Thursday, May 29, 2014

the line









You
disarm me with your Sangre de Cristo attentions
divine connection
still threaded in azure across miles & miles & miles
knowing comes without beckoning …
forgiveness vessel'd in some seasoned understanding
hanging as it does here upon the cusp of summer
hanging as it does upon the memory of your hands
beauty locked in the acceptance of distance
to the
horizon line
disarmed? perhaps not so much ….
tender comes the high plains light
and
easy the moments
hello sweet night ...

awaiting the necromancy of the thunderstorms ....










how acutely i feel.....


when i was very small, i would stand on my little bed at night for hours & hours - gazing out my bedroom window at the world as it was - i could see our street, davis avenue in gering, i could see our neighbors house, and the side yard between.  our neighbor's had a daughter named brenda, and i would think about brenda and what it as like in her head. 
i would worry about brenda. 
i would gaze out at the sky and think about all the hurt & pain in the world.  lonely children, hurt & lost animals, the long forgotten causes & missions of long, forgotten people.  i would pray back then, for all that hurt to go away; to be replaced by sunlight, hope & love.
we moved to north platte and i had a beautiful pink & purple bedroom, a french provencal canopy bed over which another window peered out into the world.  i would kneel on my very girly pink bed, and pressing my elbows into the glass,  again feel - NOT merely imagine, but FEEL the world's hurt.  animal & human alike.  they were all the same - same despair, same loneliness and pain. 
by this time, i stopped praying, and just 
hoped. hard.
friendships were felt easily too.  every nuance, every slight, every joy - every moment that was true & perfect like we were gods, happening to land here on earth for 
some brief lifetime.
some moments shone with a timeless brilliance, as if placed under a bell-jar.
sitting on slames brothers bunk-bed, singing along to yellow brick road, eating brownies laced with weed.
all of our little gang, playing down on the river with the sun shining hot, and the taste of june on your tongue.
that night across from the party, laying amongst garden & grass: discovering sex, discovering him & a part of myself.
release under stars and the smell of grass mingled with the smell of us ...
i was home.
i think every moment is like that.  standing apart from the rest, each is perfect in it's chaos and possibility.
time, of course, sometimes was just time.  rolling along with it's own agenda, careening & dashing around the barriers & walls people put up to shield themselves from the truth.
pure, golden moments though raged on always.....
when i was 8 months pregnant, we ran over a rattlesnake on the way to golden from boulder - i cried for 2 hours about that snake.
i felt that snake. 
touching daisy's bristly little red hair as it stood up on her month old head, i could feel every hurt, every pulse of life & hope and it terrified me.
everyday news was approached with caution, and fortitude as sometimes the details were too grim, the reality to harsh to bare ..... or so i thought.
heartbreak & unhappiness, pain & loneliness  -  as i age, they seem to be countered with a measure of wisdom, hope, trust & well,  love.
.... biting into an apple = you anticipate the taste, the feel of the skin upon your lips and your mouth might salivate a bit, yet you hesitate becuase the cold against your teeth will be shocking & hurt.  your eyes shut as you sink your teeth into the flesh,  the juice trickling down over your open lips - it is bracingly chill and your a mess
really, but 
that apple is tart, crisp and filled 
with an early summer hope.

Wednesday, May 28, 2014

New Moon in Gemini


tenderness comes at the end of May
petal'd visceral pink, helped along by the tiny pull of tiny things
fluttered ants of forgiveness
purchased at such a cost ....
yet, how familiar the scar tissue now
tight & full
restrictive
unyielding
how we learn to bend despite
to feel contentment despite
to love through to the other side
to open and not be defined by the brokenness
but
to define
by
the
fragility & lightness of being
so alive
so pink
at the end of May

Tuesday, May 20, 2014

two o'clock in May


Maxfield Parrish
whirling dervish
of mustard seed
and
monarchs
as
moments resurface
tiled
and
tempered
in goblets of grace
darkness to sunlight outline of days
vinca vine trailing along the clay brick
noticed by no one
it's tendrils it lays
circular, intricate patterns abound
wind whips through boughs
as
love tattoos the ground
trails; whirly-gig-maple-pods ... twigs and wood-green
tell the tale of all the gray space between
surrender to no one
surrender the fight
surrender the hollow
of
white-birch
in
moonlight ...
illustrate these wind-swept hours
perceive beyond this swirling morning haze;
color the space
darken the line
with
mustard seeds
and 
monarchs
to
define these nearly summer days


direct to allium royal









writing comes syrup'd between
the orbit
of
right
and
mercury ...
pulsing
with the ever-present need for the taste of
honey-salt-sun upon my tongue
and …
the beat of the ordinary 
contrast contrast
of violet anger to sublime all-rightness
contentment voids the hand of ancient immediacy
pull of moon
weight of blood
life held in delicate fierceness
as knowing erases the solitary lines
gravity inked with sureness bold
folded in, rolled in … to me 
whole
ahh . .  the wind breaks the one o'clock hour to mark the repair
 … the recovery
sun direct
whole:
hole-ness
holiness 
pull of moon
rise
of
sun





