that's mrs. mediocrity to you

is a burden best discarded

.

i remember when you wanted to fight
about aphrodite

as if she were the threat
we needed to shield ourselves from

.

i remember all the light and love you sent
while the world was burning

the way you insulated yourself from reality
with yoga pants and fancy names for scented candles

(me, too)

.

i remember the shade you cast on all the words
you disagreed with

.

i want it all back

.

the irritation
the aggravation
the application

.

i want to laugh at bad jokes and
drunk-dance to sap-rock playlists

or whisper superstition while drawing
hexes in midnight circles

.

i want to pretend it doesn’t matter

i want i want i want i want

i want

.

there are words and then
there are words

.

we’ve forgotten what it’s like to be human

.

artificial intelligence is the oracle of pretense

.

tomorrow has always been uncertain
(and we pretend, now, that uncertain
is the same as unpredictable)

.

men have always been aggressors
women, protectors

(so they say)

.

mother earth, mother nature, mother mother
madonna-whore

.

roles reverse

.

we all want happy endings
and reality offers only
rainbow compromise

.

we learn from silence
but grow only in the
brutal fire of light

.

i said something once that meant something

in a dream somewhere with no one listening

.

you are my consummate nightmare

.

not you, of course

.

but you
standing there
all smiles

.

i remember the flames,
licking

.

every battle is bound
to be fought
in circles

.

i bend my will
to straight horizon

round earth

golden
reflection

.

.

.

.

.

a grocery-store rose
never smells as good
as one grown outside in the garden.

having said that,
a grocery-store rose
is better than no rose at all.

and both will die with the same poignant beauty.

life is complicated.

life is simple.

life is living.

we like to pretend (in our heads)
that it’s more than that.

but really, that’s all there is:
living.

in between there is grace—
as hard to grasp as a thorn.

you think i don’t know what i’m talking about.

you are absolutely correct.

also,

never trust a rose.

.

.

.

this cliff
by a lake
on the side
of forgiveness

.

or sanity

.

broken wing
prevents flight
but still
mirrors falcon
.

you choose

.

.

.

.

but not because we’re partners
or even romantic dreamers
but because
that is just the way of things
this two step
wide waltz
samba
tango
cha cha
rubbing me raw
even as it burns
the corners
of my sanity

mist and smoke
are indiscernible
from a distance

and i
am yours
on the edge
of this loon lake
water
mountain

rising high
through cold waves
to block
the valiant tendrils
of another
persistent-colored
grey day
sunrise

.

.

.

i sat on a deck
by a lake
in the mountains

and watched a bat
fill the sky
with pattern

miles and miles and miles
away
things were being broken

hearts
laws
a country

a document
we’ve forgotten
to remember

the same idiot wind
playing loud
in both places

burning holes
in an atmosphere
of calm

silence is a lie
we tell ourselves
at dusk

transparent wings
gently flapping

.

.

.

title and idiot wind ~ bob dylan. photo by my three-year-old granddaughter.

the trees are dying.

okay, only two out of seven
but they’re my favorite two and
when i walk outside
to listen to whispers

i hear the sounds of mourning.

.

already
i feel time slipping through bent fingers

already
i’ve picked a place to bury sun-bleached bones

already
i’m learning the words
to a song i’d prefer not to sing

.

that’s not to say
i don’t watch the sunset

that’s not to say
i don’t smile when the moon
knocks on my window

that’s not to say
i don’t sing with the robin at sunrise

it’s just to say
i notice.

the trees are dying.

.

.

.

a frozen sunrise
leaps between trees shocked
by the cold of reality
on a morning left behind
by a year
marked with double-time
mis-step
black heels pounding
history’s false rhythm
good evil
light dark
black white
grey pavement winding
forward
the only
right
direction

.

.

.

Joining in over at dVersePoets for Quadrille.