nose-on-someone-else kind of mess.
What is to be done with a tension like that?
Bear it.
Stretch with it.
Let be torn loose the decayed, the ineffectual,
follow the twisting into the twist,
watch new movements be born.
I guess.
Still, if I’m a living version of a mr. potato head,
could I waddle in those shoes a ways?
It might do me some good.
08 Wednesday Mar 2017
I always entered and
exited
through side doors.
quietly.
..slipping in or out with as few eyes following
or ears noticing
or minds rippling
as possible.
Now,
however,
that I’ve bought my freedom
I will be using the front door
as often
as loudly
as visibly
as this once-silent spirit
needs be.
And some houses will never
be catching sight of me
again.
08 Wednesday Mar 2017
Grass,
green, high, lilting..
Spring wears her tall rubber boots
and wanders through
from seedling to start, from birdsong to unfurling fiddlehead.
Crossing slopes slowly,
around and up,
She eventually meets their tops
having tapped every waking wildflower
with a wink and a sweet how-do-you-do.
Her hair trails behind her in post-storm breeze.
With a softened gaze, you’ll catch a snippet of calico print dress
somehow waving
from a corner of your own sunny imagination.
11 Saturday Feb 2017
I think I’ll choose a valentine this year.
Maybe,
my valentine will be
the perfection of bells ringing
from the strand strung across the handlebars
of that bike slowly riding through town.
Or the wet bark of vanilla-butterscotch scented pine,
the one dropping sap spring into fall
for the bottoms of my feet to collect.
Or the lovely world view offered up by that children’s librarian.
Or the reflection of the silent patron
who sips coffee and dives into book and notebook-
shadow and light of paper, letters, pencil.
Or the hands of that man,
rough in all the right ways.
Probably, though, it’ll be the spark in your eyes
when the magic of this finite existence
brings a smile from rivers so deep
you never stood a chance to resist.
Hmm,
It might be worth checking your mailbox real soon…
Salt, Smoke, Water and Stone 