that's mrs. mediocrity to you

has hovered
for days now
shrouding my vision
with arbitrary
thought.

gravity pulls
on the ribbon
of existence,
unties the bow
that makes it
pretty.

i can open
everything
that holds
me

but instead
i leave that box
sitting
on a shelf
in the corner

dust-coated
to prove
i have not
been there.

::

::

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this post is part of dVerse poets OpenLinkNight join us!

{august break no. 30}

::

i drove
in circles
through a town
called hope
to get to this
ink black
blue dark
place
where a
loon’s laughter
echoes off
tales spun by
the milky way
while the rest
of the stars
lay their
weary heads
down
on a mirror
of infinity’s
reflection.

::

::

this post is part of dVerse poets OpenLinkNight

{august break no. 23}

::

the rainy afternoon
that calls you outside
to sit still and
listen
for echoes of rainbow
in shapes of thunder

the tiny white spider
that slides down, down,
down
an invisible thread
to hover and spin
at your side

the slip and drift
that make it possible
to blindly dive through
silence
while wishing to be
nowhere

but here.

::

::

this post is part of dVerse poets OpenLinkNight

today i am also over at vision & verb
with some thoughts on washing the dishes

{august break no. 16}

i’ve begun to revel
in my blisters.

they are evidence
of mortality,
documents of despair,
monuments to motion.

they are mine.

i earned them,
i asked for them,
i paid for them.

i cannot move forward
without them.

and beneath the
worn leather
that created them,
they’ve acquired
the importance
of god.

::

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this post is part of dVerse OpenLinkNight join us!

{august break no. 9}

in honor of your death

i have burned the mountain

for it was you
who walked beside me
etching creases on my face
to bring me courage

you who wrapped
love’s first seed
in scarlet paper,
held it up
against the sky
to bring me home

you who left me separate
but never quite alone
to teach me the faults
of observation

i watched as
embers cooled
and turned to stone

walked among them
choosing shapes
of heart and
hollow memory

until i came
to gnarled stumps
and saw you
standing

eyes sorry
for the comfort
you had made

::

::

this post is part of dVerse OpenLinkNight join us!

{august break no. 2}

sparkle green

golden sideways

mute repercussion

::

what you see

matters less

than what

you

swallow

::

::

this post is part of dVerse OpenLinkNight

raised from the dead
by an angel’s voice
in a plea to save
mother earth

my heart cries
too late, too late

my mind sits
in a bowl

empty

wrapping itself
around
two words

like a snake
without
a tongue

::

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As a rule, I’m not big on explaining poems, I like to leave them open to the reader’s interpretation, but this one needs some explanation. This past weekend I went to a festival at a local Native American Historic Site. The featured singer, Joanne Shenandoah, in explaining one of her songs, mentioned Wilma Mankiller, and immediately, there was a poem. I know little about Wilma, other than the brief explanation given by Joanne — she was a real person, a great person,
the first female Chief of the Cherokee Nation. 

This poem is less about who she was and more about the images her name
immediately evoked. And the photo? Well, other than boosting the
contrast and the saturation, what you see, whatever you see,
is what was there.

If you feel like commenting, I’d be curious to know
what your thoughts are about explaining your poetry.

::

this post is part of dVerse OpenLinkNight

all those things

i never asked for

you laid at my feet

in triumph.

.

that thing i wanted most

(the key to your

military heart)

.

you could not offer

.

not knowing

where you’d left it

.all those years ago

.

and

never thinking

to look

in your pocket.

.

::

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this post is part of dVerse OpenLinkNight
and the farewell edition of oneshotwednesday
join us!

summer sun
hot, hot
golden glow
singing songs
of ripening

in a farmer’s field
a day’s work
transforms gold
into stubble

earth’s cycle
laid bare
in the light
of labor’s
morning

::

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Today I am also over at Vision & Verb
with more thoughts on this field of wheat.

Come, join us!

::

this post is part of one shot poetry wednesday

she leads the way

and somehow

it’s always

the right direction.