Posts for June 25, 2023 (page 5)

in between storms
say the weather people
a few hours and then
well, we should be ready
have a plan
basement or the best we can do
I chuckle at the relevance
isn’t that what life is
always in between storms
or if not that extreme, the minor rainy days
so I ask myself 

     what’s my plan
basement or higher ground
call for backup or forge ahead
when will I know it’s time to begin
or end
maybe carry on, as I was

in between storms
complete with tiny outbursts
heart and mind anticipating the worst
can’t I simply rely
on what I know is the method
tried and true
with proof I’m still here
and that’s relevant
life is lived in both
the gray and the yellow
continue despite it all

     that’s my plan
onto higher ground
I will forge ahead
never comprehending the timing
or anything, really
only carry on, until

How did I get here

Counting praises like it’s all I have left to do

Dreading plans that I made

Spitting into a sink that’s not mine

Every little thing I do

Every person I love

Every idea I believe

Every step I take

Feels like it

Doesn’t fucking matter

What do I want

Who am I becoming

Why do I care

Every night I have to think of a phantom hand around my throat

Before I can drift off into dreamless sleep

Everything I’ve built

What does it matter

If I don’t want it anymore

On their alluvium bed,
lazing in green calico pajamas all summer,

the knobs stretch and curl their limestone ridges
like bony knees, hips, shoulders

to make crooks and hollows 
where Methanites and ditch lilies flourish,

smooth the loamy coverlet
where Mennonites quilt farms,

snuggle their back against Green River,
draw the moon down for a pillow,

head full of monadnock dreams
and the nighthawk’s lullaby.

Hangs from a rusty wrought-iron hook
nailed onto the railing of our tiny porch 
with the haint blue ceiling 
off of our bedroom.
There is no exact science
to mixing the color haint blue, 
but my husband figured out something–
his intention are always good.

How nice it would be–
if someone would hang a feast 
out for me–one I could fly to whenever, 
sip a little, breathe in the local landscape, see
what it’s like to just be–
all racing wings and heartbeat, 
spectaculat green feathers,
a ruby throat,
brandishing a beak.

Today those vibrant little hummers
have found the firecarackers–
shimmering fuchsia bee balm,
reaching up to the blue, blue sky–
they were your idea, along with the daisies 
and dark yellow black-eyed Susan’s

I like it when we sit out here
with our morning coffee
planning what we might do next,
under our haint blue sky,
hoping for a life 
without too much mischief.

Contrary to popular belief

False gods rest on their knees, begging 

(after the 1915 drawing “Meditation,” by Jav Zrzav)

Saplings rise above me,
reminders of my place
and part in this incarnation.
Eyes gently shut so I may see
the budding One within me, glowing
against the darkness of not-sleep,
the meter of my breath forgotten,
I open the rest of Me, welcoming
whatever comes to join my Path.
My left hand resting on my breast —
someone did that for me once,
in a world so vastly old and different —
reminds of the nurturing Mother.
My right is crossed above my heart,
not as some sign of my allegiance
but of my mortality, that what I fail
will try me again the next time here,
while tests passed will form foundations.
I am not yet One with Everything,
but I’ve been blessed with the chance.

Communication 
Sunday words are said and heard;
Learn from love bird.

A steep drop off from
the cold bottom step, my
toes scrape the rough
concrete bottom, the
level bobs between my
lips and nose, makes me sputter.

You are collar bones above
the surface, unaware
of my tightened breathing, my
eyes ever scanning
above,
below,
around me.
Your body glides, splashes spontaneous.

Marco?

I blindly ride my
invisible underwater bike just
to breathe.
Ears tuned in to your frequency, the
background chatter like
smeared paint in a landscape.

You could offer mercy, let me
sit on your knee and rest, whisper
love in my ear, but
you continue the game.

I hear your mischievous
smile in your voice, not warm, but
sharp as the edge of a blade.

Polo…

I want to be loved lovingly like a lover loves