Wednesday, May 31, 2017

3 o'clock on the last day in march

blue sky gives way
to gray
swelling
blueing jay feathers dark
storm coming
green wavers in threads of morning's glaze
gleaming
steaming summer awaits
from sidewalks paved with broken wonder
thunder calls
to that lunar moth that flickers & dives
against a pearled breastbone
tight
tighter
higher we raise our eyes against the constant sun
shining
rhyming
in cadence of ten thousand sparrows
alight amongst the maple trees branches
now
damp with afternoon rain
vermillion poppies tremble in electric fragility
come  . .
be still with me

blue sky gives way
to
day


tucked










there is this fugitive quality to my hours
tracked
hunted
pursued
stilled
thru webs of mortal fiber & prism fire
scent raw
wet upon the palate of creatures buzzed with steel'd will & death
fate sealed in a chinese-cherry-puzzle-box
thrown to fate on a bluejay"s wing
there … 
nestled between the light & fragile feather bones
lies
tucked .... the scent of mown grass in June
the coolness of cotton sheets
the wonder of beauty
the scratchy pleasure of wool socks
the fine roughness of you
the walnut-salt-home smell of you
honey'd lemonade on my tongue
poems & prose
words looped & rhymed & measured by wit & thunderous swelling
fancy clothes
words ancient & music eternally pressed along the rings of saturn
childish de-light ever-present, ever-there
in the space between
every minute
every hour
and
the blessed secret softening of the sorrow of all things
leaning in ...
leaning in ...
to heart
to radiant space
discovery & secrets i carry nestled between
sunlight
and
these
fragile feather bones 

Thursday, May 18, 2017

weight of air

buttercream
mandarin branches weeping
peeking
blue agate night boiled dry
amongst stars & hurricanes
tempest
reckless
white sails approaching
glass jam marmalade
velvet grenades
lobbed & powdered
by
confectioners sugar'd moonlight
allow the great horned owl
its due
blue agate night




Wednesday, May 17, 2017

golden vessel

transfixed by the rain
captivated by the wind
is this loneliness
    or sorrow weighing upon my moon-bones?
can I trust that the blue sky remains unblemished beyond this veil of storm?
is my sanity or my fantasy bound to yours
with ribbon of saffron and summer?
where do I go when the rains come--plundering my sun, my radiance?
is it there beyond this veil of emptiness?
am I now mere emptiness
     now drenched in forecast and blue jay feathers heavy?
the wind tears through the hackberry tree with thunderous embrace
welcome sorrow,
to the tempered fabric of my morning
welcome
sit--stay awhile
and
have some peppermint and licorice root tea
the wind blows wild

rain becoming sheets of joy




Friday, May 12, 2017

endings on

what is that like ...
to hold space between worlds
dangling molecules of lonliness & blue
ringed in the golden aperture of sun's horizon
sinking resting sinking
illuminated mind--liberated stardust
clinging
clinging
no more
a calling--a journey of blue jay's breath

to become

those candy orange slices that rest
in a red glass bowl on your grandmother's table

what color is the hollow of longing
how do we find the remnants of
childhood's crystal cowboy-pony-brilliance
sinking sinking
transformed to diadems
of
rivers
marshmallow-kisses-bourbon-deep
summer meadowlarks-icing-song
rising rising
to become
vast
blue dark-moon
delight 

Thursday, May 11, 2017

cool morning

talking to the gloaming
beneath black wings
pierced
and
possible
this tumbled place
grasping
clasping
the rope for
purchase
and
prize
feathers found
against the bark of dogs and trees of full green



Wednesday, May 10, 2017

sometimes the dark

fissure widening
light to dark becomes the tendril vine
childhood's vessel
cigarettes & turpentine
water the roses
count to sixty each time
keep your legs together
cigarettes & turpentine
pressing leaf patterns
deep upon skin
sugar rooms of summer thyme
turn the page--burn the fabric
cigarettes & turpentine
tucked golden child
chosen of springtime
solace of sky
cigarettes & turpentine






Tuesday, May 9, 2017

relativity

frost to honeybee
rain on flooded waters 
queen of hearts
         turned upon the southwesterly wind 
wind & water
          weight & welter 
hearts ransomed by love's tale 
corvids & covairs collide in skies 
   prism'd by clementines & cooling 
          cooling 
          cooling 
giving 
getting 
sometimes it falls to the bee in the frost 
to the heart in the wind 
sometimes it falls 
sometimes 
                it rises as feathers 
                from the passenger seat 
hand tucked beneath your blueness 


