that's mrs. mediocrity to you

and i’ll show you a seed
left to dry in an envelope

or an avalanche of words
dropped cold on a doorstep

or a curtain barely moving
in a window filled with need

…

a broken phone
will not deliver
cries for help

an ordinary walk
an ordinary day
sun shining down on both of us

a conversation
standard pleasantries
locked inside a panic box
neither fixable
nor fixed
in place
or time
or mind

it’s like i’m trapped
inside my own body

you said

can i ask you something
are you afraid of me

an ordinary house
an ordinary room
your dog asleep in the sun

as you broke into pieces
again and again and again

…

scraping ice from a windshield
in the dark cusp of dawn

red-winged blackbirds
flash neon signs
in hopes of feed and sun

three days ago
i watched a hawk
murder a grackle

(never forget to keep an eye
on the sky)

i whisper
and begin walking south
as the silence of north
calls me home

each step a false migration
blurring line
between time and design

a march of soldier
armed with rhyme

and stubborn pockets

leaking trails of sanity’s
seed

i refuse to say

hang in my heart

on bits

of knotted thread

and wrinkled ribbon

swaying

in a barely moving breeze

wrought

from distilled smile

and cornered

memory

.

overgrowth
(for alice)

nature has a way
of reclaiming
territory

just one lesson
taught
by my garden

grey turns to green
and there is no sky

and my head
keeps hitting
this ceiling

.

. . . . .

.

here i am again, doing this again–30 days of poems, hoping the words will come.
hoping hope will come, as well.

.

green

is suddenly
everywhere

like fear and
purple anxiety

this rainbow
kaleidoscope
of days

perpetually
shifting

a mosaic

of all things
human

.

. . . . .

.

here i am again, doing this again–30 days of poems, hoping the words will come.
hoping hope will come, as well.

today

i walked
in the rain

thunder
hounding

feet
pounding

head held
high

going
nowhere

sorta
fast

.

.

.

i live
in the land
of farms

people from
cities
don’t understand
what that
means
(i learned this
from a former
city dweller)

in my world
there is

space

.

.

.

wide field

deep sky

lone tree
standing tall
to guard
corn
wheat
or soy

in the
evening
driving
home

a lone car
on the road
in the
distance

becomes
beacon
for a
journey
never
traveled

.

.

.

the sun is shining
and the windows are open
and i am up early
making pierogies

i think about tradition
and the millions of women
who have stood at a sink
or a stove or a counter
smiling and singing
in a warm ray of sunshine
as they filled small houses
with smells of love

i am crying
(all these onions)
and i don’t need
to do all this work
this chopping
this repetitive
standing-up
oh-my-back labor

we could have had
scalloped or mashed
or baked, but

the sun is shining
and the windows are open
and i am up early
making pierogies

feeling blessed

and the voices
of those women
(those ghosts)
who came before me
are singing right along
in a harmony
of light

.

.

.

the dog begs for food and i
warm my hands on a first cup of tea

it’s quiet here, in that pause
just between night and day
and the tulips grow
into all things unspoken
with pursed lips and
petty promises
i’m forever
falling for
because
dawn and now
are not the same thing
but when petals whisper
of hope and holler
who would i be
not
to listen?

.

.

.