that's mrs. mediocrity to you

infrastructures crumble cry and all the trees are lying

i walk through your concrete garden
stunned by lack of growth and claustrophobia becomes
my escape

there is no air here but you keep breathing
wheezing teasing freezing oxygen into clink clank cubes
lining glasses of liquid liberation

what have you done with the flowers? even the weeds
are afraid to breech
your barrier of sophisticated cement

give me your heart and i’ll plant you a memory

give me your disease and i’ll grow you a cure

give me your hope and i’ll bury the bones you cannot hide

lie

down and watch comets race a sky you cannot see
blind yourself with light and reputation
sit in your city white-noise silence

i have your bird in a cage of freedom
every morning we sing you back into existence
though you’ll never find a single luck feather

as you rest your bare head on a synthetic pillow

of down

.

.

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.

.

Also linking in over at dVersePoets for OpenLinkNight,
join us!

.

.

four miles
of dirty-drunk bottles
discarded on the cold shoulder road
you walk
night after night after night
sipping bitter salt and rubbing open
old wounds

four miles
of hollowed out chest
and improper possibility
leaching into land passed down
for seven generations
of food in the belly
no one wanted to harvest

four miles
of fuel for the red-lipped
rage that lines your palm
and marks your forehead with
furrows deep enough for planting
the seed you cannot reclaim
or purchase

four miles
between you and the house
never built
by too many logs and not enough sky
the stars were your compass
before you chugged them
in a toast to disappointment

four miles
of mud-caked proof
and not enough leaving one
last sip for the lean wasted soul
soon to follow your dedicated footsteps
to the same oblivious
abandoned address

.

.

.

I’m not big on explaining poems, but this one has a story.
On my block, a four-mile-around country block that circles farmland,
there are dozens of discarded whiskey bottles lining the ditch.
Dozens. This has been going on for years.
A sad mystery with its own story,
begging to be told.

.

.

.

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.

.

whisper what you saw to the wall of painted protest

the white bear standing lost on a landscape gone green

an ocean filled with plastic pours and printed promises

.

water everywhere

seeping up through the grip of your lost toes

.

your thirst will force you to imbibe

the fish of forgotten

as extinction inches up the corner of your thigh

.

cry foul and you’ll be silenced

by the nownownow

of tomorrow’s impossible exigence

.

grab a brush dipped in gone and wash away

the last canary

.

light a fire in the oil that skims every surface

illuminate destruction with a ring of false keep

raise your hands high and tell your last story

.

i can see i can see i can see

.

.

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.

.

It’s been a week of up before dawn and in bed long after dusk. A week of work and work and work and taking care of the business of life. A week much like any other when it comes right down to it.

Winter holds us in its darkness, frigid cold, frozen. We build fires and bundle up and complain. Being able to complain is the blessing, though one that hides itself in bitter words and false lament.

In between all this work and this complaining and this living, I write.

Like a fool that cannot stop herself, I give up sleep and precious hours in exchange for words. Words that slide from my fingers just as clearly as if they’d been spoken.

Words that light up the night, keep me company, guide me along the dark corridor of February.

That’s what writing always is, isn’t it? A shot in the dark.

And you never stop being afraid that you’ll miss, or even worse, you’ll hit an artery, a vital organ.

But laying down your weapon is never an option. Surrender only comes when the words have filled the page.

And there is always another page, always words pressing down on some inner, bleeding wound. The perfect bandage.

It’s cold and it’s dark and I let the words flow. Even when I’m not writing, they course through my mind in tune with the beat of my heart.

My telltale heart. Always, I let it speak.

I listen to the whispers.

You never know what ghosts they will reveal.

is always temporary

like the darkness
you’ve learned
to forgive

dawn is never your saviour
but almost enough
to make you
believe

clean is a fresh white cover
despite the mud
crawling through
what lies beneath

a map of every step
you’ve ever taken

you could be followed

you cannot wash yourself in crystal

you never were pure

this is the way you will melt

a pool of poison
sifting merriment
from bones

this soil contains us

eternity’s sacred measure

gravity’s compression

gleaning diamonds
to atone

.

