that's mrs. mediocrity to you

.

turn your face

to the sky

and blossom

.

.

for the children

.

::

living

life

one

dance step

at a

time

::

Also, if you haven’t already seen my invitation to join me
in celebrating life on Tuesday, November 27th, details are here

::

learning

to love

my scars and

wrinkles

isn’t easy,

but it is

interesting

::

earth cracked and dry
like the skin on my knuckles
the only difference
is the blood that seeps
through my skin

signs of life
cannot be mistaken
as proof of growth

sapped out seedlings

burn bury burn

crackle crumble

the will to live survives
the pain of scorch in
this desert of days

moisture moves
beneath the surface
with a ripple and a whorl
as the weight of memory
pulls me under

.

.

.

Linking up with the fabulous dVerse poets for Poetics, Whatever the Weather, join us!

kettle over cave

as departure looms

the only sound

is the silence

of hope

::

::

{Image by Tracey Grumbach}
as a prompt for the Poetics link-up at dVerse poets, join us!

::

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

::

Everything is going to be okay.

What is one thing, a sign if you will, that has shown you
that things will be just fine in 2012?

::

there will be first sips of tea each morning

birds will sing because they can

time will win another round
but when it tries to sucker punch me (again)
i will duck and smile

there will be books that transport me to places unknown

socks to sort and papers to file

somewhere, babies will be smiling
and discovering their toes

loss will settle in and wait to take its turn

tears will map out new courses on old cheeks

giggles will become guffaws

sniffles will become colds

pain will become scars

basements will flood and faucets will drip

the mockingbird will pretend
and i will let him make me believe
(again)

i will run my way to a place i’ve never been

words will be written that mean everything and nothing

trees will blossom and leaves will fall

seeds will form

hands will be held

the moon will call my name

i will open my eyes on new wonders

every day

::

:

{reverb11} check it out here  {resound11} check it out here

and also:

this post is part of dVerse poets Open Link Night join us!

This is the place I keep coming back to.

The first time was over 20 years ago, I drove to the Adirondacks alone with my notebooks and a weekend’s worth of soup and the vintage men’s overcoat that I practically lived in at the time. I rented the tiniest cabin available, and I only left once to drive up through the mountains, listening to Cowboy Junkies and Tom Petty and Bob Dylan as I went. I drove for hours and saw sights I have never forgotten.

The rest of the weekend I spent at a table in front of the wood stove, writing poetry and eating soup and perhaps, for a while, pretending that I actually was the writer I had always imagined myself to be. I was quite young, already a mother, already on my way to the end of my first marriage. In many ways, I was lost.

But I found myself here, several hundred miles away from home, up in these hills, found a place to leave my heart, nestled in the crook of an old pine tree, a place where it would always be whole and safe. A place where these mountains would always be watching over its beating claim to life.

I’m not sure why I became so attached to this place, why I had such a strong feeling that I belonged. But I did. And it’s that feeling that keeps me coming back. It’s that view and that lake and that call of loon in the earliest morning hours. And those stars at night that shine brighter and longer and seem close enough that you could reach right out and pluck the one you want to wish on from the sky.

Years later, my husband and I came here on our first anniversary, and throughout the years, we brought our children here many times. Now that they are all grown, it is becoming a tradition for us all to make it here for a few days once a year.

There are plenty of other lakes in these mountains, plenty of higher mountains in this park, plenty of sights that are yet to be seen. But this is the place I keep coming back to.

Always, I find my heart again, covered in leaves and bits of moss.

Still beating out its beautiful song.

Here, in this place.

ten years later
that’s what we call it

not nine eleven oh one
not September, 11, 2001
just
nine eleven

two words

three digits

two towers

four planes

thousands

of

mothers
fathers
daughters
sons
sisters
brothers
wives
husbands
aunts
uncles
girlfriends
boyfriends

not statistics

falling

from

the

sky

not dates
or where were you’s

just whole hearts
in odd numbers

each one

the only necessary

evidence

of love

Life is so simple. So complicated. So simple.

Yes, I know, I can’t make up my mind. I’m sitting outside with my yin and yang kittens, both exactly the same size, one grey striped, one orange striped, one in my lap, one at my feet, one playful and adventurous, the other shy, quiet, steady.

It’s a sultry summer afternoon, and it’s cooler inside with the air conditioning on, but I want to be outside, sitting here in my jungle that used to be garden, attempting to think about nothing. And so, of course, I think about life.

My friend Mr. Mockingbird comes a-calling, interrupting my reverie to remind me that he has it all figured out. Which makes me smile.

A bumblebee, too damaged or near death to fly, crawls along the stones at my feet, and I am sad for him.

Thunder rumbles somewhere off in the distance and all the flowers in my yard perk their ears up, wishing, hoping, praying for some rain to quench their thirst.

The air is still and my mind is racing. I’ve been here, in this place, before.

How many times have I parked myself here, in this spot, in this very same chair, and listened to this very same bird while lamenting the state of my garden?

Of course, it doesn’t matter.

It only matters that I am here, now, with this hot, humid air laying heavy on my skin, letting life settle in all around me.

The rain may come and wash the dust away. Or not.

Either way I will sit in this place. Listening. Breathing. Sweating.

There is no other place to be.