that's mrs. mediocrity to you

.

.

virtual reality

all i need
is a mirror
that reflects
the shape
of memory

.

. . . . .

.

.

i bought a tree once

and it’s still
sitting in my garden
still
in the same black nursery pot
stunted and hungry, yes
but still alive

i’ve lost track
of how many years
it’s been
and yes
i’m embarrassed and
ashamed and
guilty

(life gets away from you
sometimes)

but i must admit
i admire
the refusal
to die

.

. . . . .

.

.

on learning to breathe
(again)

nothing is ever forgotten
but rather, buried

one day you will decide to clean
and sweep aside a leaf

and there it will be:

the empty bowl
of everything

.

. . . . .

.

.

the way irony has
no sense of humor

and still we carry on with living
even in the midst of chaos

step outside to song of robin
filtered through
cacophony

ten million geese
(from the sound of it)
fill the air
with riot

a crazy quilt of noise
blankets silence

as earth grows warm and roots
spread fingers

seeking growth
in the darkest
of places

.

. . . . .

.

.

if hemingway had wings

i think a lot about
the difference
between
art and artist
words and author
music and composer

one is immortal, one is not
one is ethereal, one is human
one is creation, one is destruction

i always stop

there

.

. . . . .

.

.

standing in the mud
of apprehension

holding my breath

birthing my fear

inhaling

flame

.

. . . . .

.

.

diligence and derelict

history is a faulty course
in humanity

we miss all the silence

the bone-crunching weight
of existence

the bleeding fingers of daily toil

and end up with highlights
reeled and presented
in a package wrapped in bias

much the way
we present ourselves today
in this new realm
of me-story

where you cannot believe
what you see

.

. . . . .

.

.

a poem, designed

all the things i’m sorry for
can’t be written
in the confines
of a page

i have a fibonacci spiral

the outline
of a staircase

this never-happened
maze
of fallen dream

two columns
of regret
(one wider than the other)

surrounded by white space

a round-edged photo
of background noise

and over to one side

an arrow

pointing

next

.

.

.

.

. . . . .

.

.

the day we (almost) died

was a day like any other

filled with
silences and bitter trope

a tiny bit
of fervent laughter

tea and whiskey

one small kiss in the crease
of a neck

sustenance and sugar

mirrors and spice.

.

. . . . .

.

.

a tiny map of luminescence

written on a
parchment paper life

and carried
home

.

. . . . .

.

i had no plans to join in on poetry month this year, and yet here i am,
not at all sure i’ll find time to continue, and deciding that I definitely don’t have time
for an image AND words every day, so just words.
who knows where this will take me?

h/t to grapeling for the gentle nudge, you should go here and read