that's mrs. mediocrity to you

in my dreams i fly

to alaska

build a nest somewhere high

in the trees

lay in a stock of sharp pencils

marry words

to make sense of all i see

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Today I am over at dVerse Poets, with a prompt about bucket lists and firsts.
One of the things at the top of my list is a trip to Alaska.
Come join us with a poem about yours.

which is not the same as the kitchen sink
because that would mean everything,

and this is just a window.

and just now, there is too much everything,
everywhere,
every minute.

i want clear blue sky and calm cool morning.

but it’s autumn and the colors are raucous
and speaking of raucous,
i’m missing those crazy-loud geese parties
down at the swamp
that aren’t happening this year

because there’s no swamp.

and i’m not writing because there are no words.

so i wait.

and winter will come and i will miss all this color
and wish for things I don’t have
the same way as today

and that bird in the tree,
that bluejay who spends his days
as a beautiful bully

and the monkshood just starting to bloom,
in amidst all the kisses that need cutting down

and this could all be metaphor
for so many things,
but it’s not, it’s all true,
right outside

this tiny kitchen in

this tiny house

this tiny life

half-invisible

portal.

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on a small lake in maine

i found the color of departure

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(title is a line from Dylan’s Visions of Johanna)

it feels like that’s what this year has been, this year of racing the unknown, scrambling up a mountain of change, lying down in a bed of blind faith.

i keep all the knots loose, for easy escape, and, of course, to make room for new growth.

but nothing stays tidy for long, i know that now.

the sun and the wind and the moon and the stars all conspire to change the shape of existence, sculpting time into their own artistic vision.

so what if i can’t see what they’re creating?

so what if my eyes sting with the strain of trying?

so what if the swamp dries up and the trees bend with thirst and the field of corn across the street turns brown before it reaches four feet tall?

we’re all running, away or toward. we’re all breathing in this air that touches everything and everyone.

we are all this vine turning back upon itself when there is nothing else to hold onto.

breathing in light and exhaling silence.

the flowers that plant themselves become my favorites.

grasping opportunity or fighting for survival, it’s all perspective.

it’s all lost in the cold of winter.

there are always new seeds being planted.

there are so many questions without answers hanging high in a colorless sky.

i leave them for the night that promises results.

i leave them for the bird that soars through hunger.

i leave them for the child that cries to untangle.

tomorrow is always weaving a new story.

today is a word lit by inhale.

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negative space holds the shape of things

we know this, but choose to dance in the open plains
because existence enjoys being contrary

explain to a child the difference
between holey and holy

wholly

or the nature of sanity
and the way the stars all revolve
around one direction

or why i’m bound to sit
facing southeast

watching a halo of hair
glint off the arms
of the distant day
you embraced me

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fifteen 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

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I wrote this for the 10-year anniversary
of this tragic, horrid event.

I am re-posting it again today, in honor of all those hearts.

Never forget.

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this year.

i can’t keep up with anything.

then again, most days i’m glad i’m not in the race.

it’s become the year of silence. of thinking. cringing. thinking some more.

but no matter how many ways i try to separate good and evil, noble and sinister, right and wrong, i just keep coming back to that same thought.

we all have a heart.

perhaps some of us have ours in the wrong place, but who’s to say?

not me.

i’m just going to sit here and watch the flowers grow.

listen.

learn.

hold tight to all the questions

and keep my own heart on my sleeve,

right where it’s always been.

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the wind tells tales of emptiness
littering wide roads with leaves just released
from the captivity of decent living

beneath a sky gone grey with culture
an empty swamp sags with the pattern of destruction
heron filled and heron full on rotting fish and
stain stitched opportunity

and all the green has rolled inward, hoping for storm
or honest anger
finding nothing but dry heat hot
from the memory of august
balanced on the razor of reduction

the sun sinks red and rises false rose golden
as blinding answers dive
into the dusty hardheart crevasse of question
playing host to this catalog of possibility

while the distant beauty vulture
screams his mocking two-faced litany
of violent regeneration

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all settled in

to the confine

of vine

and blooming

just the same

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there is this heat you wear like a blanket

there is this weight you carry in a pocket made from penance

there is silence in the mist of white noise

there is sanctuary

hidden

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