shift

sometimes ....
when one is not looking,
not paying close enough attention
a shift occurs
a shift in the earth beneath your feet
a shift in the focus & light gleaning into the circus kaleidoscope
the colors mute and bleed, leaving one
less full
shapes can not be determined, purple becomes blue becomes green becomes
grey
puzzling
over the events that could crash about one in puddles & shards of emptiness
the fog rolls in cold & hollow - veiling the light
the indigo bubbles fail to rise and your soul is left
in a labyrinth of regret & desire
circling as a thin, grey wolf would
hunt: solitary & famished
empty
how does one keep striving in the shift
how does one believe in the power of .... love
darkness aches for the wound in the soul
and yet .....
there is a smell ....
earth & moistness
something alive and new ....
really ?
or is it merely another trick of the kaleidoscope
shake it

hard

close your eyes and listen ....
there.

raise. it . up.

if only we could take the words we fall to ....
words of disbelief
to words of prayer & light
and
weave them into a celestial net of comfort & right
weave them tightly to silver moon hope
and
december's stars . . .
until we are lifted tenderly to a place of better
held closer to truth
and
tethered
to illuminated love

price

Why do we scourge ourselves for our humanness?
for crimes real, temporal
or imagined frailty?
for silly weakness or tender bruising
for being in the wrong place at the wrong time
or perceptions tainted & unsure
when do we let go and recognize
the toll was happiness
happiness in all its glory & divinity
when do we
step up & fight
for
the missing part
the burst of right
the trace of turquoise light
our cracks and fractures shift & part
as our broken bones & souls take flight
there all along apparent or veiled
there all along
we are whole & complete
every choice cuts to bone
so trust in your heart
and
find your way home

Today ….

The Wednesday Poetry Corner on The Plum Tree
find me here ….

epiphany

mid-day shadows
and
a
longing
for an island upon which to gather berries & silence
thorned & violet as cotton acanthium
bring me quiet blue
splashing against sinew & marrow
wide & pale as fragility
still …. 
hushed birdsong & anthems call
hushed to lines bold & righteous
hush ….
i will wear feathers
and
      find you

simple gifts

I have always championed a return to a more simpler season : Less is More. 

The rampant commercialism of the holidays is nothing new. It predates A Charlie Brown Christmas, Macy's & the shopping mall.
Growing up, I was a slightly obsessed creator of my own gifts; quilting, gluing, cutting & constructing. As an adult, I mashed-up the hand-making habit with a conscientious choosing of perfect gifts . . . loving shopping or making just the right item.
My point here - I understood the importance of the holidays, starting with the costumed entrance into fall of Halloween, the autumnal family feast of Thanksgiving and the lighted & wonderful delights of Christmas.
Now, from my first job to my last . . I have always been in service industries. From hotels, to motels, animal care, flower shops & coffee stops ….
Service. 

Always open = to be of service. 

 In our twenties, we moved to the front range of Colorado.  And I recall some public outrage over movie theaters being open on the holidays . . . what blatant crass commercialism !!!

"Who would dare go to a movie on a holiday & make those poor people be away from their families on a holiday!"

Well, we would.
It was not always financially possible, or heck, even emotionally possible to make the 8 hour trip home for the holidays. So we would work. My husband & I also spent those early years trying to get pregnant, so that added a certain bend. Our holidays were spent cleaning kennels, or working long hotel shifts, so our co-workers with children could be home with their families.  We were not anything special, so don't think this was some sort of altruistic path - other friends did this too - it was just logical.  Then we would grab a meal at McDonalds while longingly staring at couples with little ones before catching a late movie. We were thankful for fast food restaurants & movie theaters being open!  After a few years, we weaved together a posse of friends that became our family - we loved them as such … and celebrations grew into wonderful events, but always around doing the work-thing first.
Businesses, big corporations, small mom & pop places, hospitals, our military & first responder services, shelters; both human & critter will be open.
It's been going on for awhile, and some things we have no control over.
Being open, providing the place and space to work …. provides a sense of purpose, spirit and connection that becomes home.  
Folks work, and believe it or not .... some really like to.
And maybe, just maybe, their 'family' is found with those they work with.