Tuesday, May 13, 2014

shelter


shelter of blue & salmon sky
shelter of questions
and
the thunder of why
shelter of wounds as deep as lore
shelter on white & rocky shores
arms raised fierce into the night
as wind whips the artifice of light
lean to the heart of those you know
lean to the salve of bowers rain-glow
spring shelters expectations true
awaken to a day
electric alice blue

Sunday, May 11, 2014

Ceres




structure of
ice mantle and rocky core
lying between Mars & Jupiter
contrast, orbit ... presence
no prose, no poetry
no sentimental sparkling bon mot bouillon 
to warm heart cockles
How do you define an art, a science full-to-bursting with
compassion, contrition & complexity
hands hinged to hold
to cradle
to tender
and with an innate sensibility 
thru and despite a sparkling-fierce-hope-filled insanity 
pushed pushed 
honing spirit & light
catch and release ...
craft of ice and rock
simultaneously everything
and
nothing
dwarfed 364 days a year to the whorl & chaos of the ordinary
the temperance of tempers & time
weighing weighing weighing
heavy
struggling to find the funny, find the light .... to love enough 
to tap the spark
the rendering of sorrows cut upon expectation & fullness
the gravitas of choice
acceptance unconditional
love's price to mother
everything and nothing 
no prose, no poetry 
merely …
ice
and rock ...

higgs boson


I have this strange attachment to things ....
it has been there always
as if I could recognize some part of myself buried deep within
the downy fluff of a stuffed rabbit,
 or
along the fragile pastern & cannon of a 3 inch glass horse
something ...
and
I have this strange knack of losing things I didn't know were of value;
my grandmother's quilt
left in a kappa delt house,
a naked rabbit clock tucked behind a forgotten somewhere,
a spanish guitar left behind somewhere,
an austrian crystal necklace of tiny glass shells & flowers - the first spurge in a new town,
a picture my mother embroidered, over 50 years ago now, of a deer with a fawn, forgotten in a corner of a severed family branch ...
somewhere
is tucked a painting of dragons & orbs ... still in it's thin black frame ...
"I keep your picture
Up on the wall
It hides the messy stain
That's lying there
So don't you ask me to give it back ..."
well, I digress and you're beginning to get the picture. ( pun intended ...)
just recently I realized a green tufted footstool of my grandfathers is missing ... not where it has been.
for 8 years.
gone .
it is more than obvious to me that we leave pieces of ourselves with those we love at every coming together and at every parting
but
it is the pieces that exist there in the inorganic ... the inanimate that stun me :
the pieces of myself I have scattered to the corners & shadowlands,
into hands I know not
the piece of me that dwells somewhere I can't see
is anything truly inorganic ?
are we not everywhere ?
in tiny glass flowers, in the soft forgiveness of a quilt,
and the pastern & cannon of horses ?
tufted, missing, fragility .... found & connected .

petricor



















sometimes it's easy to abandon all musings
on
cosmic folly & rolling hills
to take up a fist of soil & work the earth thru the passing of the hours
to battle amongst those who can look sky ward and see no stars
see no force there
but blue
to rumble along ignorant of ardor & fascination & truth
merely to delude oneself into thinking that this is how it should be;
hard work and sleep make up the days 
habit follows habit follows habit 
follows
into the yellow chalk-outlined box of tomorrow
until 
something slips,
something tilts ....
into a particle of possibility
perhaps it is a smell on the wind
a song on the radio while strolling thru the frozen foods looking for 
bright green peas and razberries
something awakens in the pit of your chest
the bone of your thighs


the spaces in your heart 
the burn stirs
and you hope and want and yearn and breathe
in
him .
.... and 

all events and passions and senses
collide to entice you to rattle the bars of your cage
to stomp and shout and
mark your scent upon the piece of 
sky & earth
that calls you
home 

Thursday, May 1, 2014

peacock april









This
is what it feels like when air hits the bone
the bite, the chill snap
exposed venous structures laddered to purposeful presence
vulnerability freely given
turtle oil pressed against the beveled edge
strick the match
count the # of days . . .
hands 
taken
named
released  . . . snap!