that's mrs. mediocrity to you

is a pernicious master

always telling stories
you wish to be untrue

i live in a glass house
beside an ocean of allegory

the warmth of the sun
burns holes in my persona

the plate i offer is filled
with door-shaped cookies

but just you try and leave
the epochal corner of sanity

i’ve carved in the shape
of false idol altar growth

you’ve no idea how much light
it takes to reveal

the vitiligo that’s running
down your chin like a chink

in the armour of your sentence
and i will keep you here

reshape you with a version
of my own black branched form

feed you wine and golden wafer
from a tray inscribed to say

from the solid root of darkness
you will bloom

.

.

.

Linking in over at dVersePoets for Poetics today, where Anthony
gives us a list of words from which we must use at least five in a poem:
(Messiah, Allegory, Luminous, Plate, Shadow, Door, Persona,
Glass, Vitiligo, Epochal, Pernicious, Warmth).
Join us!

.

.

climb into my kitchen
and i’ll build you a window

walled by whisper wing
and fire dream

we’ll marry word and wonder
filter fear and petty shadow

press cold noses to the glass
of each season’s metronome

i’ll feed you butterfly and brimstone
bits of light and captured night

with dragon song and maiden dawn
to keep you from flight’s rescue

.

.

A poem a day for 30 days, in honor of National Poetry Month.
This post is part of NaPoWriMo.

Also joining in with PAD (poem a day) over at Writer’s Digest.

.

there’s a place
in my garden

no one ever goes
to sit

broken down
skeleton of glider

left hanging
in the wind

tattered flag
of patience

marking time
with rusty creak

and forgotten
expectation

.

.

A poem a day for 30 days, in honor of National Poetry Month.
This post is part of NaPoWriMo.

Also joining in with PAD (poem a day) over at Writer’s Digest.

.

in a garden of barely there
two white flowers stand side by side

heads bent in a soliloquy of prayer

the ground is barren
in all directions

but for these brave soldiers
sent ahead to scout
for possibility

in the rooted dance
of no escape

outstretched arms always almost touching

two white flowers stand side by side
in a garden of barely there

.

.

.

A poem a day for 30 days, in honor of National Poetry Month.
This post is part of NaPoWriMo.

Also joining in with PAD (poem a day) over at Writer’s Digest.

.

.

.

as if red would change hue by calling it blue

then lavender and lemons could be interchanged

while joy and melancholy ride the same fence

.

roses aren’t always red and blue is a mood

spite is never a flavor but we know how it tastes

the moon never burns and the sun always sleeps

.

blood seen through my skin runs aquamarine

the spider only knows the rhyme scheme of hunger

evening always lights the candle of mourning

.

each heart is the color of refrain

.

.

.

.

A poem a day for 30 days, in honor of National Poetry Month.
This post is part of NaPoWriMo.

Also joining in with PAD (poem a day) over at Writer’s Digest.

.

.

but don’t ask me
what
i believe in

because my answer
will always
be nothing

i’m too busy

growing

.

.

.

A poem a day for 30 days, in honor of National Poetry Month.
This post is part of NaPoWriMo.

Also joining in with PAD (poem a day) over at Writer’s Digest.

.

.

the importance of numbers is self-prescribed

time

weight

date

expiration

days add up to life

lives add up to minutes

the flower

knows

when to bloom

.

.

.

Linking in today over at dVersePoets for Poetics, where we are
playing with macro photography/micro poetry. Join us!

.

And they never fail to make me smile, these ultra-smooth birds that somehow seem a bit more sophisticated than all our other feathered friends.

It took time to get them here, first I planted mulberries, and then the elderberry patch. These days, they are regulars.

If you had told me thirty years ago that I would be a gardener and a bird watcher, I’m sure I would have laughed. If you’d told me I would plant trees and bushes to try to lure cedar waxwings to my yard, I probably would have snorted (right after I asked what a cedar waxwing is).

But both birds and my garden have become part of my daily life, offering joy and rhythm and and a presence I am constantly learning from.

Life lessons.

Patience. Acceptance. Being present.

And how to fall in love with the sky.

My own small way to fly.

my garden forgives
all my sins

neglect
lazy indifference
impatient expectation

roses climb and clamber
fixed on fun and chaos
neverminding the rules
of convention

pretty
is not the same
as fragile

this place feeds
bug and snail
soul and spirit
bird and body

there are no straight lines
no honest assumptions

no pretense
or promise
beneath this sky dome
night temple

and you will always
get your hands
dirty

you can always get in
if you have the right key

but the sun glare might blind you
and the scent will intoxicate

and you will find yourself
asleep on the ground

in a field filled with poppies
red white and blue

flag waving
petal cloud sky

your wounds will change color
scars will form
bones will knit
holes and pain and fear
become distant memories

red and blue
will fade to violet

you might smell lavender
or the pepper of lupine

monkshood will tower over you
baptisia will offer shade

in the rose-filled secret garden
behind thorns and cold stone fences

if you have the right key
you can always get in