I see
Wildflowers in the field
Yellow, blue, and red
Bees, Hummingbirds and butterflies
Yellow, blue, and red
Wildflowers in the field
I see

There used to be Mullein at the top
of the hill by the golf course on North Elm,
tall, proud stalks, yellow flowers,
but now gone, city clearing hillside
wth giraffe-necked equipment.
Now I search and search for old
remedy, not by road, not by tracks,
not sprayed, just clean fuzzy leaves
to smoke or brew into tea.

picking wildflowers to put in a vase
while the sun is shining on my face

little ladybug crawling on my hand
always writing my name in sand

chasing butterflies landing on flowers
looking for rocks in the creek for hours

unicorns and rainbows all the day long
dancing barefoot in my garden to a favorite song

no matter your age you can love what you like
and anyone who doesnt agree can take a hike

I will miss it  come tomorrow
the time I would’ve taken to be queiet  to let the words seep in around the busy brain

but no  right now I can’t do it   won’t do it  the letters pop in and ask for attention  but no!
the pull of tasks and ticking of boxes  too much   
the dogs with ears peaked and tongues lolling  asking for   no time!
to be still  to allow space  to flow 
they keen only   for a step outside
for a soak of sun   a touch of that breeze
a taste of grass  and maybe a sneak of a pick   yum raspberries
and yes!  there’s a chase of squirrels  and 
oh! 
     tick boxes  get tasks completed
there is no time for a poem today

Upside down in a dance class this morning, I remembered I get nauseous when the earth rises to meet me. So, instead, I sat. And then the world settled. And everything made more sense.  

When I was 22, I came to New York because it meant something. And because I wanted to make it. Dance classes were fifteen dollars, less if you knew your way around the scene.  

Now, I’m no longer seen in the same ways as then. And I see differently too. All these people, I continuously muse. Each with their own whole world of baggage.  

In the dressing room after class, two elder women stretch. Earlier, I’d noticed one of them briefly naked, and I smiled to see her body still making its way through. Her skin. Her breasts.  

Now, in yellows and peaches, she snaps at her friend. The divorce? Oh, I’m not gonna talk about that! Her friend (a bit of an asshole, really) asks why. I slip out before the answer.  

But, good grief lady, we’re paying to play at twenty-five dollars a class and, lord knows, none of us know how much time we have left. So, what do you say—let’s just keep pressing forward.  

—
PROMPT IDEA FOR JUNE 30:
Hi poets! It’s been so great to write with you this month. I wanted to pass along a fun idea for a final prompt from fellow poet, Virginia Woolf Bailey. Last summer she wrote a “self cento.” Typically, a cento pulls together lines from other poets. She personalized this by pulling one line from each of her own poems from the month and creating a new collaged poem of her own lines. I was inspired and tried it myself last year. It’s so revealing! A second layer of truth in your own work—or a new spin in a different direction.

I can’t remember if I kept the same line breaks or played with picking phrases and doing different lineation. I think the second. The less rules the better because it’s already pretty hard to synthetize so much writing! If you have questions, feel free to post in the comments. And I look forward to reading your work for the rest of the month. Cheers! (And thanks Virginia!!)

There is something tightening my chest.
There is something overflowing…stress. 

This new job can weigh a lot 
and make my confidence rot,
as I’m taking my shots 
in the shadows of expectations.

The new information onslaught
feels like smoking pot
for the first time
as I’m boggled with no directions.

I’ll find my stride
and I’ll find my pride somewhere floating,
as I keep stroking
through this sea of “what am I doing?”  

I’m disconnected
I’m free 
I’m risen with glee 
I find my esprit in my own jamboree 

in heavy heat of day,
in heavy gait
with heavy beats—
right hind leg,
right fore, left hind,
left fore, and so on.
slow, smooth. but she
trots now, seeing
canine-friend,
human-friend to enjoy
a cool rinse, a fresh-
picked black raspberry.
she nudges us both,
cuddles close. three
cats stretch in loft—
lacie’s large brown eyes
take all in. mine, too.
i breathe in
a ton of love.

Tins of olive oil
from the land of your birth
crowd your cabinets, the perfect
blocks for small hands to play with.
The sound of oil popping as it
enfolds bell peppers frying in the
cast iron skillet, creating the forever smell
of your house.
Crocheted covers embrace tables and beds,
gifts of elegance created by your hands large
and worn from the working, making, and giving
of your many years.
The noodles only you could make, kneading the
secrets held in your heart, pressing them each
Sunday, sprinkled delicately with flour and love.
I see them draped over the backs of the dining room
chairs waiting to dry.