that's mrs. mediocrity to you

spring comes and the birds start singing

and that’s not poetry
it’s truth in a dress
made from hope and hybrid dancing

but we wear it on days
when the swamp
spills over
and
every tiny miracle
understands the word survival
and thrive becomes the promise
of tomorrow

less season
than rebirth
perhaps even
a holy transformation
or simply life
refusing
to go gently

but the birds learned all this
long before Plato
and that
in a word
is
poetry

spring comes and the birds start singing

.

.

.

of your outrage and your joy
your frustration and your ploy

your glad-to-be-alive
or about-to-take-a-dive

the mystery of light
and the hollow of each night

your complaints and your praise
of survival and spent days

the youth that was lost
and the parody of cost

just sing

.

.

.

clinging hard to the dance of dawn, delayed

and you can lie
belly up to the cold grey sky
letting go of all fear
til the hawk comes tapping
on one shoulder

nothing between us,
no shield,
no field,
nothing filling the corners
with debris

just these bold
reflection curves
and mist-mirrored
smiles

holding court
in a forest
of fancy

.

.

.

and are they
one and
the same?

the questions roar
and the answers
take flight

and the trees just
stand there

growing

.

.

.

in the mirror of everything
sky raining down around you
in a pattern of potential
with the fortitude of grace
dripping cold from
squared-off shoulders
as if sunshine
could be ordered and
magnificence
presumed

.

.

.

the dog begs for food and i
warm my hands on a first cup of tea

it’s quiet here, in that pause
just between night and day
and the tulips grow
into all things unspoken
with pursed lips and
petty promises
i’m forever
falling for
because
dawn and now
are not the same thing
but when petals whisper
of hope and holler
who would i be
not
to listen?

.

.

.

or if velvet could fly

and the way i watched that hawk
yesterday
brushing a new painting
of sky

as i tried to write a poem
that was not about death

and smiled at simple
impossibility

.

.

.

the ladies gathered every evening
tap-tapping with canes and shuffling mules
to talk about the storm that was always coming
and the girl that walked to Seattle
pain always sitting on somebody’s lap
and death on a bench in the corner
pretending to be ignored

no one rose up to kiss away the chip
on a bony-cold squared-off shoulder
no one was afraid and
no one was falling
for the pout on the face of resistance

by this time they were all old friends
acceptance was the belt
holding the bathrobe closed
and besides, thelma told
the best stories

.

.

.

i’m dizzy all the time

and i’d like to say that’s metaphor,
(and it is, a little)

but i can’t seem to stand
in one place
long enough
to stop the spinning

i thought age
would keep me steady
strengthen roots
chart my course

but the world is cockeyed
and ambitious
and i get closer to antique
every day

rebellion is for youth
(or so i thought)

but here i am
(here we are)
fighting for things
i thought already won

and that’s just the way of things
isn’t it?

nothing is certain

we fool ourselves
into new beginnings and lit
lights and the mirage of
equanimity

but the truth is
it’s a never-ending battle
and i think understanding
that one simple thing
sustains us

i grow old on the banks of a river
running circles
around us all

.

.

.

i think that’s what she said while trying to smile
and i never was one to argue with deliverance
even after tilt-shift became a normal point of view

i wanted to hold you
at least your hand
but paper thin skin
kept rising between us

none of us means to die
even when we want to

trying to smile at her own lost joke
fingers scrabbling at the corners
of a crooked mouth gone dry

like the wind i drank
to forget your sky

.

.

.

A poem a day for 30 days, in honor of National Poetry Month.
No rules this year, just poems. We will see what happens.