that's mrs. mediocrity to you

you cannot tame an ancient lion.

he already knows more than you

and besides, his claws are real.

::

you cannot fill a bucket with hope.

if you try to contain your longing

it always spills over the edges.

::

you cannot hide your bruises.

they are the map of your existence

and without them, you are lost.

::

you cannot whisper to a rose.

there is nothing you could say

it has not heard before.

::
you can only smile at the mountain.

let it climb its way through your heart

and then listen, for the echo.

a clock that ticks in my ear, mocking.

a bell that echoes down an empty hall.

a mirror that stands propped against a curtain.

a velvet dress that has yet to be worn.

:

a smile on a face that dreams of silence.

a bird that sings to the almost dawn.

a wind that howls though no one listens.

a tear that falls from an eye, half-open.

:

and this moon that taps on my window.

beckoning,

or seeking warmth.

the smile I would show you

would never hide

behind hands or curtains

words or rhyme.

.

the smile i would show you

would be effortless

and sincere

filled with peace

and brilliance,

possibility and time.

.

the smile i would show you

would be a hug in waiting

a melody of hope

a symphony of empathy

a heart,

sublime.

geese that fly over my house on their way to warmer places.

my mind on its way to someplace quiet, craving silence.

happy after days of socializing and selling, but drained, as well.

wishing i could fly because my feet hurt.

ready to hibernate at home, at least for a day or two.

i miss running, it has been too long, i have been grounded.

i want to be airborne.

glide through the clouds and look down on my house.

find my life, there, where it lives.

i get lost in the crowd sometimes, lost in the noise.

but i always make my way back to myself, to solitude,

to the place where i can hear myself think.

that’s me right there, last one on the left,

looking down, homing in, smiling.

shadows dance around corners
to sing their own version of blues

morning frost leaves patterns on windows
unique as the day that will melt them

hope jumps through hoops in the garden
as a chickadee searches for seed

and i sit in this chair in my kitchen
watching life through a smile
and a curtain

::     ::     ::

::     ::

this post is part of one word wednesday over at jillsy girl
and one shot wednesday at one stop poetry

to find a word, that word, the one i want, the one that constantly eludes me.

the hole is several feet deep now, several more feet than that wide, and in the pile on the brink of this hole there is nothing but dirt.

i thought i found an e once for a second, but it turned out to be a penny.

and then there was a t, at least in my mind for one split second, but when i touched it, there was only a twig.

i keep hitting these rocks and they jar me, all the way up to my neck, my shoulders, my mind.

jar me into thinking this is all a mistake, this digging, it’s too much work, it hurts too much.

i don’t stop though, don’t give up, i almost never give up, i’m very stubborn. i want that word.

i dig with this small wooden shovel left by a grandfather i barely knew.

when i get tired, i use this spoon that i found by the side of the road.

my soil is not sandy, no, i am not so lucky, my soil is all clay, wet and heavy and filled with worm holes, coming up in big chunks that stick and smear, and never break apart.

and these rocks, there are so many, some bigger than my head, each one takes a day to excavate. and when that day is done, all i have left to show for it is a cold, hard rock.

but i have collected rocks since i was a child.

there is always that moment when i feel it give, that rock, and i know that one more tug and i will lift it, and that is when i pause, because who knows what might be slithering underneath.

but i hold my breath and i lift one edge, ever so gently, ready to drop it back down at the first sign of trouble, ready to fling it aside if i find that word.

but alas, not this time. no creepy, crawly, scary creatures, and no word, either.

just one more layer of cold smooth earth

begging to be cracked open.

When you live in the same house for 23 years, you get to know the way the light falls at different times of year.

The slight shift in August when the shadows grow longer, the blue tint of January daylight, the way the gold of the sun hits the top of my bedroom windows just before it sets in October.

Subtle evidence of time’s passing, these changing shifts in pattern. Things I might not notice if I wasn’t paying attention, if I didn’t remind myself to lift my head and look around me. To breathe life in, to mark each day as something other than mundane.

Of course, there are many days when I don’t notice anything beautiful, days when my head is buried in work or stress or accomplishing. Those are the days when I fail to notice the beauty of being alive, fail to notice the color of sunrise, the mist hovering over the field outside my door, the sound of a bird singing the world awake.

But on this day, I noticed this light on these curtains as I walked past my green and blue bedroom for the fifth time after something I had forgotten, or to let the kittens in, or back out, in between making supper and doing laundry.

This light reached through the doorway and caught my eye
and I stopped in my tracks, enchanted by its beauty.

Just an ordinary moment on an ordinary day

that suddenly became quite golden.

see more gold for one word wednesday over at jillsy girl

breathing flowers in, after dawn.

simple words that get stuck in my throat, for days.

moments in mid-afternoon that bring tears to my eyes.

sunsets waiting on the horizon, always with a promise.

a mirror that refuses to show what lies beneath the surface.

seasons that rattle through my chest, calling me to remember.

blisters that heal and become callouses, rough evidence of pain.

a heart that breaks in its own small way each time you turn a page.

the constant digging for my soul that wears my fingers to the quick.

a silver necklace that says hope, left broken on the dresser.

making molds of the moon to keep in a glass jar.

standing in the dark, listening for sunrise.

a song that whispers even as i sleep.

threading words on needles and pricking my finger.

that one drop of blood, there, on the corner

of the page.

::

This post is part of One Shot Wednesday

There is something about this day that keeps calling me outside.

I have been in and out all morning, inside working, then, feeling this magnetic pull, back out.

A cup of tea, some photos, playing with the crazy kittens that spend their days outside, hunting. Back in for more work. Accomplishing what must be accomplished. And when that is done, the must-do part of my day, I shall start on the should-do portion. Should pull these weeds, should paint that door, should make more jewelry, should do paperwork, or laundry, or vacuum, or dust. I don’t know where to start, which direction to point my feet in.

Except, there must be something to this, this not knowing where I’m going, this walking along a path with no a compass, because I am not afraid. Not lost.

Just here, navigating my way by feel and instinct and some inner sense of who I am, or want to be.

Just here, witnessing each day as it unfolds before me, not judging or wishing for a better one. Not dreaming or pretending or lamenting a life I do not have. But living this one. Sitting in my garden in the room I have built from flowers and earth and sky.

A giant room in my tiny world. I can see everything from here.

Just here.

It took me such a long time to arrive. I stumbled a lot and ran in circles and backtracked and trudged through rain and desert, wind and forest, sun and swamp. You can’t follow in my footsteps, even I can’t retrace them, couldn’t tell you where I started, or when I turned left rather than right, or even who I was on the day this journey began. I walked at night by the light of the moon, sometimes, and often, I walked all day. I trusted my heart to guide my feet. I carried my fear in a pack on my back, always behind me.

I am just here.

With this feeling that my entire life led me to this exact place and this feeling that it really was all for a reason and this feeling that I am about to be somewhere else.

Just like every other day, I suppose.

Just here.

A weed is only a weed because somebody else says so.

A weed is a flower with a bad reputation.

A weed has a remarkable ability to adapt.

A weed has very strong roots.

A weed is not afraid to be scattered by the wind.

A weed has great tolerance for adverse conditions.

A weed will flower at all cost.

A weed is doing its best to survive.

I’m pretty sure I could be a weed.