.
a tunnel of words
brambled tight and bunched pretty
blocking the straight line
shortest path
and isn’t that always the way
flight holding up
a mirror
of freedom
while the simple branch
extended as an offering
of comfort
goes unnoticed
these wings
always itching to soar
defying the gravity
of cracked calloused
talon
weaving labyrinth and lace
into a ripe ruffled tapestry
of circuitous
reflection
.
.
.
the path is predetermined by the seed and the soil
and climate’s complete lack of benevolence
a straight line leads only to infinity
and so we are faced with sharp corners
zigs that zag through uncut forest
fallow field
the vagary of mountain
and you can look for the signs
proof of possibility
your only reward for getting it right
but just this morning
one lone leaf was pointing at orion
and tomorrow
it will tumble
through wet sky
.
.
.
the color of sky in anchorage at midnight
the eyes of a girl i never quite met
the forgotten sound of my mother’s voice
none of it was gravity enough
to hold me in place
and so i wandered among you
straddling two worlds on the razor’s edge
of my own incomplete sanity
i fell often, cut and bleeding
through the fabric of a shroud
no one else could see
this wasn’t my decision
it was my destiny
and no amount of fighting
kept me whole
the whisper howl of the wind in a pine dressed forest
the warm slide of good whiskey down a life-parched throat
the crackle of a fire lighting words on a page
i was cold and silent night
played loud on the radio
in a room arranged to be
my last companion
i grew up in a house
the color of empty
raised by ghosts of worn out intention
i laughed like a child
until i was thirty
and then i started leaving in a circle of return
all the things i never had
packed into tattered pockets
the call of a loon on a star scattered lake
the warmth on my skin of a sun gone to silver
the weightless cry of a hawk soaring through hunger
one saved letter pressed tight
against the thump
of my own flawed heart
proof of existence
in a shadow
shaped by please
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
out of focus by default
feathered in darkness
made invisible by midnight
reaching higher
.
a silhouette
formed by stars
and expectation
spinning tumbling diving
straight for the heart
of a nest
made from twig and
woven promises
.
always landing
skewed and off center
grasping finger and foothold
holding on letting go
fluttering
.
.
.
.
my ancestors
ate bones for breakfast
rolled skulls downhill and
named them boulders
i sit on the shore
of borrowed time
listening for home and
waiting for whispers
knitting stories with wool
gathered from the vines
on these ice carved hills
a cradle of lakes strung together
by the unraveled skein of impermanence
and history warms my skin as the sun
slides down between grand houses
built for wide-eyed strangers
once, in winter
i walked over this water
a solid white surface laced with holes
left by disappointed fishers
and my father caught my hood
just as I slid into the calm crest of frozen
saving me with love and quick reflexes
on a morning filled with grey-solid echoes
a memory of almost ending
lost beneath the bleached white
surface of ancient fealty
crackled feathers floating down
through tributary motion
slipping silent from a pocket
left behind long ago
.
.
.
these are the berries
that feed the birds that plant the trees
this is the dance we all sway to
inside the circle we draw ’round our feet
a hole and a window were the very same thing
before the mirage of glass was invented
looking out, climbing in, always scrambling for the light
when it’s the wind that moves us
the invisible made visible only through friction
and the lost enchantment of passage
the temporary existence of each leaf
is a mirror
dawn and dusk’s lost reflection
miming minutes dressed in gold
the imminence of flight
ever present
.
.
.
growing
side by side
putting down roots
sending out shoots
weathering storms and
basking in sunlight
floods and drought
potbound and replanted
moonlight trysts
and daytime dances
messes and loss
triumph and seasons
fed by love and
seven thousand sunsets
here we are,
still blooming
.
Happy Anniversary, Mr. M.
.
.
.
first, you have to dance
arms flung wide
with hope’s last vestige of abandon
you have to care and not care
at the very same time
drop permission from your vocabulary
throat your laugh and hug the sky
your dress must be free and made of history
your face must be painted with your own experience
(hand-me-downs and borrowed wishes
will be confiscated)
you must wear a ring on every finger
one for each time you pretended to know
the answer to anything
and you must refuse to lick the plate
of shallow dictate
this isn’t about being naked
you can do that well enough on your own
this is about your true colors
the ones you wear when no one else is looking
because exhibitionism does not equal honesty
and besides
it’s your skeleton that always tell the truth
skimming shallow skin and baring marrow bone
but it’s your heart that hears the music
and your sleeve doesn’t have to be fancy
or short or even rolled up
if there’s lace, tear it off
drop the bangles
bare your wrist
and two-step the pattern of your flaws
across the floor we all stand on
close your eyes
listen
we’re all here
the beat cannot beat you
or make you special
we’re all here
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
you climb to the top and you stand there
inhaling sunshine
the rains will come again and you will drink
not caring for the purity
of washed-out clouds
you will slip and you will fall
and neither one will destroy you
just as long as you keep laughing
it isn’t courage you need
so much as tenacity
lion-hearted is not the same as lion
fighting for survival is not the same
as unenlightened
holding jewels in your fingers
is not the same as sincerity
the seedhead is never as fragile
as bloom
there is no wisdom taller
than observation
and the view is ever changing
sun is the only constant
and even that is actually
star
.
.
.
all your flaws are evidence of irony
mother nature has a sense of humor
but also, a quick temper
she sends flowers as apology on a regular basis
you have to cut your own path in the forest of existence,
with a quick-sharp, heart-forged machete
courage is your metronome and
labyrinth is another word for learn
live lost and laugh at life’s thunder
the sky remembers every flash of lightning
earth is just a pattern of old scars
hiding shy beneath a veil of tattered stars
.
.
