He sings
along to 80s alternative
while whisking eggs
for French toast;
our Sunday morning ritual.

He stops to chat
with rocks and raccoons
when we take
our weekly 
walks in the woods. 

He laughs
deep, husky, often;
it’s contagious,
so I laugh
deep, husky, often.

He understands
stability and spontaneity
can…
and must…
coexist.

He knows the exact spot
where I enjoy
being bitten
and exactly
how hard to bite.  

He loves
black cats
and big dogs
and they
love him.

He recites
The Jabberwocky
from memory
without missing
one absurd word.

He lovingly
cartographs my curves
mapping every detail
appreciating the diversity
of the landscape.

He wraps
our 12-foot tree
in a thousand
white twinkle lights
without complaining once.

He never asks
to see my words
but never declines
to read
when I ask him.

He plays guitar
on the front porch
during rainstorms
while I dance
in the deluge.

He is
destined
to walk
into my life
any day.

                    of the poet at a young age,    
                    judging the poet as I imagine    
                    the young Sylvia Plath must have
                    looked out on the world,
                    presenting herself in self-portraits,

                    of an artist.        
            

Record correction

Standing above Ruth and Cobb

Legend Josh Gibson

The heat squeezes my lungs,

Figure, figure, figure,
tap, tap, tap
calculate, calculate,
add and subtract
“How much was that?”
“What was the cost”
“How much did we lose?”
“Can we even afford groceries
from Save-A-Lot?”
Figure, figure, figure,
tap, tap, tap,
the financial balancing act
getting paid just enough to get “buy”
but never enough to truly live our lives.

Freedom isn’t free.
Infect our oxygen
with independence.

she took twelve lines of daybreak observations, writ behind
condensation-impressionistic view, and chose the brightest one —

scoops of orange sherbet swim among green croaks

she searched the page for a hint of coveted metaphor —

tiny globs of rainbow-road ice cream–   first pops
of zinnias? candy?   no.         yet i hunger.

she scanned the lines. is there a theme?

i imagine these eye-ear delights echo-gliding
today on stratus clouds o’er bluegrasses,
o’er sages. over all poaceae. in soothing breezes.

she scanned again. ramblings. what might a reader want?

perhaps the silent part.

burnt umber raw umber
          Payne’s grey
Take off my glasses
landscape blue   blur of green
dot:   brilliant yellow
lichen layers smear on rock
cobalt blue     cadmium yellow
lamp black  Chinese white

Do you have a rock to show me?

          Alizarin Crimson
the artists are painting
ocean, rocks, white frame cottages with heavy green doors
Rosa Rugosa–pink petal swirl
          wild iris
they mix their greens & purples
add white and black to red
tins of water–a spritz here     There.
paintings alive, breathing–unfinished
capture the light:  its shadows, how
it slants, blinds, shimmies 

if the moon is cheese,

are the stars little salt flakes?

is the sun fondue?

You know there’s still time to run

Angry splatters of red
creep across the TV screen
underlined by scary words
like severe and heavy
while a list of counties
slides along the bottom

In case of a tornado
a meteorologist reminds you
to DUCK

get DOWN
get UNDER
COVER your head
KEEP in shelter
until the storm
has passed

Effective words indeed
however sometimes
the storm still
finds a way
to get
you

and even then
…

What if that storm is inside you? What if
you can’t escape because you carry it
with you? What if you allow yourself to be
your own atmospherical disturbances?

Gale force anxiety hits at destructive speeds
and self-deprecation pelts you with baseball sized hail
and nobody will blame you if can’t go outside for a while
when you sense the pressures shifting

and you know
there’s still
time
to run
or hide

it is so much
easier
after all
…

But I?
I don’t want to do that anymore
because it’s what I always do.
It’s what I’m tempted to do again
never holding on long enough
to get up close and personal
with the storm,
learning why it becomes so vicious
and maybe then
I can figure how to take a hit
or to fight without
the option of ‘-or-flight.’

To STAND up
get OVER my fears
OPEN my mind
And LET GO
of self defense mechanisms
that help me survive
but won’t let me thrive
…

No. There can be no more running
if I hope to one day
achieve the dreams
that got me going in the first place.

No more running
because the next storm
is always coming.

No more running
when I create the storm myself.

There can be
no
more
running.