that's mrs. mediocrity to you

cats know more about survival
than humans these days

hunt and kill
eat and sleep
play and rest

i fear, some days
we’ve lost our instincts

other days i fear
we’ve only buried them
beneath a thin veneer
of {un}civilized
virtual banter

canter

and we’re riding down a too steep hill
paved with words
we cannot say

art[?] we should never look at
hanging from trees

and strange fruit
dangling from vines
we cannot reach

i don’t know where he goes
when he heads for the woods

or whether his plan is
kill    nap    climb
(circle one and only one)

but some days
i’m envious of his ability

to walk away

except, of course,
for dinner

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Linking in over at dVersePoets today for a bit of joust, the title is a line
from Claudia’s poem. (Sorry Team Brian–I’m such a crazy cat lady!)

planted from a seed wrapped in blood-soaked cloth
on the edge of a forest scarred by arrow

blind-told witness held by treachery
and stars

in the season of growth and green glory

each ring forged of gold
crowned by emerald

each year fed by tear
and ambition

each branch forced to sky
by the sap of lost soldier

broken lock

buried heart

bitter potion

taking root

in the foibles of sand

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rubbing shoulders

with a world

determined to polish

all the rough

edges

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We’re all doing it around here, slip, sidestep, slide, tiptoe, baby-step, baby-step, slide.

The hard part is the smile, the cold wind makes your teeth hurt and even when you’re back inside, safe and sound and all warmed up, you can’t shake the feeling of trapped.

Everything you say sounds like whining, even to those in the same boat as you.

And you know it’s silly to complain. In the grand scheme of things it’s not that bad, but somehow, you’re miserable all the same. So you accept this misery, work hard to embrace it, thinking you’ll hold on tight and wait it out. The light has changed, coming earlier and leaving later and the shape of shadows is shifting. You accept that there is, indeed, a light at the end of the tunnel, it’s just hard to see because you’re snow-blind.

You make promises to yourself, today is the day I will get this and that and the other thing done, only to find yourself huddled next to the fire at four o’clock yet again with only knitting and reading in the forecast. And that’s not a bad thing, that’s never a bad thing, only you can’t concentrate, the words on the page keep sliding together and the yarn gets all tangled and you find yourself dreaming of flowers.

Two bunches of tulips this week, a salve for the soul, a symbol of promise, orange and yellow on a backdrop of grey that comes in more shades than you’d ever imagined.

Shoveling becomes your daily workout, snow up to your knees and even higher when it’s time to climb through the drifts to rake the roof again. Whoever thought you’d be spending your days like this, moving snow from one place to the other when you don’t even plan to leave the house? But it must be done and so you “do what you must do, and you do it well,” because Dylan usually knows what he’s talking about, and besides, if you don’t, the roof will leak.

You’re tired of complaining, and tired of being tired of complaining, but that seems to fall under the same category of must be done. You try to keep it to yourself because no one wants to hear it, but heavy sighs and curse words keep escaping from between your severely-chapped lips. You’ve already used a large vat of lotion, your skin sucking it up faster than you can apply it, because you cannot quench the thirst of winter.

In between all of this, you laugh, or cackle, sometimes a bit too loud, too hard, or at almost nothing at all, because this, all of this, is what stir-crazy sounds like.

And it just keeps whirling around in this tiny square house, in the guise of a draft that won’t let you get warm.

The only thing you can do is write your way through it. On a good day, you can write yourself into a better mood. And then two-step yourself ‘cross the floor with a smirk on your face that would never cut it in public.

But it’s okay, because when you do go out, everyone you see wears the same shell-shocked grin. Which at first glance, looks like a grimace.

And February just keeps tapping her toes in time to a song only she can hear, pulling hard at those strings as we dance, dance, dance.

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i never did find
those mittens

those blue knitted ones
that let my fingers peek out

i lost them in the coldest
of winters
the one that froze my heart
to a place now forgotten

but i still remember

those mittens

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the best place to be

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Happy Valentine’s Day, Mr. M.

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And Happy Valentine’s Day to you.

Because celebrating love is always a good thing.

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This is what I search for, again and again and again, the beauty in the ugliness, the pinwheel starburst of falling dead blooms, the light from a window reflecting nothing but snow, the pain in my neck and the crick in my back that reminds me how much I am alive.

The persistence of water, always finding a way. The cracks and wrinkles and fissures that speak of life. No surface remains unmarred, unless it’s perpetually hidden.

Today’s new coat of snow hides the old dirty version. Another layer of time added to the heap, a temporary stratum calendar.

Later, we’ll watch it melt and forget that it ever existed.

The river at our feet proving nothing more than motion.

Snow crystal transformed into sun glint.

Always rising.

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years ago
i planted two poplar trees
side by side
out front
in the corner of the yard

and one grew taller than the other
larger
thicker
stronger

and i feel like that’s probably
a metaphor for something
or at least it should be

but all i see are trees
and words about trees
stamped across the sky
in a tangle
of branches

all the meaning i prescribe
comes from within
me
or the trees
and what i choose to name
the one on the left

my cat
can zoom straight up the trunk
leaving scratches
and cheshire grin
in a weathered trunk
time map

but i like to sit
beneath the canopy
and listen
to stories
told by dancing
flicker leaves
in the shade
of yesterday’s
summer

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the promise

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Five days in, and this has been February. And all the stories I tell myself, all the excuses and plans and promises refuse to rise to the surface. I tell myself that it’s okay. That it’s always this way in this month, that it’s lack of sunshine, or fresh air, or freedom.

Silence. I surround myself with silence and I listen.

I hear whispers and promises, but not the words I crave. Patience becomes the antidote, and I work and fill the air with other people’s stories: radio, television, novels. Always a backdrop of sentence and syllable, and I wonder if I’m learning something useful, or filling my mind with capricious clutter. Or if it even matters.

I walk outside at night and search the sky, which these days, is always falling.

I feel tiny and insignificant, endless and universal. A snowflake lands on my palm and disappears before I can taste it. My tongue is empty and my skin is burning. Some nights, I don’t even wear a coat.

The dog stands still and looks into the woods, wishing for something to be there.

Me, too, I say. Me too.

Inside there’s a fire to sit beside, always the primordial companion.

There are no wolves to howl, but the coyotes are always laughing. My skin crawls at their sound, even as my lips curl into smile.

Their cause is survival, their joke life’s refrain.

Me, too, I say. Me too.

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