untitled
It explains
The why and why not
I dawned a thought
Oh my,
I never sat in the sun light
I never knew what it felt like
trees grow; fools question, pry into affairs until one
remains resilient
come now – neglect to attack and find you were made
to admire the minutiae on the ground
the world flowers, gratified to help the public
resemble a garden rid of thieves
say your tears and stand with others who flatter
the sweet-pea in question
hide the rootlet until they admit thinking the locust
generous, persistent, and modest
Wet season
at the well of tears,
bucket and twist rope
short drop & quickly damp.
The well path
a native trail
of time & season,
tolerating no bud
of growth for long.
The well’s stone edge
crumbles, seeping mortar
& hope onto the dust
like frybread crinkles
on kitchen formica.
Wet season at the well
of tears out
the back door
and beyond the grave.
You did the slide all by yourself today.
Well, I helped you, but it was still a big deal.
When I was drying you off you looked up at me.
You said “I am so proud of myself.”
I hope you always feel that way.
And I hope you think about me just for a second
the first time you teach someone to be brave.
I.
Who knows what
birds flew the skies above
my birth, the gulp
of air, the curtains
open just enough
to let the moon shine in,
the big belly of her swaying,
sky reaching down to capture me.
At dawn such
tiny silence,
sunrise on morning glories,
clematis
more purple
than it
ever was. That wavy moment
between beauty &
desperation. The mother’s voice
rises as in prayer. Sometimes
when I dream
I think I am lightning
and then I am.
II.
There is the temptation
to say no more.
You forget where you are going,
recede back
into yourself
away from whatever window
you no longer want to look out of.
Why don’t you ever tell me anything about your life?
It was your world and you
let me in.
For a while we house trained our god.
Space is a blooming flower
mankind would rather snip,
slip into a vase filled with water.
And I don’t know what happened to you
because you never told me.
I never asked.
III.
I’m standing
at the top of hills above my town, listening
to the wind’s unrest.
Could these trees transport me?
Sweet grass confetti
strewn across the passage floor,
trying to reach
that calm.
Along the way
I find scatters of stones
but not the ones lodged in memory.
Brooks burble and gush –
I’ll skip change
on the river,
hold the key
in cupped hands.
I devour your voice.
With a spoon of stars
and thirsty down to pointed spine,
on knees
& hands as though to pray &
unafraid, a vast, open mouth
molten tongue, a tide of fireballs
(to act shy salts the tongue)—
I drink.
With lines from Aaron Slatten, Carole Johnston, Christopher McCurry, Douglas E., Edelweiss Meadows-Millstone, Gaby Bedetti, HB Elam, Jessica Swafford, Jim Lally, Joseph Allen Nichols, K. Bruce Florence, Karen George, Kate Fadick, KYstitcher, Larry Wheeler, Linda Caldwell, Lisa Miller Henry, Mary Owens, Melva Sue Priddy, mtpoet, Patti Miller, Rae Cobbs, T.M. Thomson, Teri Foltz, Tina Andry and upfromsumdirt.
Turning truth into
Forgiveness doesn’t mean trust
Coming back to love
Doesn’t mean holding your breath
Waiting for shoes to drop twice
Coming back to love
Requires recommitment
Eye to eye contact
Honest kisses and firm hugs
The restoration builds calm
You return me home
You’re the hero in our lives
(C) Edelweiss Meadows-Millstone
Aunt Mary, please don’t tell us
about the sparrow that sits on your sill or
how Chauncey faithfully brings slippers
while sunrise refracts in butterfly wings.
We tire of coffee cups and newspapers.
Tell us Mary about
shouldering the street man
who drags his right knee shuffling
to buy food on Tuesdays, how his stench
impregnates your clothes. Write to
comfort the mad woman who lost
her Suzie last Winter, how her
screams revisit as you kick off
the slippers. Tell us about
hospital coffee in paper cups, of bedpans
and diapers and needles. How you
wailed for Uncle Don in his death bed.
You are whole, you are complete
You need not bear such suffering
When treated poorly
Disrespected
Turn and walk away
Never look back
Right outside that door
There’s something like 4 to 8 billion other people
Depending on your preferences
Who might treat you better
Who might love you like
You want to be loved
In front of you there’s at least a chance
Behind you there’s none
But you’ll miss it
Sitting in the dark
Hurting yourself
Picking the scab
I prayed and begged for, demanded
a small dark girl child
because I’d already seen her in my dreams—
she was real born alive I could smell her.
I didn’t want the ultrasound’s eye of prediction,
no, I needed that baby girl in my arms.
Before she was born I’d already imprinted,
rocking in a chair, everything I knew to her,
the big belly of her swaying as I spoke of what
to put up with and what shit to not put up with,
and then I heard my god say Love her not too much,
too much; allow her to make her own way.
phrase “love her not too much, too much” from “Beauty” by Elinor Wylie, 1921.
