Rains gushed out
of the darkened sky
heavy in its pour,  not
like the stream of a watering can,
not like the dousing of holy water,
the drip of a rotted hose.
The torrential drenching created
streams and creeks, angry rivers
cresting as the moon hung low,
moving beyond the
edge of comfort.
Downpours cascaded
as if the captains cried deep 
tears of remorse,
submerging the earth
forcing rockslides, mudslides,
erasing roads to nowhere
creating sinkholes under the
floods.
Sins and sinners soaked in
the rebellious nature of the
downpour while others
prepared for 
the change, the aftermath,
clouds promise to dissipate
with warmth, the earth
dries her wounds,
mothers scrub kitchen floors,
old soldiers find their way home,
writers and artists typeset
the skies with magical discourse,
the magnolia trees bloom
in unison.

The cards have been all over the table for two weeks now.
We’ve certainly felt their presence as we’ve carefully navigated each other
and have picked up a few, shuffled them, here and there.
The kids have knocked them onto the floor, mixed them up.  A few might be under the couch now.
But the box is lost; there’s no longer a neat way to pack them all away
something must be done with them.
I approached it as I do everything – by writing.

In our younger years
I used to write you letters to explain how I was feeling
rather than take the risk of talking
Now I have said it all
I write to clarify, confirm, document
To stop you from recoiling into denial
To cover my ass
To propel us
forward.

Where? Damned if I know
some space between married and divorced
until another path appears
but we can’t just leave this stuff laying all over the place.
That’s what we always tell the kids.
And we both know
I’m the one
who always picks it up.  

Here’s to the Catalysts,
To those who keep the embers
of our souls burning when they
almost
fall
to
ash
or rather, set the forest aflame
with their unforgettable flint

Trashing, violent, 
roiling beneath.
I am the ocean in that way.
Unforgiving of the wants
of men,
home to a ruthless rage.

But you are the rock against
which I break.
Sending me back into myself 
with a quietness,
stark against
my nature.
Subdued gentleness,
though we both know that
lurks below. 

You are unwavering anyway. 

what happens 
when a dry, quiet mouth
spits sawdust into decaying air?

words struggle: tangled, ensnared in dysfunctioning larynx
scared stiff & stifling screams for salivation
parched, never quenched when thirsty smiths whet blades
to cut thin and thinner slices of storied selves lulled to sleep in hushed harmonies lost

who will rescue those lips
when they are drowning
in seas of sand that couldn’t hold on to passing time?

the arid, muted tongue
unfurled to taste rotting truth
on scattered wood shavings swirling in brackish breeze

I heard them laughing
How fast she pulls the blinds down
when our butts give glow

Today, I have decided,
I will lift my arms
and give thanks.

I woke up with words
on my tongue
written across the sky
of my imagination
beckoning me
to live in the space
of giving and receiving love,
so I might share with you how
vibrant my world appears this morning.

How the dawn feels as if the church
within my soul has stood
to sing an offering
shaped by the notes
I learned as a child
In a church whose congregation
looked different from me
but together
the children
the adults
let our lights shine
brighter than a fresh, new lamp
scanning an old, worn path.

Today, as I stretch
my arms
my toes
my only need
is to bear down
evenly
on the balls of my feet
so I may step with the intention
of being human,
a statistic,
who has earned her freedom
to sing
to clap
to begin 

you loved me and so,
taught me to love myself.
may we live in bliss.

Years ago, I scavanged bricks from the neighborhood to border a walking path circling our black gum tree. Planning for the time I would plant the flowers, I started uprooting bloodroot and wood poppies from the courtyard of a building to be demolished and transplanting them into our yard.

In the decade since, the poppy and fellow wildflowers have taken over the space mapped on graph paper by our sometime gardener, reaching three feet, and the yard is strewn with dead branches. Our forty-foot white oak fell victim to the utility line clearance crew. Vines are choking the chimney. The inkberry hollies framing our entrance have nearly reached each other, hindering comings and goings.

Ambitious guests have intruded. Spiders have made themselves at home on the ceilings. Ants, June bugs, and crickets have become our familiars, the latter observing my yoga practice. A racoon broke the birdfeeder. A squirrel gnawed its way through the metal screen of the porch looking for birdseed.

The garage has become a storehouse and half-way house for cats and critters looking for shelter in the night. The nails on the back stoop have become undone. Even the visiting cat looking for a meal knows better than to climb the steps.

Still, I love how the pink dogwood, red Japanese maple, honey locust, and swamp oak wrap around the front of the house, keeping our mornings cool, and how out back we are canopied by the magnolia, wild cherry, and walnut tree, the nuts whose thump I love to hear as they drop to the roof of the porch.

I love the dawn chorus of birds that flit through these trees and bathe in the makeshift birdbath. And I miss the groundhog that ate the sunflowers our son planted and the one with three chucklings we looked for every day.

you used to play
music together

mostly original
with a few covers

that would hook
the bar crowd

our name should be
free beer no cover

you joked
that would bring em in

the music hooked
shag into a rug

rag into a shrug 
scott joplin’s weird kin

now there are many
who spend their time

and wild talent 
occupying the lives

of other bands: 
u2 can be lemon chile

these smiths mournful
mimics of morrissey 

and when you reunite
with your bandmates

after all these years
and play your songs

do you feel like a 
cover band of yourselves?