So please tread carefully when defining holiday and family, when pounding your fist & demanding that folks don't shop on Black Friday, or run somewhere at midnight on Thanksgiving evening to get their deal on, or go to the movies.
There are a bizillion jobs that go on regardless of the date on the calendar.
and sometimes ….
'Family' is found standing behind a concession stand, creating display windows for the holidays, printing our newspapers,  serving sushi at a hot-tub-nudist holiday
(uh, yeah, this really happened …)
running our hospitals, rescuing animals,
or dealing with the hurly-burly of midnight shopping.
Maybe if we spend less time trying to control things, and just try to bring our own simple gifts into everything we do ;
make connections, smile and be kind.
Maybe then the world will be a little more ok
with a little more love
found in the spin.
Happy Thanks + Giving Everyone . .

a fragile cusp

negative space
white ice-silver-smooth
like an echo

an echo in winter

hollowed of green & boldness
twined & waiting on the fragile sureness of you
a petaled complexity
vesseled by channeled hands of trust
dressed in tea-length-edwardian melancholy
(no, not melancholy !)
that is --blue
   .....smelling of wild mushrooms, merlot & november's sky
this is--merely
white ice-silver-smoothness
tasting of first snow upon my tongue

still

Leaves have stopped falling
As we are in the pause of hours . . .
Poised & inhaling the richness of change
Crisp earth cut with the sharp copper of snow lies on my tongue
As the warrior song lands upon my lips & I swallow it's dissonant thrum
Attempting to find grace where there is hollowness
Struggling to step thru into a new place of right
Relinquishing the steel-need, or at least the appearance of . .
Slipping into the armor of always
As I open my arms to the day & the taste of balance
Finding the movement startlingly familiar
I dance to the grey and the fire

midnight o two of the beaver moon

rich violet

moon-sky 

light
take me into this burled morning

riding upon a white horse to the songs of cowboys and circling planets 

wool blankets cushion the fall to evermore and silent rivers of western longing 

sing to me of passages and the risk of knowing 

sing to me of secrets buried in pink quartz to the forgotten lullabies
whispered in languages only known to lovers

stars have no concept of ego
or shadows  ...

on leaning in

I have always become lost in the simplest of exercises
the
sweep sweep sweep of an almost-wet-mop
across floors cross-hatched with the lines of family
and
lives passed over and through
sweep sweep
the hypnotic dance of the have to
the ordinary course of days
leaving the sublime and the sacred
to
Everest seekers & pole dancers
sweep sweep
sunlight captivates me
hand raised to dust cobwebs laced against the cream puff plaster
27 bones of purpose & design
caught in the fragment
of
light to wall
infinite to mortal
these small worship movements of the day
press me towards open fields of winters wheat and harvest-dust rising
rising rising
leaning into the ordinary

dreamcatchers

there are moments when the ridged, aching bones of your sternum are pulled wide open
stretched and tethered to the beat of sun and longing
viscera & blood sweetly released into the particle'd evermore
feathers stilled by a hand so skillful & sure
petaled-krispy-creme-mornng …
climb inside my bones & take me home

charismatic grifter

the curve of this day
arcs & bends in direct proportion to the velocity of breeze
and
the sound of the noon train
thundering
thundering
thru a town suspended upon prairie golden & silver saged
removed to Mars by the veiled acceptance of lore & loam
 . . . in the tallest branches of nested stillness
quivers the tempered understanding of love & vapor trails
oh, i am equinoxed & present in the space between
the porcelain berry & the blue-sky'd hope of more

to the curve of this day  . .  

moon in virgo

Standing on the front porch, I can smell it . .
the smell of leaves burning !
I step outside
and
fall to the sidewalk of 1974 :
leaves are burning . .
somewhere
very close
wafting
hazing the neighborhood & the moon with presence
joy pours into me from fires expectation
and the rush of a kiss
life & love rustle with crisp forgiveness
14 feels like this ; tight & wild
organic & open
leaves are burning. . .
somewhere
very near
around the corner
in cornfields & cartwheels
catapulting innocence closer to the edge
twigs snap from the weight of
this story, this moment
caught in the tendrils of leaves smoke
rising
rising ....
to circle a moon lodged between the branches
of who I thought I was
and
who I have become
leaves burning me home ...

