that's mrs. mediocrity to you

when what i want
is the chaos of doubt

and you

you hide behind
that smokescreen
of birdsong
and pretty sky

where blue
is the color
of everything

but purple

is my favorite

and

three
small planes
crisscross clouds
like geese heading
to triumvirate ponds

while two
grasshoppers vie
for one green leaf

and black eyed susans
force canned laughter
onto the stage

but

the catbird

its very name
an oxymoron

perches high

and watches
a storm roll in

grey squared
in one blind

eye

the butterfly effect
is the quintessential cause
of chaos

we cannot stop living
and so
we keep dying

time waits for us to look away
however briefly
to add tattoos to our skin

hope keeps us going
just long enough to walk into a room
filled with hopelessness

a snake sheds its skin as it grows
and glides into
a larger version of itself

mother nature’s patterns and
illusions only make sense
if you’re a cloud

refuse to look away

refuse to cry uncle

refuse to be broken

for just now

another set of wings
emerges
from a dried-husk brittle
cocoon

translucent

blue and brilliant

flying home

…….

….

.

Sending love and light to the victims of the aurora shootings
and those whose lives they touched.

.

.

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dVerse poets Open Link Night

the rules of karma
are hard to follow

…….so much is unintentional
…….and yet, pain is caused

…….i never kill spiders
…….but stay away from me
…….if you’re a fly

…….that hardly seems fair

…….i am biased
…….despite all attempts
…….at magnanimity

i sit here in this garden
i pull weeds that want to grow
i displace ants and snails
…….simply striving to survive

…….we all play god
…….in our own small way

bending rules
breaking promises

…….forgiving
…………forgetting
……………..pretending

…….awards are given
…….for best posture

…….stand tall

…….reach for the sky

…………offer penance
……………..for a pittance

……………..next time,
……………..you will soar

.

.

.

Linking up with the fabulous dVerse poets for Open Link Night – Anniversary Week, join us!

sadness weighs
the opposite of happiness

and everybody wants to fix
the world

we’ve fooled ourselves into
thinking we’re in charge
simply because gravity is
kind enough to keep us here

but look at these clouds
painting mother nature’s
fury

only she knows the truth

and being the good mother

she’s not telling

(for our own good)

you storm out
all stomping feet and
slamming doors

pretending it’s your job
to change the view
to make it clear
to reconnoiter

rescuing hope from
boxes marked fragile

playing god
and hide and seek

olly olly oxen free

at least, you think
you’re free

rain weighs
the opposite of
light

.

.

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Linking up with the fabulous dVerse poets for Open Link Night, join us!

Happy Birthday to Open Link Night!

earth cracked and dry
like the skin on my knuckles
the only difference
is the blood that seeps
through my skin

signs of life
cannot be mistaken
as proof of growth

sapped out seedlings

burn bury burn

crackle crumble

the will to live survives
the pain of scorch in
this desert of days

moisture moves
beneath the surface
with a ripple and a whorl
as the weight of memory
pulls me under

.

.

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Linking up with the fabulous dVerse poets for Poetics, Whatever the Weather, join us!

that keeps you
pokes and prods
pricks and feeds
from the marrow
of your soul

blood and toil
aren’t that hard
to come by

we know this

there’s always
someone willing
to work for less

more to come
hurry up and wait

tread that mill
like you mean it

mean it

fill the empty spaces
places
faces

with
traces

of heart

that will later

be erased

.

.

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i don’t have to walk far
to get to perfect
and by this i mean
perfectly imperfect

because the other kind
(impossibly perfect)
exists only on paper
and in the smiles of children

and it is only
in the learning to admire
the imperfections
those tiny bits of life
with scratch and bruise

the rose half eaten
by a japanese beetle

the lines
on your face
that spell
time

the chip
in the polka dot bowl
you bought me

the tan lines
caused
by my
flip flops

the skin i settle into
a little further each year

that i can stand here
hands cupped
trying to hold
the fluidity
of life

and of course
(imperfectly)
it slips through
my fingers

drips

bits of hope
and sadness, tears
you caught with kisses
and a gallon or two
of little girl
giggles

and

i don’t even try
to catch them all

just
the three left
resting in my palm
like shiny
mercurial marbles

washed clean
on the shores
of today

.

.

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there’s a crack in the wall
just above the staircase
that returns no matter
how many times i

patch it up

fill

sand

repaint

a few months later
there it is
again

.

before
i moved here
some 26 years ago
this house was moved from
two roads over
rooms
uprooted
and balanced
on a flat bed truck

then hauled across fields of corn
and set down here
in this new spot
to grow
a new history
and
settle into
this land this view
this corner

but that crack

that scar

is always there
just to remind me

of the many
definitions

of

impermanence

.

.

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is always the one
no one’s expecting
always tiny
and full of
…….other
…….possibilities
…….and the burden
…….of its own dead weight

…….i pretend my back
…….is stronger than
…….this mess you’ve left
…….in the kitchen

…….dirty dishes,
…….muddy tracks,
…….a trail
…….of crumbs

…….leading to
…….the places you’ve
…….always
…….kept secret

…….and i could follow
…….if i wanted
…….solve the puzzle
…….work my way up
…….to the big
…………reveal

…………but instead
…………i gather up sponge
…………and broom and
…………this tired old
…………dustpan

…………and whistle
…………as i work

…….and when
…….the job is finished
…………and my floor is
…………clean
…………but my hands
…………are dirty

…………then
……………..and only then

……………..i call your name

.

.

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it’s june and i sit before this fire
wearing socks and a big fleece blanket
wondering how it is that just last week

i sat outside in the breeze dripping
sweat with my feet in a bucket of water
and i was sad then and i am sad now

and it was may then and it is june now
and life skitters away before me on
slippered feet that make no sound

and i think about change and
the way it no longer
interests me

and can’t decide if that’s right
or wrong or somewhere in between but
mostly i think about silence and

flowers and reading books that take me
to places i’ve never seen, no, not places,
i don’t care about places, i’ve never

cared about places, it’s lives i visit
in the pages of books, hearts i hear
beating at midnight and dawn

and sometimes, in summer, i stay up
reading all night just to listen and
wonder and watch the sun rise

on someone else’s

horizon

.

.

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