that's mrs. mediocrity to you

is it okay that i’m not trying to change the world?
that most days i’m content just to change my pajamas
and that most months, most years
i consider myself lucky to have made it this far
because it’s all so damn complicated
and
is it okay that all i really have are questions
all i’ve ever had are questions and that i get sick
and tired of hearing all those answers being shouted
from other people’s rooftops when i know they are
in just as much danger of slipping off as i am
and
is it okay that some nights i can’t sleep
because the walls can’t hold all the things
in my heart and my hands scribble scrabble
in a vain attempt t0 clean up all my messes,
knitting words that never see the light of day
and
is it okay that i don’t need to be fixed
because surely i’m not broken, i’ve seen broken
and my soul is nobody’s business but my own
in fact it’s whole and beautiful even if it is
lined with purple shadows of doubt
and
is it okay that some nights i just want to sit
by the fire with a book in my hands
that takes me anywhere but here and it’s not
because i need to escape my life
it’s just that some days i’m tired
and
i just don’t feel like changing the world,
some days i just want to be in it
up to my neck like quicksand in it
feeling it squish between my toes
and dragging me down down down

before i float away?

.

this post is part of dVerse poets Open Link Night join us!

::

and a stack

of blank

pages.

::

stand tall and be proud of your roots.

everyone can use a hug once in awhile.

it’s nice to feel the breeze in your hair.

even after the worst of storms,
the sun will warm your face again.

offer shelter to those who need it.

with age comes character.

there is strength in numbers.

sometimes you have to bend
to keep from breaking.

branching out keeps things balanced.

when times are tough, dig down deep.

inhale the bad, exhale the good.

there are times to be dormant,
and there are times for growth.

mark each passing year in your heart.

we all have scars.

the moon will listen to your whispers.

if the path you are on gets blocked,
just grow in another direction.

especially one that sinks fangs
into the flesh above your knee
head shaking, throat growling, eyes

closed.

but you can stand before her

open,

knowing all the while that bare
and vulnerable share a cupboard,
always swapping dresses and

complaining of the cold.

.

this post is part of dVerse poets Open Link Night join us!

::

your next step,

but let your heart

be your guide.

::

(do you see the heart?)

This morning, I sat at my kitchen table with a journal and a pencil. Morning pages, so to speak, the result of a table that was cleared, sunlight glinting just so off the surface, and the time and space to savor a cup of tea, a blank page, the scratch of a pencil.

Outside my tiny kitchen window, the one I always wish was a big bay picture window but never will be, the birds were having their breakfast. A pair of cardinals sat together on a branch for a moment, winter lovers in shades of heart. Chickadees flitted in and out, always busy, always happy, I think the word flibbertigibbet was invented just for them. And as I sat there, writing, watching, writing, I heard the alarm caw of a crow. One of my crows, the three that come every morning for breakfast in the driveway, two on the ground, eating, one posing as lookout in the tree overhead.

Moments later, a large flock of starlings (isn’t it early for starlings?) landed in the hedgerow, chirping and fluttering and fidgeting and then moving on just as quickly as they arrived, in a great flurry of feather and branches and sunlight.

My naughty kitten was pretending to meander down the driveway.

All of this in just a few moments, but enough to make me get up to find my camera. And yes, of course, when I returned, there were no birds in sight. And so, more scratching, more tea, more listening. To a quiet that is never silent, the hum of the refrigerator behind me, the sound of pencil, and there, again, the caw of crow.

They had returned, my three musketeers, two down, one up, always waiting, watching, working. My sentinels of morning.

I snapped many shots of the watchman, but this was my favorite, the dropping down to earth, after deciding it was safe, to feast on seed.

A moment in time that happens a dozen times every day, but only once in all of eternity.

I love that.

she crawls on her belly
through a barbed-wire world
eating hope and fire
as they drip down to earth
from all kinds of secret places
in the sky

her life is lived
in moments of peace
and she lies on her belly
in a bed made of mud
as her fingers form clay
into bowls of tomorrow

she collects
heart-shaped stones
curves sticks
into smiles
and empties fossils
from her pockets
at sundown

her tears
mix with seed
to grow
night-blooming vines
in shades of lavender
and purple
to be braided
into bracelets
for the moon

she has words
as companions
and silver
for protection
and if you
put your ear
to the ground
you can listen
to her heart

beat

.

.

.

this post is part of dVerse poets Open Link Night join us!

::

your wings.

::

Somehow, despite the fact that I’ve barely left my house in the last 10 days, due to the tiny stitches I had just under my nose after I had a “spot” removed, I have managed to catch a cold. I think it may be more accurate to say that the cold has caught me.

And so, here I am, on the couch in the morning, reading poetry.

If my throat didn’t hurt so much, it would be a perfect day.

Just before Christmas, I stumbled across a poet I had never read before, Ruth Stone. My daughter bought me her book, What Love Comes To as a gift.

Oh my. Yesterday, I said that I want to live my life inside a poem.

Today, I’m going to live my life inside this book.

The Long Chill

The blankets scream to be folded.
After all it’s almost noon;
the sun’s pale powder glittering
and with no clear demarcation,
and too chill; as if when
the mammoths, strolling on the steppes
and consorting, paused, as usual,
as the first light dust of snow began to fall.

~Ruth Stone

::

it was no coincidence that you crossed my path
grey winged and sharp shinned
causing me to trip on my own shadow

you rose high in the sky, the color of winter
and i felt your power fall back to earth
in a tiny tumbleweed of promises.

my hope never meant as much as your survival
and no one has ever measured up to your glare
but she called you icarus in a threaded whisper

that still echoes through each moonlit night
in the season of cold and the year of empty
like the drip and song of icicles melting.

the fact that you soar is my forgiveness.

.

.

this post is part of dVerse poets Open Link Night join us!