toll

A Price paid
twisted & wrung from the marrow
measured, in part,
by sorrow & loneliness
no regret
no risk too great
intimacy gathered in hours weaved
in ease & knowing
holding you i touched your face & knew how to let go and yet hold fast
your fragility & sacrifice have been weighed
your strength is daunting & wired with the precision of gods
as breeze turns to wind
under my hands the dry tired grass is cool, sticky
while the earth beneath remains warm & moist
as i dig for a balance
there
laying down in a paint-box of autumn
forgiveness nests around us
nests . . shifting, moving
leaves falling
part & parcel
you take my hand & bring it to your lips. . . inhaling deeply the fire of this season
the burn of earth, desire & green-growing things
open & fearless
you take my hand
leaves falling
falling fast & thick
everywhere
falling
and with every leaf the hole is pierced by sweetness
cutting with gamboge sharpness & some half-remembered giddiness
childish, innocent in it's ease
. .  oh wait . . .
It is joy
joy speckled pumpkin-vermillion & chestnut
shards of electric fire-joy shoot thru that marrow, thru the skin that is melting into october's grass
riding that wind into saffron-surrender
holding on
feeling every scar, every toll extracted
alive
hands crunching this canvas
holding fast as warm phoenixed musk-brilliance rises
pressed into skin naked & pearl-hot chilled
open & fearless
filled  . . .

Oisin

Skin and darkness
bodies learned and whisper-amazed
self is not a word here; as each need & wish is tendered
offered up . . .
to give & receive with equal weight & treasure
sureness is spoken in velvet tender loops of blue
willing and pulled to the edge of some
wild & primitive bourbon shore
skin hot . . melted
a thousand kisses deep
ancient of seasons change and
an electric borealis
we smell of snow and peanut butter
skin and darkness

hymn to midnight o'clock

     Dear particles of stardust, train rumblings and the low drone churn of car exhaust as it moves back and forth on a night remarkably chilly and tasting of every clear mercury-autumn night for the last thousand years, Dear air that I breathe, I have for too long focused on the order and the line of things, the right of things, the rhyme of things, I have listened to good music, but ignored the secret quiet beating of my own heart, I have watched the work of others, the dance of others while silencing my own feet, taking my own desire to leap into the prism'd waters for granted, I have tempered my territory believing I am only just so capable, I have apologized for getting things wrong and for being too too human when really really I am an enchanted being with wings strong enough, legs swift enough, and heart soft enough to carry the combined weight of wings and wonder to 138 million miles above the whispered leaves of the curly willow outside my window, Dear bones I will push you into years of morning sun dappling the landscape of plains and prairie to rest a little, lean a little and carry the folding fragility of this moment, this moment bigger,  truer - becoming golden.   

thinking 11:11

i am sometimes surprised
at the softness of my skin
certain places contain no trace of solar flares and breathing
merely the rise and fall of weather systems over the prairie
and
a certain give … and take
nubile hardley seems the word
yet
yet ...
there is a timeless cadence in the sensation of need
though my hand lacks the rough mastered determination of yours
… so
i smile
and turn to the sun 

waxing crescent in scorpio

Sliver of moon
evening falls
and it carries upon it the barest chill & screech owl song
fleeting dusk it is ....
removing us from the coarse, narrow existence of our day
allowing us to
breathe
breath and release
to feel
to give
to be
the chill settles about the what remains of green-growing-things
and the ivory blossom of knowing
wait for me ...
just beyond that curious twisted tree
as i am meant to hold that hand
& tender your worries
slow your pace and
wait
for
me
as i once found the strength & ability
to wait for you
and then we'll dance . . . .

