that's mrs. mediocrity to you

there is only the life of it

waking

stretching

holding court with monsters and jesters

jokers and cards

lightdark yinyang goodevil

all run together in the dye
you wash your clothes with

and you serve muddy grey soup
for supper

because it sustains you

but dawn always faces uphill
until you step to the left and

free

fall

into another subliminal sunset

tumbling down

down

down

into a play that shows you the dreams

you’ve already

forgotten

.

.

A poem a day for 30 days, in honor of National Poetry Month.
This post is part of NaPoWriMo.

Also joining in with PAD (poem a day) over at Writer’s Digest.

.

.

there will be days to hold onto
and days that burn the skin from your fingers

happiness is a pearl you should wear
when no one else is looking

every movement you make involves a choice
between yourself and someone you love

practice remembering what it was to be a child
and laugh with joy at least once a day

lick wonder from your fingers and
rub hope into your elbows

don’t ever be afraid to be silent
or to speak or to sing or to scream

every mirror is a false apparition
find your reflection in someone else’s eyes

you will grow in ten million directions
and every one of them is who you are

make every mistake you can imagine
and then go back and make a few more

kindness always replenishes itself
and love is the same as breathing

you will never finish the book
that is your story

life is the gift and survival
is the miracle

sit beneath the sky and find a way

.

.

A poem a day for 30 days, in honor of National Poetry Month.
This post is part of NaPoWriMo.

Linking in over at dVersePoets for Meeting the Bar.

Also joining in with PAD (poem a day) over at Writer’s Digest.

.

.

when i was 49
i started throwing things away

first it was old love letters
and too-short dresses

broken bracelets and lidless saucepans
piles of books and how-to magazines

finally moving on to bowls and worn towels
then shiny bits of empty ornament

the room grew larger but i kept shrinking
i sucked in a breath to keep me anchored

and i cleaned with the faith of a zealot
scrubbing broken brick
and washing stains out of memory

until everything was bleached
as the bones i had scattered in the sand

afterward i lay on the damp wood floor
staring up at a sky i’d drawn with blue pencil

my back ached and my arms were empty
my stomach growled with the pleasure of hunger

i had cleaned my slate and now i was ready
for dessert or silence or immunity

it wasn’t until dawn i remembered
i’d forgotten to outline the sun

.

.

.

.

A poem a day for 30 days, in honor of National Poetry Month.
This post is part of NaPoWriMo, see more here.

.

.

bone dried and bleary eyed
i walk through the forest of neversleep
dreams muted by sharp edged branch
and echoes of earthquake
on a horizon always curving
to the left

i am not lost
in the blue pooled darkness
and my feet are always moon bare
beneath the sky laced curtain
of shift and shadow’s
star-studded chemise

there are screams left behind
in cold footprints
and howls mirrored
trapped
in black ice

and the light that arrives
just to save me
from the corners
of brevity’s
night

.

.

.

Linking in over at dVersePoets for Meeting the Bar, with a little rhythm.

.

.

.

.

.

.

listen

some days, that’s all i want
to say

listen

or show me
what’s in your

heart

beneath the stone
you’ve left unturned

tell me

how it feels
to be the seventh billion
snowflake

falling gently from a sky
made grey with uniquity

holding on

until you melt
raging into rivers

groaning with overflow

howling

losing voice and veracity

whisper-stamped and
season-dated

by a mouth
that’s always
open

.

listen

.

It’s been a week of up before dawn and in bed long after dusk. A week of work and work and work and taking care of the business of life. A week much like any other when it comes right down to it.

Winter holds us in its darkness, frigid cold, frozen. We build fires and bundle up and complain. Being able to complain is the blessing, though one that hides itself in bitter words and false lament.

In between all this work and this complaining and this living, I write.

Like a fool that cannot stop herself, I give up sleep and precious hours in exchange for words. Words that slide from my fingers just as clearly as if they’d been spoken.

Words that light up the night, keep me company, guide me along the dark corridor of February.

That’s what writing always is, isn’t it? A shot in the dark.

And you never stop being afraid that you’ll miss, or even worse, you’ll hit an artery, a vital organ.

But laying down your weapon is never an option. Surrender only comes when the words have filled the page.

And there is always another page, always words pressing down on some inner, bleeding wound. The perfect bandage.

It’s cold and it’s dark and I let the words flow. Even when I’m not writing, they course through my mind in tune with the beat of my heart.

My telltale heart. Always, I let it speak.

I listen to the whispers.

You never know what ghosts they will reveal.

i watch the sound of you
make shapes in the enemy of sky
and you shift change until I lose
the voice behind your words

this earth is cold and grey
and i stand motionless
as you scream
your quavering dance
through a wind
filled with knives and
stinging nettles

your flight is the map
of all things living
and i raise my arms

briefly

thinking perhaps i could
cut in
learn to waltz
or at least

follow

but I am no angel and
you have black wings

i have fingers and toes
and this listening heart

and we both know

this is always and never

even as you land
on the corner of my shadow

pecking code and
marking melodies

neither one of us
is free

I’ll take deep shadows

and the light that causes them

over the blank-faced wall

of forgettable grey

any day.

.

.

in the hush
in the quiet

under breath
beneath the bridge

i never cross
never burn

forest blaze
dancing flame

pirouette
in deep dark shadow

spin spin
never stop

my heart
is your whisper

my voice
is your silence

my music
your zephyr

i am quiet
always quiet

winding through
your ancient labyrinth

never lost
never sorry

for your imprint
on my skin

.

.

your mark has left me wandering for days
solid stare and frozen poultice
broken skin and grey bone bruises

you refuse to reveal what you clock
and i refuse to ask questions

even so, you block my vision
hem me in
and i resent
your cut glass cloak

watching waiting listening

you’ve never been so temporary

my heat fills the room with black fire
because you refuse to hold color

and i have never been seen

.

.

(.p.s. jack frost really did paint this picture on my window)