Monday, May 8, 2017

crossing

I sit in saffron
and
hold a bowl of ancient tone
aged, cold & nodding to the hollow

deciding

warm currents lift me onto the backs of fine-boned fragility
golden-ribboned
heavy with mystery and smelling of pine
time lies in velvet slumbered hope
blue should have been my middle name

pausing

in cool rushing brilliance

pausing

patience is learned despite the hour
dripping amongst
the willow
the lilies
movement requires strength requires strip of ego
requires surrender requires presence

requires

plunging your hands into the earth and feeling the warmth of the day
in coolness grasping
hold to your wound
breathe it in
press it in
then
gently
rise up
and
admit defeat at the hands of mediocrity & fear
yet a conquest of love flirts there along the seams
feels its vibrato
speaking in the tongue of sparrows and stones
run then
run hard
swift
and
jump the west-bound-train & ride the tree-line to vulnerability & boulder creek
wear a cowboy bandana and sing to the quarter moon on a night clear
and
my middle name should have been blue

Friday, May 5, 2017

may basket










it comes as a shock
the soft beating heart
pansy petaled 
fragility inclined 
stark contrast to rain 
tender unfurling 
subject to pain 
spring's soil sentinel
perked awake  
turned towards 
hidden sun 
in day's gloaming break

Tuesday, May 2, 2017

Ceres




structure of
ice mantle and rocky core
lying between Mars & Jupiter
contrast + orbit = presence
no prose
no poetry
no sentimental sparkling bon mot bouillon 
to warm heart cockles
How do you define an art;
a science full-to-bursting
with
compassion, contrition & complexity
hands hinged to hold
to cradle
to tender
and with an innate sensibility 
thru and despite a sparkling-fierce-hope-filled insanity 
pushed pushed 
honing spirit & light
catch and release
craft of ice and rock
simultaneously everything
and
nothing
dwarfed 364 days a year to the whorl & chaos of the ordinary
the temperance of tempers & time
weighing weighing weighing
heavy
struggling to find the funny, find the light .... to love enough 
to tap the spark
the rendering of sorrows cut upon expectation & fullness
the gravitas of choice
acceptance unconditional
love's price to mother
everything
and
nothing 
no prose, no poetry 
merely
ice
and rock 

removed to blue 1962














Everyday 
everyday i would fly to school
everyday i would eat my captain crunch & cinnamon toast
walk out my front door
watching the toes of my saddle shoes, 
i would walk down
the sidewalk to school
the lines metronoming my stride 
like
playing cards on my bicycle spokes
walking along
suddenly
i would be
flying
flying 
high up!
everyday i would fly to school and then home again
above the sidewalk of my cedarberry street
fall, winter, spring ... grey days or blue
clouds of elephants & rivers of current amuse
flying
effortless glide removed from
the lonely
the ache of the knowing
the wounds of goodbye
the wind never cares if your knee socks stay up
flying 
everyday
until i turned 15 
and discovered
skirts 
and
seals & crofts & boys & kisses
and the cut of the knowing & the bruise of goodbye
and
i walked to school
everyday 
but oh how i still wanted to fly 

Monday, May 1, 2017

unveiling green

Three o'clock in the afternoon is the bewitching hour
the neighborhood lies silent
expectant
robins do their robin thing
goldfinches light upon
early May branches
in search of food
and gold
perhaps this is
why I am drawn to the atmosphere outside these ancient windows
I
have
no
idea
maybe
like goldfinches
I'm in search of gold
too
this June I turn
fifty-nine
fifty-nine to a woman is remarkably unremarkable
Some quantum rule
applies to aging for woman
wear this not that
want this not that
emote when appropriate
eat smart
balance everything
respect the inner journey
and
be kind to yourself'
well
and
there's the whole
change the world
thing
which is about legacy than effecting change
(my anarchist bent)
the world is a much different place than the world I knew in my childhood
how convenient
landed upon 'my childhood'
what a clever and circular route to begin
a story born out of today's disregard for the illusive perfect moment to begin a story
when is that exactly?
I have been waiting to write this story for as long as I can remember
from my crib
I dreamed of being a writer
ok, well first I was a dreamer
the writing was etched in the grain of wood floors captured in the enfolded warmth of my father and the smokey-feline light of my mother
someone should have stuck a #2 in my mouth in lieu of a pacifier
my earliest memory is of a dream:
I was in my crib a standard flimsy 50's variety crib, with rounded fluffy cut-out lambs & clouds on the wall blanket pink and white gingham the window was right of my crib from which I could see the family station wagon a low-slung Pontiac station wagon with faux wood insets I slipped over my crib and out the front door down the sidewalk and opened the drivers door of the wagon adjusting myself in the seat I turned the key and began backing out of the driveway suddenly my father tore out the front door flinging the drivers door wide and throwing the gear shift into park as some unidentifiable car pulled in behind me I was vaulted into my fathers arms suddenly realizing I was dreaming or maybe a dream of dreaming dreaming of adventure
or escape
still the question
the bewitching hour has given way
to
pre-twilight
six twenty-two
awake from a nap that left me disoriented and moody
craving something unnamed as the energy shifts in the neighborhood to a steady thrum thrum thrum
folks returning home from work;
Betsy across the way pulling into her circular drive
Chris and Kevin rolling up their drive next door
the birds are cautious and quiet
I'm disoriented and moody--remember?
my days are more observation than engagement
it wasn't always
like that