is an open
window  

where spice-fringed words
flutter white lace curtains  

the sun’s softer self
casts its artistry upon the wall                                                                         

dew-spangled figments                
carouse the giddy lilac  

dreams stretch their opus                   
to sky’s lyrical promise              

and poets rise
singing                                                    

                                                             
                                                              Thanks for all the inspiration this month!     

                                                              Dear Editors:  I am a fan of including Coleman’s “Thingy”                                                                   into the title of this year’s anthology.  

the world can sometimes take my breath away
I’d forgotten this
all these years on   things seems to be balanced on provision and enough
yet today

walking the dog
a rote route  we both memorized long ago
instead of listening with buds popping
I saw

the yellow finches tipping head over heels for a drink
the neighbor around the corner and down a bit
smile and say hello
the passing car not so much get along
as draw near and see

these things take work
years of

this wisdom
surprise

I walk around their house as though traces of memories will creep out & overwhelm me. I walk tenderly. The dry grass from the drought is crushed by each step. A white plastic wastebasket lays on its side near the back door. The walk is covered in grassy weed debris. The hammock is rusted & torn. No one will sit in it mom had said, speaking for her past self, the self that would never truly relax.

What’s the formula

for disposing of the past

when no rituals

It’s what gets left behind that tears a family apart. Yes,  you can’t take it with you is one reason to not cling to material goods. The other is who is going to go through it when you’re gone? Perhaps it’s best if someone else is the filter, sells them at auction or takes them to Goodwill. To unravel the life of parents could take a lifetime, every item touched a memory re-lived, analyzed, deconstructed.

A stray tinfoil

lays crumpled covered with sprouts

from an old rose bush

I hear the roar of wind in the trees. It’s the kind of morning my mom would’ve hung clothes on the line to dry. Furniture is scattered on the front porch, wind chimes collide, books remain on shelves, souvenir bells wait on the mirrored shelf next to their 50th anniversary silver plate. Siblings have been broken apart. Family  photos with smiles from 50 years have been replaced by quibbling &  quarreling & questions of what goes to whom & why.  In the case of money, it’s easy. The  case for mementos, knickknacks & photographs, is more difficult.

the mantra let go

all the more important yet

unattainable.

She asked God for a baby – not a human
child, just some tender new
root of a thing to love. In the garden 

she scooped up the helpless
furred creature found curled
among spring-green shoots, 

never bothered to consider
whether it already had a mother.
What should we make of it now

that the blessing she named
and claimed has died in a box 
under fluorescent lights?

How foolish to believe
simply getting what we want
always means an answered prayer.

The ocean is gentle today.
The sky is a gray mattress.
Humidity hangs in the air
like an old TV show.  

The rest of fam damn
is off playing laser tag.
It’s just you and me, my love,
embraced in our peace.  

Thanks everyone for a wonderful month of poetry

1. Plant Trees

This isn’t a poem – IT’S A WARNING 

I grew up obsessed with princesses

Daring tales and romance

Love stories told through the ages

Maybe that’s why I’m a romantic

Or why I dream so loud

As I’ve grown they’ve been constricted

Slowly pressed smaller and smaller

Still there, just less

I’ve realized the myth in the magic

I’ll never be able to be someone’s everything

That’s not healthy

I’ll never have 100% assurance that I’m right

That’s not realistic

I’ll never experience a happily ever after

That’s not how it goes

The world is full of uncertainty and doubt

Humans need community

They wish for certainty, a wish the universe rarely grants

The beauty in this existence is that there is no constant

Change is the one thing we can rely on

There is no forever after

Beauty is in this

In the everyday

In joy we give

In hope we feed

In love we share

So, my darling

Choose to live

               Suddenly,
Taylor Swift
appears
in my Facebook feed            

                10x as often
as my friends.                       

                              She is not
my friend.            

                We are not even
distant acquaintances.              

                And how
can she appear
so (seemingly) physically
unchanged                  

                                           while holding a newborn

and standing next to her handsome
famous husband         

                                                            radiantly

smiling
as if she were promoting
a tooth whitening
formula?                                    

                             Most of us
still appear pregnant            
               long
after giving birth, bags       
         
            under our eyes
and oily hair.            

                    We haven’t bathed
in weeks          
and could use a shot        

                              of Angel’s Envy.            

             Frankly,
we haven’t slept
since month four of our pregnancy.

The first three months we
were puking,                  

                               and where
is our fucking handsome husband?