that's mrs. mediocrity to you

::

seems as

good a place

to start

as any

::

So many different ways to turn in this life, so many things to be and do and say and make. And all the accomplishments I have not yet accomplished sit stacked in a corner, mocking me. It’s okay though, I am good at turning my back on them, ignoring their whispers, re-straightening their pile when they get out of order.

I don’t want accomplishments anyway, I want to stand in the sun and breathe in the crisp smell of autumn.

The trees are especially vibrant this year, and I suppose the drought had something to do with that. The dried stalks of corn across the street are the perfect foil for a backdrop of orange and gold and crimson against the blue of sky that only happens after summer stops stealing its deepest hue.

I want to walk for days with my boots on, kicking up leaves and listening to the sounds of another year getting ready to put itself to bed. I want to choose the prettiest leaves and make a bouquet for the mantle. I want to hear the thud of apples dropping to the ground.

I miss the geese this year, with their raucous all-night parties ringing in my ear. I wonder what new place they have found to rest their weary bones, if they miss the swamp as much as I do. My monkshood is blooming right on time, the deepest of purples against the yellow leaves of hydrangea against the fresh pink of anemone that surely got its seasons all mixed up, for that color can only really belong to Spring.

Mother Nature has accomplished everything on her list this year. But then again, she always does.

I wonder if she ever stops to smile and listen, to feel the sun on her face and take in the beauty her brush has painted. Or does she hurry on with her nose to the ground, making ready for the next set of chores?

Maybe none of this is meant for her, anyway. Perhaps it’s all for us.

And she’s just waiting for someone to notice.

for seventeen years
we’ve been crossing bridges
as we’ve come to them

sometimes together

sometimes separately

sometimes meeting in the middle
from opposite sides

always finding our way home

to hold hands in the dark
watch the moon dancing with the stars
warm our toes by the endless fire

we’ve been here

there

and back again

it all started
on a bridge

from one heart
to the next

spanning years

as together
we watch it
flow

.

Happy Anniversary, Mr. M

She’d spent her entire life dancing on the edge of perfection, cutting hands and face and feet on the razor-thin precipice of need. Growth occurred, but randomly, and in all sorts of crazy directions.

The light was always what attracted her, when it was the dark she should have been reaching for. Everyone knows that all the real truths lie hidden in the shadows.

But she avoided the gloom like a child afraid of the monster beneath her bed.

She just wanted her moment in the sun.

When it came, she was surprised to see how many scars she had acquired along the way.

Even so, she tilted her face up and she smiled, opening her arms to embrace the warmth upon her skin.

.

.

.

Linking up with the New World Creative Union’s  Wednesday Wake Up Call. Join us!

split and peeling,
cracked and scarred

still, it’s not that hard
to look
beauty
in the eye
on the days when
all around you
defeat is the ritual
of rising

and death sits
just left of the sun
right where you always
thought he’d be

though it isn’t fear
you see on the face
expected to be
so ugly

just the kaleidoscope
of promise
glinting off
the corner
of dawn
giving you
one more chance
to get it

right

.

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

he brings her flowers
and that is what she will remember
as they walk her into
the cage of old age
too old to fight
and too weary to cry
but strong enough
to understand
that life is filled
with wrongs

he makes his way
back to a car
filled with forms
and receipts
cat hair and missed
moments and he sits
for a moment with tears
in his eyes before setting off
towards the comforts of home and
cold sandwiches

.

.

.

A dear friend of my family (really more like family than friend)
who is 86 years old, had to give up her independence this past week.
It was hard, oh, so hard, to watch.

Linking up with the fabulous dVerse poets for”people” at Poetics, join us!

Also linking up with 100ThousandPoetsForChange” at Tashtoo’s Place.

my wit has left the building and
elvis is everywhere

i have wrinkles on my ankles and
my favorite pajamas
are unraveling

i love crows but that
doesn’t make me dark
at least not as far
as you know

i survive on
hope and chocolate
wine and water
pickles and promises

i spent the first 49 years
of my life hatching
a wise old crone

i expected to hate her
but find myself
suddenly falling in
love

my sister cried when
elvis died
and all i could do
was hold her hand

while she said
yeah yeah yeah

and that’s from a song
you’ve probably never
heard

.

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

apparently i’ve forgotten
how to be offended on my own
i need instructions
reinforcements
coaching and
missives, shouts and apoplectic
derision

to come to the conclusion
that everything you say
or do
or think is wrong
even when it is

i wander these streets
lost but not wanting
to be found

listening

shhhh

listen

here
i can hear
myself think

remember thinking

back before it was
all done out
loud

and i’m craving grey
with its less than stark
observations

something soft and not
at all cataclysmic

to rest my head on

for just

one minute

.

.

.

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

equality is not the same as experience

and it makes me wonder if
all the first times
have to add up
to the same number
as the last times

and who made that rule
and why do i have
to follow it

it’s all in the numbers
it can all be calculated with
equations and dollar signs

first
smile step kiss

last
kiss laugh breath

not exactly the same
not exact at all

because no one has the right answers
and no one gets to see
the cheat sheet

or all the lines, verbs, nouns and
adjectives that wriggled their way
in between

and the teacher is sitting in the corner
wearing her carefully decorated dunce cap
trying to figure out how to make
her last first time
add up

to all the time
that came before it

and she has all these numbers
crisscrossed on the palm of her hand

but she can’t find one zero anywhere

.

.

.

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

Last night the light was gorgeous.

Gorgeous enough to drag me up off the couch despite a migraine, gorgeous enough to warrant the real camera rather than the phone camera, gorgeous enough to bathe everything in beauty.

Today, I still have a migraine. I am behind in the work I need to get done this week, I am tired and my house is a mess.

There is always something that needs doing, always a reason to be here instead of there, always the feeling that the pile of sand in the bottom of the hourglass is larger than the pile of sand left at the top.

Last night, I didn’t care about any of that. Last night, I sat in the sun as it slowly drew long shadows over everything in sight.

I read and listened to birds, threw my head back and stared at the sky, inhaled crisp air just beginning to smell like autumn.

Life can seem so complicated. But really, it’s all so simple.

It’s all about the light.