Here the brittle and biting wind
Hits my face alarming me.
I feel so alive, like everything is
Within my reach.
Forever is here for me.
And I inhale deeply
Drawing it in.

11 p.m., Solstice eve
I and a random thousand others watch two men
Limbs loose-goose dancing
Blowing bubbles
As the sun rises over Stonehenge
Many hearts fly on the stream

6:30 a.m., Solstice morning
My son
For the first time all summer
Decides to wake up before 10. 
The cat decides this is a good idea, too. 

8:00 a.m., Solstice morning
I shower
Washing my hair
As I dither over words
For this poem.

10 a.m., Solstice day
I have subjected myself
To the beeping-screeching-strobing chaos
Of Malibu Jack’s
All for love

12:30 p.m., Solstice day
I am
Still
In Malibu Jack’s
I begin to doubt this love feeling

3:00 p.m., Solstice afternoon
I am naked
Under a thin sheet
Nervously tip-tapping my toes
Waiting for my doctor. 
All is well,
But I have to come back next year

6:00 p.m., Solstice evening
I am chopping dicing
Crying over onions
Making a Solstice feast
For my little family of two. 
The cats are chewing on our Solstice bouquet. 
Blessings. 

7:00 p.m., Solstice evening
I am crouched
Looking like a crazier lady than normal
By a dumpster
Trying to lure out a bunny
Someone has dumped at the park.
I bless the bunny,
Curse the people. 

7:41 p.m., Solstice evening
The sun has slowly
Begun to dip
Below the wavering line of trees
I’m tired
And a dog is barking
But the wheel turns on
So Happy Litha and Happy Solstice
To all the little moments

Seventeen years ago today
the telephone rang three times.  

Grandma picked up the receiver and listened.
She sat down on the kitchen stool
that was also a stepladder.  

She told me Mom was gone.
I wasn’t sure if that meant
on a trip or dead.  

I guess Mom’d had enough
of me, of us,
and wanted to leave for good.  

I used to hope.  

I’d wait for her,
especially at Christmas,
and on my birthday.  

For seventeen years
Grandma’s tried hard to make up for things,
and I’m okay.  

I just get lonesome sometimes.

11:34am—-almost
too late to be morning

you didn’t owe me anything
your words were hollow & sorrowful
i could almost hear you say them

i ate alone
before sighing
& responding, kindly
before i bitterly cried
at how my love failed
once again

you loved someone
more than you could ever love me

but in that unexpected message,
i learned i must stop trying,
so i made love to myself,
waiting
with enough / for enough

The wind thrashes
Like a thousand waves.
The grey skies grasp
Everything its mellow embrace.
And the rain begins to trickle
In small doses.

Then the real fun begins.

The rain begins to pour
As if it’s trying to wash us all
Out of existence.
The thunder booms
Like an ominous growl.
And finally,
The lightening strikes,
Lighting up the sky for just a mere second.

Reminding us not only of the beauty it can bring,
But also the horrors.

Endless flats, endless heaven,
we drudge towards the quicksand
as the sun steals our grace, the wind
crystallizes our lungs with layers of salt.
We walk like ancient pilgrims towards
Virgin Mary’s island vacation home,
watch ourselves become less real,
less ourselves, more of the earth. 
The world is obliviated, the seabirds
trespass in my mind, the little crabs
untangle my hair. We hold hands
but I have never really been here.
I am that tiny gold angel waiting 
on top of Mont St. Michel for the end,
when the world will crumble and sweep
into dark seas. The moon is thinner
than an eyelash, she sheers my wings
as the beach thins to darkness, and
something on the port burns away, as
I fall, many villages over, to Honfleur 
where we drink in the street and breathe
the sweet silty air of the town’s mouth.
The carousel turns me into new dimensions,
and I am orbiting an idea I cannot touch yet,
but I feel it’s pull; perhaps I am already cured.
I want to pray, but to what I do not know.

Right ventricle: scattershot.

Serrated blade in May.

They never thought we’d walk again,

So apparently
there is
something
in my brain
that gets activated
by Poetry
I cannot describe it
I just have a sense about it.
 
Maybe some kind of
linguistic Silly Putty
stretches and twists into
a Mobius strip inviting
travel into the
upside down world?
Is it possible time portals
have pulled me off
course now and then?
Psychic trances?
Dreamscape connections?
What if there’s a poetic virus
and there’s no cure?
I wonder about these things.
It’s a lot to consider
But maybe
the truth has to be
more simple and
not processed via
a complicated matrix  

I can see that certain conditions
activate the poetry alert system,
But in the end, it really is only a simple matter of waking up.  
I think I am comfortable
just calling that “something in my brain”
the waking of a hibernating bear.
That seems to really fit.  

I see no counter argument
to this idea.
And to put it correctly,
you might say
within each of us
is a Hibernating Poet Bear.  

I will call mine Renee. Sometimes she comes out of her cave,
flailing her arms and showing claws, her body lumbering along
as she accelerates into a full sprint.  

When she hits a place hard, she digs deep, whether desert,
jungle, closet, car or the aisles of Home Depot. She is
simultaneously spewing words and phrases, colons and semi-colons
—letting them fall where they may—or even suspend mid air
for days until needed, playing hop-scotch on the time-space continuum.  

The Poet Bear may show extreme care at times,
even a nurturing spirit. Emotions may determine
every choice or  psychological wrestling stance.
If it pleases her, she might destroy everything,
with no explanation.
Hot or cold, the awakened Poet Bear is still an animal
from knolling master to blood letting killer,
You never know what you’re gonna get.

I’m not a scrubby hornbeam
poorly sapless, under full
sun beat