night visible

willow-curly with trembled femininity
pursued against the chipped & sullen eaves
sun upside-down as a hedge-apple-cake
words buried under the yellows & red of fall
f
  a
     l
        l
           i
              n
                 g . . .
frost eager at the gate of laurel bark
as
porcelain berry sings of
indigo-blue stillness
a dream of evening's new moon
hanging moments of willow-curly 

thursdays

Nudged off the concrete steps 

Into the maple tree
Into pieces of dandelion parachute lightness
Catching the wind into the blue of this day
Pulled & lifted into visions of use & service
Unwound, released & reaching
Open & available
To be present & vital to the boned & feathered
To write, to fly, to soar into the something more .....
To complete the flight 

To follow thru

With no fear of heights
No fear of the landing
Maple Tree shimmering … 

Flight into me 

terra firma

there is a point in the course of my day that sets me back upon my heels ...
a point where i realize that all that has come before pales in comparison to all
that will be ...
a point that stops me in my step
halts my breath and
i
close
my eyes .
a song is barely heard
there in
the chaos of the stars ...
is it ....
9 crimes ?
useless desires ?
hero ?
i'll be ?
ah. favorite  damn disease .
yes.
and is is raw & raunchy & steeped in jamison & guinness .... smoke & red
it is blade sharp and hurts like amotherfucker as i rake it across my wrist ....
my
eyes
close
and there in the blackness i
see
&
know
the terra firma black cherry spaces

hold space

five-thirty

I leave little trace here ....
no crumbs of opal dust
no tail of the comet
linear & polite
shadows behave
sunlight fades into night
wind circles to land upon wisteria & hops
matter shifting, folding
bringing
inner to wonder-light
unruffled birdsong
twilight

of autumn coming ...

One
solitary saturday bee
waltzes and weaves thru the porcelain berry
acompanied by a
single solitary
cricket
somewhere to the east
of summer 

It lies there ....

There is a delicacy of word I strive for
Yet it was here all along ..
Sliced & blossomed by a candied telling poignant & blue
Discovered in the simple fact that
Pain hurts
And nothing frightens more than love lost
Petaled wet sorrow
Kilned into lapis
Marrow of ebony-lines steel-taunt & wry
There, there ..
Writers don't write but paint their reflection upon the night
And await another day ....

for Candice

atma prema

we pick-up-sticks
&
tiddley winks
from view-master days
in our halcyon mirror
striving to be
who we yearn to be
while
the zaffre-blue summer moon disappears

streets & stars
spark our compassion
as pages burn in our bones
yet the heart of this moment
is all we need
and all
we ever need know

feel the day & dance with gods
let your soul rocket to the sun
be
with
love
& trust the moon
'til
wholeness is found
in one

wolfsbane

This green corn moon
This perseid moon has me reeled in & bound
Flat out upon this lichen-rock mesa
Open, yet closed
Collecting no souvenirs
No trinkets
Hungry for movement & a reciprocal force
Electric & startling
A north westerly breeze shakes the maple leaves and they remember a bitter frost
all too soon . . .
As the day shines toward twilight
Expectant & paused

This sturgeon moon strips me of artifice & need
Pink & hollowed
Folded inside out
fragile
Awaiting strength
The breeze has quieted as twilight draws closer
Hearing echoes, whispers & purpose
Longing for a scent of pine & altitude
a secret stashed in my marrow

Bright me on, tap the fire-core
Rise up ooh full red moon
And sing me to a rising of spirit & knowing

source

Brenda was born with a red sparkle heart
speckled fragments of ash in her bone
standing for hours in the shaded grass park
that laid there between our homes

Standing & staring to the prairie-blue sky
skinny arms twirling around ...
'til one day she flew up, in her gingham blue dress
her banjo-brown eyes not once looking down

Some children hear just the birds of the air . .
while others hear the whispers of wind beyond
striving to reach horizons unseen
yearning to break earth's bond

Brenda was slight as summer's green mantis
and nutmeg-brown as milo in fall
thin & transparent, yet so full of stardust
but not able to tell us at all ...

