::
whispering promises
that always come true
because if nothing else,
we’re always changing
and i stand in the
star-shaped shadow
of everything you’ve
ever given me
trust and hope
filtering down through
to my roots
blushing pink
and smiling
at the sky
::
that keeps you
pokes and prods
pricks and feeds
from the marrow
of your soul
blood and toil
aren’t that hard
to come by
we know this
there’s always
someone willing
to work for less
more to come
hurry up and wait
tread that mill
like you mean it
mean it
fill the empty spaces
places
faces
with
traces
of heart
that will later
be erased
::
you stand there
in a dream
with all the right words
held up on cards like
Dylan’s Subterranean
Homesick Blues
::
and i smile
at the ones
you throw away
::
i don’t have to walk far
to get to perfect
and by this i mean
perfectly imperfect
because the other kind
(impossibly perfect)
exists only on paper
and in the smiles of children
and it is only
in the learning to admire
the imperfections
those tiny bits of life
with scratch and bruise
the rose half eaten
by a japanese beetle
the lines
on your face
that spell
time
the chip
in the polka dot bowl
you bought me
the tan lines
caused
by my
flip flops
the skin i settle into
a little further each year
that i can stand here
hands cupped
trying to hold
the fluidity
of life
and of course
(imperfectly)
it slips through
my fingers
drips
bits of hope
and sadness, tears
you caught with kisses
and a gallon or two
of little girl
giggles
and
i don’t even try
to catch them all
just
the three left
resting in my palm
like shiny
mercurial marbles
washed clean
on the shores
of today
is always the one
no one’s expecting
always tiny
and full of
…….other
…….possibilities
…….and the burden
…….of its own dead weight
…….i pretend my back
…….is stronger than
…….this mess you’ve left
…….in the kitchen
…….dirty dishes,
…….muddy tracks,
…….a trail
…….of crumbs
…….leading to
…….the places you’ve
…….always
…….kept secret
…….and i could follow
…….if i wanted
…….solve the puzzle
…….work my way up
…….to the big
…………reveal
…………but instead
…………i gather up sponge
…………and broom and
…………this tired old
…………dustpan
…………and whistle
…………as i work
…….and when
…….the job is finished
…………and my floor is
…………clean
…………but my hands
…………are dirty
…………then
……………..and only then
……………..i call your name
it’s june and i sit before this fire
wearing socks and a big fleece blanket
wondering how it is that just last week
i sat outside in the breeze dripping
sweat with my feet in a bucket of water
and i was sad then and i am sad now
and it was may then and it is june now
and life skitters away before me on
slippered feet that make no sound
and i think about change and
the way it no longer
interests me
and can’t decide if that’s right
or wrong or somewhere in between but
mostly i think about silence and
flowers and reading books that take me
to places i’ve never seen, no, not places,
i don’t care about places, i’ve never
cared about places, it’s lives i visit
in the pages of books, hearts i hear
beating at midnight and dawn
and sometimes, in summer, i stay up
reading all night just to listen and
wonder and watch the sun rise
on someone else’s
horizon
she cooked for an army because she had one
yours, mine, ours and this bunch had nothing
in common with the bradys
mostly i remember white uniforms,
being paid a quarter to rub wintergreen
on the hot, swollen feet of a nurse
and i could never imagine her dancing
past the faux-wood metal shelf
filled with knick knacks i was forever
in danger of breaking all mingled with
the smell of starch and the best
molasses cookies ever made
i rubbed pink lotion and collected
my coin but back then
i didn’t know all the stories
didn’t know there was more to be told
in the world my mother grew up in
fairy tales lived in a bottle and evil
slept in the corner one eye open
shhhhh, be careful not to wake him be good be good
except good was never good enough
and in the end the deepest scars
smelled like wintergreen and antiseptic
fingers worked to the bone never quite
disguise enough for a flawed heart
not made of gold not made of love
not made of anything but broken
and broken begets broken
fosters heartbreak and failure
and i like to think intentions were good
i like to think survival shouldn’t mean
damaged children but all i know are stories
and all i have are a teapot and a photo
of a hard-working woman who cooked for
an army because that’s what she had
but the soldiers she raised needed so much more
than the purple hearts they received
you have your chair and i
have mine and sometimes
at night after you’ve
gone to bed and i finally
get around to pulling on
my night owl
i move over and sit
in your chair
to view the world
through your eyes
every so often
i see myself sitting
there
in that other chair
a book of poems
or a baby
in my hands
and remember that
these chairs
have seen the best
and the worst of us
at times merely innocent
bystanders and at others
the only thing keeping
us from tearing holes
in the walls
and then
i put my feet up
and pretend to be you
watching baseball through
half closed lids and
i never get there really
never quite transition
into a sports fan
but who would have thought
a jock
and a poet could share
these two chairs
side by side all these years
worn and tired though
they are still strong and
mostly sturdy
always silent
about those nights
when neither one of
us could tell
the difference
up at midnight up at dawn
shift-wearing shape-shifting
through a night of dreams and
words that write themselves
on the chalkboard walls of
slumber
blue and gold are the colors
of anarchy (or valor)
i cannot tell one from
the other in this toned
down version
of sanity but i know where
my heart is always easy
to find that loud obnoxious
whisperer {not}
that there’s anything to
hide in this corner with
sunrise always there
out of sight
perhaps but never
out of mind
i’ve never been in the ocean
oh, i’ve been to it, i’ve seen it,
marveled at the vast expanse of
nothingness that equals everything
but i’ve never dipped my toes.
chances are, i never will,
me being a fire sign and all
hot, hot, always burning myself out
before anyone can douse my flame
content to sit with the embers.
i’ve never been to the moon
either and i’m okay with that,
who wants to travel all that distance
and besides, i’m fairly certain
she looks better from afar.
i spend my days in my backyard
which makes me small and rather
boring, but i don’t need to swim (or
drown) in a salty vat of bitter sorrow
i’ve got this puddle at my feet,
this reflection that paints blue sky
as well as any maxfield parrish and
every so often a water bug stops by
to skim the surface, creating
ripples the size of tsunamis.
