secrete garden
if i may, i fall
and become,
at your feet,
a flower bed…
please, walk
o’er me. my
fragrant petals
squishing ‘tween
your toes until
my scents rise.
if i may, i fall
and become,
at your feet,
a flower bed…
please, walk
o’er me. my
fragrant petals
squishing ‘tween
your toes until
my scents rise.
I no longer work
with wood
but sometimes
I think of myself
as a Zen Carpenter.
After many years
I’ve finally learned
that whatever material
(or non-material) things
are needed to build
what I believe is my life
are always within reach
and that I won’t know
exactly what it is
I’m building until the day
my hands are stopped.
When the sun shines
and the wind is just this side of cool,
it is a good time to get out the Browning.
25 new chances to bust clay pigeons.
Step on stand.
Break the over under.
Load 2 shells.
Push stock under cheekbone.
Line up shot.
Judge lead distance.
Pull!
My right to obliterate a clay pigeon
into a mist of orange dust remains.
I practice so I can catch a doomsday meal.
The tradition of wild game is to fly, run, escape.
Dead meat under plastic is a coward’s dinner.
I drive over mountains, down valleys, watching a kaleidoscope of green, blue and white.
It’s late afternoon; my mind wanders, begins to seek the psychedelic.
Primed with sugar and coffee, I hear music that’s not on the radio. “The Girl From Ipanema” plays over and over in my mind and then I see her, this girl, who is soft and tan and young and lovely, walking to the sea, perhaps eating an orange sold by on old woman on the white sand beach.
She gazes out to the horizon as a breeze rustles her honey brown hair. I begin to be that girl. I am soft and tan and young and lovely and why not? I can be that girl. I used to be that girl, could have been that girl. I was soft and tan and young and lovely. I was mysterious, and silent, and oh so tan.
For just a few moments, I believe I am that girl. It does not seem ridiculous to be mesmerized by the sky as I was once hypnotized by the sea. I am that girl in this moment. Time becomes a spiral vortex of wind and sand. The sea breeze memory will linger now. I will forever be that girl
a blue balloon
skims over the sea
rises with wind
I watch it bubble up
bursting with memory
Savaged hands with bulging veins
protruding indigo rivers,
magenta bruises spreading
under parchment-thin skin.
I watch my hand hold a pen
gripped between thumb and index finger,
the other three nestled neatly below.
It awaits direction from above,
inspiration wafting in from the universe.
I had thought to explain
The start and stop of “Will
There Be a Risin”,
A story of a woman moving
Through her life giving
Us glimpses of her trek.
Now it seems redundant
In the face of many starts
And stops from talented
Writers also with big ideas.
Who veered to walk new paths.
If I were brave, I would point
Out the characteristics of so
Many of the givers of words
As they revealed themselves.
But bravery could be impolite.
Loving words,
Gaining ideas,
Sharing joys,
Mourning losses,
These and more
Have filled my June.
A thank you to all those
Who wrote anyway when words
Were stubborn and cranky.
You gave and we took,
And we are all the better for it.
Same time, next year? A love
Affair completely acceptable
In the world of words and poets.
We have the keys and invitation,
and just eleven months to rest.
Where are you, my dear one?
Not even night could be
as dark and silent as her thoughts
Her passion turned stagnant
from too much pain and poison
but she didn’t seem to care
Where are you, my dear one?
Not even a spark of color could burn
in her once dazzling eyes
Frames of days passed
right in front of her
but she didn’t seem to care
Where are you, my dear one?
Not even the morning’s song could ring
in her oblivion and
she no longer sang
to the tune of anything
but she didn’t seem to care
Where are you, my dear one?
Not even the sound of my voice could reach
her where she’d gone
She’d traveled beyond reach
past the edges of sound
but she didn’t seem to care
Where are you, my dear one?
Not even my once-favorited presence could warm
her frigid core–a solid clump of ice
Her nerves no longer carried signals–
a real-life walking dead
but she didn’t seem to care
Where are you, my dear one?
My light and my vision could carry
you still yet
My song and my arms could cover
you like a healing balm
I will always care
(In honor of all those whose lives are touched by addiction.)