Her secrets she carried like a pocket of berries
with a name that didn't fit on my tongue
plucked they were from some galaxy's shore
with a color that shone like the sun

Brenda was born with a red sparkle heart
speckled atoms of Mars in her heart
flying thru life with an equation of dreams
and a song of rhubarb Mozart

too . .

to be 'too' …

too much of this, not enough of that
how can the deck be so stacked
fools respond to the too ....
by shaming & poking and cutting in two
the skin & bone
the wings & heart
dissecting & mocking while standing apart
too many colors, too much spark
can you be higher on some fools list ?
can you be pretty, with not so much grist ?
can you quiet, behave & comply ?
can you be thinner, you won't even try ?
too much of this, 

not enough that
I plead and I bargain but god's not called back
to crumble & fold ... retreat to the kingdom
of castles & princes - the storybook syndrome
questing thru trails 

of bramble & vine

to come to a crossroad
and
discover a spine
to rise from our ash-self .. to repair the bones ....
to strap on wings & fly away home ....
we come to the party 

all tattered & teased
only to see that our own soul is the key …

too much of this, not enough that
balance lies there,
when you pull the feathers back 

sunrise . . . after a dark night

what causes our psyche to slip to to one side
and not the other ....
fractures lie
ever present
ever waiting ... open & raw
part of our carbon crystal selves ..
reflecting
refracting
some to rise
some to fall
is evil but a masked myth
or
linked on our divine chain ....
ringed & outlined with a beer cozy & black lines thick ...
loss
&
fear - colliding
a response ... an ego'd step to
quiet madness ....
others bridge those dark chasms
with the orange light of love & dawn's fragility ....
spanned & connected
shining the light ... above
to stars & saviors
holding ... hope

generation

it appears

you look
for the easy way . . .
no rocks, no highways, no break of day
free of garments
free of pain
halcyon days of
play ...

and
grain

child of summer
child of indigo

… with fists curled in rage
and
arms sky-wide
you take the purse
and
steal the thunder
only to hold the fey inside

shhh ….
quietly 

you
fill
with
a silver-moon-hope

blazing a truth-trail
thru weeds
and
rye
of storms kicked up by the boots of love-soldiers
as stories tender the fire inside

child of the stone sheep
and
child of the columbine
wearing the tilted crown
seasons roll past with tempered precision
as your bones
anchor
to holy ground

beeswax . . paper smooth night

sitting here
minding my beeswax
wax
late
candles
waiting for a storm
minding space
spaced and weary
hollowness ringing buzzing beating in my ears
bones heavy with the nights gravity
thumb rubbing the borders of this book
repetitive finger-chanting
leather smooth & limitless
repetitive
minding the hollow
listening to the still
when suddenly the leather
becomes
you
there is that thread, that bridge of sureness & I can not escape the tumble
my hand along your bended leg
hard
mine
can't stop this electric pantomime and as my eyes close against the unexpected wet missing
of feeling you
along the trapezius line
across the distant & pulsing quadrants
across shoulders
slowly finding my way
i have become lost here before--in the tracing of fibers & skin
i will not be lost will not be lost will not be lost
leather leads to paper ripe & richly worded
smooth
falling .
minding
finding
your neck
scars that sing to me of a city in snow, brisk & deep
sparks & tingles of the ever
moonlight turning everything cashmere blue
it's cold
but i will keep you warm
minding
trailing the chant
down your arm across muscles
tendons--crystal bones
skin that melts me thru to crimson creeks
there--a birth-mark that resembles a newly discovered star or
maybe
a super nova
there
minding
I can feel you
hands grasp hold pinch & stroke
release
and it is
now
minding
and i will never be hollow

Finding Venus transit . .

marked the time eleven twenty-three ...
paused as something presumed lost
unexpectedly located
myself : small, as a child - whole & shiny
a trace innocence
there
across the ridge of the distum pedis
and
the high hollow plant
my . . feet !?
there ...
all this time
underneath the weight of bones & fears
all along ...
on the trail ... this path leading
I am still here ...
still of air, still of blossom
tucked away with a box of crayons & johnny carson
perfect & eager
naked & smooth .... it is there
one's childness . . grounding groundling
still
with me ...
there.