.

Linking in today over at dVersePoets for Open Link Night, join us!

.

.

you think you need a beacon to guide you
when all you have to do is listen

your heart is always beating
bleating
making time

silence is a concept invented by the dead
and music is the door to eternity

everything you see is a story
told by the voice of your mind

whisper marry
murmur song

refusing to be censored

fairy tale potentate
in the dark
in the dark
in the dark

lifeblood’s memory

melody

refrain

.

.

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

.

when you can laugh at your own insignificance
then you begin to understand

the world turns and you turn with it
we are all cogs and we are all stars

it was never your job to be a beautiful flower
but always your promise to set seed

the future is a rhyme you cannot hear
written from the way you stand today

refuse to cower
refuse to break
refuse to be defined

the sky is the mirror of forgiveness
there is no reflection and no
perfect light

you can grow in the darkest of corners
stretch yourself out
be alive in the paradox of possible

the wind will take you
or you will melt back into
earth’s wide open arms

the rain will cleanse you
not of your sins
but at least of the dust you carry

the sun will burn you
and the moon will steal pain
from the beauty of your wounds

tomorrow is only an idea

and you’ve already had plenty
of those

hang on
hang on

let go

the release
will be

your nirvana

your white knuckles
have always
been bone

.

.

.

.

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

and you climb on the back of that beast
without hesitation
singing some song about how good
always conquers evil

and i admire your tenacity

wanting to sing along with you

but some days i see darkness
everywhere i look

and it’s not even hidden
sitting right out there in the open
like a mouse on the edge of the road

and the hawk, the hawk is not evil
only hungry

and the storm, the storm is not evil
only angry

and the fire, the fire is not evil
only out of control

and the sky, the sky keeps returning

holding me down, tethered
even as i threaten to fly off the handle

there are always three doors
and i can never choose

no light creeps in
beneath those cracks

but that’s never true, really

there is always light
there is always darkness

the yin and yang of sanity
are always intertwined

two lovers on a bed of redemption

clinging to the light that pulls

delivers

offers up
the sacrificial shadow

and then you are gone

white horse

red cape

floating melting drifting

into an almost

invisible

sunset

.

.

.

.

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

::

AugustMoon2013:

If you had one wish – guaranteed to be fulfilled by the end of 2013 – what would it be?

::

That you, yes you, the one who says I just want something to be real, would go and sit beneath an ancient tree until you weep with the joy of your own insignificance. Yes, the joy of it.

That you, yes you, the one who says I’m afraid of being unaware of absence, would go outside on the darkest of nights to look for the moon (which won’t be there) and instead get a glimpse of the Pleiades, which can only be seen from the corner of your eye.

And you, the one who says I want to be authentic, look at your hands, right now, any now, and hold them up to the light, any light. If you cannot see through them, then you are as authentic as anyone has ever been.

And you, yes you, the one who says I am lost. Look into your heart. There are flowers growing there, right now.

Bloom.

Wonder.

Wander.

Breathe.

::

Wish.

::

.

.

.

This post is part of AugustMoon2013. You can find out more about the project here.

movement is what captures your attention

i fly away (in crooked lines)
to dance amongst the pleiades
and their ancient choreography
of hide and seek

i am dust

always there

visibly invisible

one clear tear
containing more
than this river
of flight

i can’t ask you
to understand
my fluttering

i can’t stay still
long enough
to burnish sanity
opaque

my universe is trite and monumental

i name it tree
and you laugh
with the music
of lost moonlight

i am a sliver
beneath your skin

festering for freedom

you name me calliope
and refuse to remove me

this is the seed
of remembrance
growing petals
of forgotten

i am blind and you are hollow

each night i fold
a dozen paper birds

and at midnight i listen for your drum

.

.

.

.

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