that's mrs. mediocrity to you

and now you walk bare shouldered
down a road that has no secret

no curve or twist to make you wander
as you form new blisters and
sweat gallons of yester
days
into this insatiable sand

the signs all say keep walking
and so you stop
drink air from empty pockets
wishing you’d remembered
the only book you’ve never read

and

the sun never was your friend
even though you held its warmth
on ten thousand days of skin
and horizon is the same
as ever after

your bones always knew
the way to cave and
dancing flame

but you passed by
the mouth of silence

screaming

adaptation is the mother of sanity

you think i’m wrong hiding beneath
this blanket of light
absorbing everything you say

my shadow has hot, hard edges

nothing gets blurred from black to white
you are blue and i am syllable
stitched together by frustration’s empty needle

there is no breeze to humble this silence

and the sun creeps by in patterns
geese and ring, cabin and star
pieced-together stories left unread

we are puzzles in a frame of empathy

one day soon, it will rain again
wash us clean and bleed our colors together
until we’ll have to squint to define

the outlines of distinction

even as they fade

away

i hear your song
in the morning

an echo of night
and moon
and cassiopeia

i sit silently
listening

for ever

there is no time
in the sand
that pours
through your veins

but this music
keeps me

dancing

my garden forgives
all my sins

neglect
lazy indifference
impatient expectation

roses climb and clamber
fixed on fun and chaos
neverminding the rules
of convention

pretty
is not the same
as fragile

this place feeds
bug and snail
soul and spirit
bird and body

there are no straight lines
no honest assumptions

no pretense
or promise
beneath this sky dome
night temple

and you will always
get your hands
dirty

.

with the wind in your hair

and a song in your heart

and love on the tips

of your fingers

.

i need
no other canvas

no brush
but these birds

no paint
but this light

no mood
but these stars

space
to sit beneath

quiet
simple

exposed
and not afraid

rain down
upon this face

silence
i drink you

in

the fork
the curve
the crossroad

we are always there
walking on
breathing in

shade
sunlight
shade

my path
your path
beaten by
footprint
leaf
experience
rain

no one knows
what lies
around that bend

shade
sunlight
shade

sunlight

you can always get in
if you have the right key

but the sun glare might blind you
and the scent will intoxicate

and you will find yourself
asleep on the ground

in a field filled with poppies
red white and blue

flag waving
petal cloud sky

your wounds will change color
scars will form
bones will knit
holes and pain and fear
become distant memories

red and blue
will fade to violet

you might smell lavender
or the pepper of lupine

monkshood will tower over you
baptisia will offer shade

in the rose-filled secret garden
behind thorns and cold stone fences

if you have the right key
you can always get in

after a while, you get used to chaos

hunched up shoulders and a crick in your neck
become the norm

while time plays no tricks
but marches on around the corner

and then you start stealing moments
gathering them up on the sly for hoarding
in a crackled lightning bug jar

so you can see them after dark

the red cardinal feeding his mate
these roses spilling blooms like confetti
this mirror that is always too honest

languish becomes a lost word
a distant memory

the life you imagined becomes
the one you are living
in stolen snippets of illumination

your heart keeps right on beating
you dance beneath the same yellow moon
you fight your way through another nightmare
to see the sun split wide the horizon

you survive

and one afternoon
you hear yourself

singing

on a broken heartsick mandolin
behind this curtain of sunlight
some would call glare

her tears mix with dewdrops
her dress is mistaken
and the wind in her hair
makes her whimper
even as she nods in the breeze
at all sailors passing

just in case
just in case

beauty is meaningless
to a flower
folly prescribed by
obscure tradition
and those who destroyed
her ability to run

but she stands and she sings
and her heart is made
from one shade of golden

heavy ballast to keep her
grounded

ripe punishment
for hollow dreams
of dancing

.

.

.

.

Linking up with the fabulous dVerse poets for Open Link Night
– a celebration of 100 weeks – join us!