Today ….

Of what do YOU long for … ??   ☜ step inside 

think about it
write about it
tell yourself …
color outside the lines . . . today

solstice

larked skipped
purple thistle blade
grass sworn
soil rain lemonade

tangerine pillows
pierced pony neigh
white bark swallow
thunder star-way

loves felted walnut
sweet cherry song
snow echoes holding
suns waiting arms . . ..

scorpio moon 18° 53'

i am a charismatic trick-pony rider
with an assignment to stand in the grass
barefoot
no glitter socks or rodeo boots
i am terrified - grass is unpredictable & liquid green
( i like socks,
they remind me of the softness of things
and the vertical )
the assignment was to stand in the grass
to drop the reins . .
close my eyes
and
throw arms open
allow the pony to gallop around the sun
. . .
can i handle the light
as it penetrates the veil
can i accept the burn ?
bring it in
and
if i do  . .
will
I
ever
want
to
leave
it  . .
the assignment was to stand in the grass
barefoot
stunning coolness
release
&
burn

one

The ball that is you
throbs & thrums
with a sound falling somewhere between
a
meadowlark's song & the sound of sighs
there is an echo of thunder in my bones
as the ball expands & contracts
expands & contracts
with
each
breath
each beat of blood rising
and
falling ,,,,
in the center of heart, my chest
this ball
becomes summer's crescendo of heat
and
moon-knowing
this ball becomes
me. 

"знание леса"

i thought i wrote this moment,
inked it out
perfectly story-boarded with a crack team of hollywood writers
pencil behind my ear, as i nod & drink coffee, or merlot,
looking fabulous & pretending to be only so
interested  . .
predicting the whiz-bang-heart-beat, the tasty blend of bile & dry cotton in my mouth
it would be morning, early & pink
and i would be rising ; putting on sweats, chopin & coffee
when suddenly i would trip over you ... somehow.  dramatic in 1080 pixels
( soundtrack available on itunes june 16th )
inked out . .
but when the first cadence of your words hit me  ::
the proper capitalization, the pace & repetition
and i mean " to the nines . .  the rough, the smooth . .  the escape "
my eyes closed, my breathe caught
i smiled  ( just a wee wry smile, lips closed sorta smile ... small, barely perceptible sorta smile )
& i breathed
deep
slowly ....
of honey-suckle
iris, wet green grass
& pie.
a home-made, from scratch sweet-cherry-pie  . .
cinnamon & sugar dusting on the top
slightly warm with french-vanilla ice cream
real french-vanilla with all those little wee flecks of bean
and i could smell & taste , and i could feel
i could feel ...
the amber-raw-silk of you -
protective, sure & hard & ohh so tender
the older i become, the less i know ....
except for this
one
thing .
i did not anticipate
the exploding levity of my heart
honestly !! - the unmistaken taste of bile & cotton-white
and yes , ,
yes
that pull of heat & want & sex & surrender . . it's there.  damn.
it's all there
. .  and then .....
with each word
i fell from time
the thunderstorm rolled in
& rain fell storying
the layered complexity & beauty of life & love
bolting right thru me  ....
grace was untethered by our intimacy
and sureness sleeps in the mandrin-knowledge of skin to skin . .
complete, unconditional sweet-cherry-pie
love

like water .....

you stood there 
at the river's edge
     relaxed & leaning 
devoid of expectation & artifice
there was no awkward moment
no hesitation
just melt & surrender
pressed
hard
yielding 
as if your skin  

     transparent & open
molecules permeable
to the addition of another form
my skin 

     simply melted away
leaving sureness
swallowed whole to the nevermore
soaking up every fear & broken need
moving into some kama sutra of 

always
moving into light & darkness 
hand tucked under your thigh
a fit easy knowing
as we drove to ....
does it matter ?
i can't recall.
we color outside the lines
     with intimacy  
with a  naked need to posses & release 

     back to the wild
the golden blueness of us
transformed & always loved
completely 
     regardless
       of the current

