that's mrs. mediocrity to you

ten eleven years later
that’s what we call it

not nine eleven oh one
not September 11, 2001
just
nine eleven

two words

three digits

two towers

four planes

thousands

of

mothers
fathers
daughters
sons
sisters
brothers
wives
husbands
aunts
uncles
girlfriends
boyfriends

not statistics

falling

from

the

sky

not dates
or where were you’s

just whole hearts
in odd numbers

each one

the only necessary

evidence

of love

::

.

I wrote this last year as the 10-year anniversary
of this tragic, horrid event approached.

I am re-posting it again today, in honor of all those hearts.

Never forget.

.

as I watch quietly from my garden, alone, exhausted, content,

listening to the trill of cedar waxwing,

the sharp bark of tree frog,

the never-ending harmony of crickets.

it’s ever so much better

than silence.

the corn is thirsty

the farmers are hungry

vultures are sated

and herons

have moved on to greener pastures

i can’t see the beginning

or hear the end

i am cracked and bone dry brittle

i dance beneath the blue

of the somebody said so moon

i am alone but not at all lonely

i pitch a tent and

sit cross-legged in the dark

trees whisper of water

longing is an empty form of love

dehydration is the blind form of longing

and forty days would never be enough

to save us

from the landscape

of our lives

The swamp down the road from us has dried up on one side, leaving small puddles filled with frantic fish and no escape.

For the birds, herons and turkey vultures and seagulls alike, it is a smorgasbord.

For photographers, it has been a gift.

This is the second time in the past 10 years this has happened. Heat and drought adding up to evaporation.

The food chain forming its own long necklace of death, and life.

I walk down the road and watch it happen without knowing why. Herons by the handful when usually, seeing one is a gift. Vultures making beautiful tracks across the sky, too far away to reveal their own ugliness.

And all the while, little fish, swimming their way towards nowhere.

dawn rips the blindfold from my eyes
forcing me to watch another day

unravel

time slipping through stone and finger
with the same giggle of impermanence

whispers

to a heart that takes no prisoners
and a mind that gives everything

away

a broken belt lies on the floor
tanned flesh and silver buckle

remembering

smaller nights and sunshine’s warmth
and all of those tomorrows gathering

promise

and potential in dust-filled corners
stacked with empty broken boxes

waiting

.

.

.

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

everywhere i go i see angry people
lips pursed and stiff with indignation
faces red and closed and pontificating

their way towards purple

and some days it makes me laugh and
other days it makes me frightened so
i stay holed-up in my hermit house

digging in a few feet deeper

watching butterflies and dragons
slay petunias and wayward periwinkle and
cedar waxwings choosing only the ripest

berries from a tangled mass of elders

as i pretend not to notice for fear
of scaring them off with a ruby-lipped
smile and a heart burst open

seeds of joy spilling out

floating

away

like tufts of dandelion

and no one questions if it’s fair or just
or whether the gypsy moth has more right
to be alive than the hard-scabbed ugly

beetle

.

.

.

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

the collectors pull up first and extra early
no shame for them regardless of the rules
circling like vultures waiting for their chance

and then the kids who’ve saved their pennies
looking for a new to them toy or perhaps a friend
with a frozen plastic smile to hug tight at night

the grandmothers in perfect polyester prints
can’t believe how expensive everything is these
days but are really just looking to buy time

a woman who goes from sale to sale carefully
choosing clothes and shoes to send to children
in africa – we give her everything she wants –

two young women who might be drunk or always
silly and don’t want to leave, looking to spend,
literally, every last dime they have

the boys who come overnight and vandalize
my father’s car, leaving evidence of what they
think is manhood or prowess, but steal nothing

bookworms who know what they are looking for
and are happy to rifle through our fifty-cent
selection, no shades of grey or romance here

the little birthday girl who loves horses and
has saved all her money to add to her collection,
she gets an extra breyer pony or two, free

a new mother searching for that perfect bag
of beads as her husband-boyfriend drives by again
and again saying you got a screaming kid here

the destitute father and teenage son who may
or may not be homeless but manage to tease
each other about kitten posters just the same

all weekend we sit and watch things we have loved
change hands, things we’ve never used earn a dollar,
things becoming the people that take them home

.

.

.

Linking up with the fabulous dVerse poets in a celebration of summer for poetics, join us!

This is me, most mornings, padding through my garden in flip flops and nightgown, camera or iphone in hand.

The same sky is always above me, I’ve traveled these paths thousands of times. The flowers change, a garden is an ever-evolving life force, and I’ve learned, over the years, that there is only so much I can control.

Another lesson that gardening has taught me about life.

We’ve been through a lot together, my garden and I – at this point, we feel like old friends. The same give and take is required to keep us speaking, we both know that we will always be there for each other, no matter what. We are comfortable with each other, whether I am singing out loud to Joni Mitchell, or sitting in silence to watch the sun set.

I put a lot of work into this relationship, and in return, I receive lots of flowers. Sometimes when I am least expecting them. And we all know that those are the very best kind.

When I sit on my patio, surrounded by plants and flowers and hidden from the rest of the world, it feels like a hug. My garden is not perfect, I see all her flaws from where I sit, but then again, she also sees mine.

We are always forgiving each other, always making allowances, always finding new ways to nourish her soil and my soul.

I grow here more than any of the flowers.

Trees I planted as tiny twigs now tower above my head. But our roots are intertwined.

The same sky is always above us.

i wrap a blanket
’round my shoulders
and step outside
to search for meteors

blinking blank sky
tinged pink by cityscape
and two low clouds
hung just off center

the southern cross
points slightly southwest
and i face north to seek
that one true star

feeling grounded
and whole and tiny
beneath her ever
standing compass

all i need
to find my way
to all the home
that matters

on the periphery
the pleiades dance
because they know
no one can see

.

.

.

Linking up with the fabulous dVerse poets for Poetics (A beautiful sadness), join us!

The morning is still, so still I can hear grasshoppers buzz and crickets walk. Okay, of course I can’t really hear them walk, but you know what I mean.

Dew has covered everything during the night, there is no place to sit in my garden that isn’t wet, and so I stand, watching a pink sky fade into the grey of rain’s promise. A promise that has been made again and again this year, and broken just as many times.

And still, my garden grows, flowers being stubborn even in the worst of times. They have a job to do and they will do it, as long as there is an inch of life left in them. I have to say, I admire their spirit.

On days like this, I want to be the sky that embraces them, the soil that feeds them, the light that brings them hope.

Actually, on days like these, I want to be one of them, reaching, stretching, working to make the world a better place. Fulfilling a purpose, cycling through the inevitable cycle, breathing and moving, waiting and hoping. Drooping in the heat of the sun, and finding new strength during warm dark nights.

And then facing sunrise with an upturned face and blind optimism.

This past week, in my whirlwind of discarding, I found a book that I had started writing years ago. As in, 20-some years ago. I had completely forgotten about it. I’m not sure why or how I had so easily let its existence fall from my mind. It seems like you should remember something like that.

I had titled it Girl with No Flowers.

I haven’t had time yet to read through it, but I will. From an entirely new perspective of who I am and what I am doing here.

Because these days, I most definitely have flowers.

And flowers always grow.