gemini moon

Life
is
but a dream waking . .
ecru edged
distant as a soft thrumming water-echo
pulsed prism'd
the scent of catalpa on a perseid wind
crickets & cars
rivers & highways
thrum thrumming . . .
diamond blade deep along the swan-line
stones & bones collide
as
choice
tears at our feathered gossamer self
or
fires us to fearlessness
dive & rise
dive & rise
oh being of comet-dust
dive & rise

pausing

opal ....
fractured dawn of the yellow fitch
tincture of lemon balm
fragrance of yarrow & peony
morning is hollow of disappointment
yet echo's of a dream outlined in ash
tasting of red clay & coneflowers blue
stay this moment ...
hold close the cardinal song
and wait there beneath the crab apple for a sign ...
sign of rain
sign of awakening
sign of aquarius
a sign . .
stretch this dawn into evermore
eating oatmeal with brown sugar & butter
with 3 sunshine dogs
and
a yellow fitch

imprinted

no watercolor words reside here 

merely the realization

discovered as summer storms weave across these golden plains

a knowledge of attachment & bond

underneath fragile-boned-bird-skin

this elegantly tattered, feathered hole

where my petaled-heart once beat

thumped & beat 

infinite, dark & open

growing older

day by day

year by year

growing old without the press of your hand

in mine 

secret blood-bonds & wanderlust

collide

in this day

rooted in some ancient woodland realm

splendid of evening's summer grass & moonlight orgasm

wickedly imprinted upon my heart & yours

our equation written in labyrinthine script of

celestial blue-green carousels

performed just for me 

this day

fear & love & cherries

are tossed & blended

into this

delicate

exquisite

gypsy cake

happy birth-day 

and journey on sweet gemini-girl

to capture pockets of

the sun

to fool that feathered, shadowed hole

into believing the story, tossing you

this cluster of peonies &

filling my arms with moonlight

this day

birth

day

journey on--story on

wicked, gypsy gemini-girl .

here is where sorrow resides

here

at twilight

this hour where the only sound is the

morning dove's lament

hollow & transported

maple seeds whirl to the ground

in direct ratio

to the swift rolling of the cumulus clouds

closing that sky-blue window

of daylight

the bottom is not

really the bottom

it is found here in the sideways portion of our show

tilted & lonely

stripped of expectation & heart

hold

your breath

and bear that weight

as

suddenly

the wind shifts

and

the air is perfumed with magnolia

and

it smells of
 rain

and 
hope

once again

just a night

no rumble of distant thunder. . .
or
lightening sparking to the west
no smell of rain in this galaxy scattering
no eleven twenty-five train either. . .
just the steady spiral dance of hours
taken & held
for a moment
part
of
you
moon 37% visible
part
of
everything
taken & held

fortunes tell

lay their hands in a row
palm down to the fire
and
I will tell all their secrets
love's lines furrowed deep & mired
to have loved
because of hands narrative line
hesitation of strength's tender-land
the catch
the release
of the
grasp
and
demand
love's journey fine

recogntion

colors shimmy
pulsing
waiting
re-arranging & quaking
with
expectation
tumbling with orchestral grace against the dark
held back by pensive indecision
waiting
never blending into champagne or alizarin crimson
unless you turn away
abstract waiting ,,,,,
held by hope
un-boxed
no sideshow line up here
shifting towards the azure mist ....
untamed by age
waiting inside for today

From The Plum Tree . . .

Follow this trail of wordcrumbs to an insightful & beautiful discussion on poetry . . .
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to discover fellow travelers on this path, and share in the discussion
peace out ,,,

waking

we strive and dive …
each of us bubble-wrapped against the crash and fail
until we crash and fail with the bloom-boom of cherry blossoms and sound of bluejays
and trumpeter swans
flailing and folded we struggle against the impasse, against the bones of our ancestral veins
finding the pierced circumference of our blueprint
feathered and tethered to the call of stars and meadowlarks
breathing, reaching
gasping and grasping
we rise to test the mettle and mud of our flesh, to stand alone
yet
so so much a part
of
that which crashed us, that which broke and bent us ….
we are of air and earth
striving and diving
to the ache and call of
May