green and copper

in afternoon sunlight

inhaling sweet mysteries

swallowing scarlet echoes

murmuring alleys of prayer

Knees knocking,

pulse pounding,

fingers dialing,

voice shaking,

message left

but not right

not right at all.

Hands reach

to retrieve

words before

ears listen.

Too slippery

to catch.

Next time

open heart

before mouth.

Three heart-shaped stones

then a heart-shaped boulder

reminders to use mine more

                         *

Pocked and deformed rocks

not smooth round ones

called my name tonight

                        *

When was the last time

you caressed your own cheek

with a cold flat stone?

                         *

Overwhelmed by ocean of rocks

my eyes could not see

beyond the now

                        *

With pockets full of rocks

I had to re-learn

dancing, leaping, flying

                      *

Their colors grabbed me

from every direction

begging to be adored

                     *

I tried to take stones home

but their wailing families

made me put them back

                    *

Heart-shaped boulder

cradled in my arms—

who knew hearts could be so heavy?

                   *

“More rock than cloud”

my prayer all week

and here they are, grounding me.

On top of the bookcase—

home to favorite books,

found objects, memories—

a giant black rectangle

hulking and glaring

at our plants and pictures.

 

A buffet of strangers

marching into the living room

spewing opinions

laughing at stupid jokes

alarming us with bad news

selling empty fulfillment.

 

Perhaps police will investigate

this domestic disturbance

perhaps Pest Control

has a television division

perhaps I should stop resisting—

offer this stranger a cup of tea.

m  o  o  n

t h i s    m o r n i n g,

g o l d e n    a b u n d a n c e,

i n f e c t i n g   m y   h e a r t

w i t h    r a d i a n c e,

h  o  p  e

A poem cowers inside,

trapped,

maybe unwilling to leave,

scared to expose herself

to judgment,

misunderstanding,

mediocrity.

 

I call her: Come here, onto this page,

or at least I try,

but I don’t even know her name.

 

I stare around the room,

pleading with objects for inspiration,

probing my mind for ideas.

 

Then I remember

she can’t be coerced.

 

I retreat into stillness,

empty my thoughts,

pick up the pen,

trust.

 

And you know what?

That poem opened the door,

all by herself,

strutted down the winding hall of intuition,

and sashayed her way onto this page,

not worried one bit

about judgment,

misunderstanding,

mediocrity.

for Mom

 

sales racks

sunshine

 

leisurely mornings

chocolate coffee

 

abundance

adventure

 

delicious books

afternoon naps

 

laughter

long walks

 

kindness

magic

This morning my blue fleece mitten

tumbled into the river’s laughter,

and got carried away with delight.

I watched the mitten glide over rocks,

bob through pools, ride cold currents.

Imagination convinced me

that someday, downstream,

someone with a cold right hand

will find a sun-baked mitten

waving from a pile of driftwood.

what if we all started out

as pieces of instruments

scattered in salvage yards

until we joined other pieces

to create whole instruments

capable of music?

 

what if certain instruments

then found each other

on pawn shop shelves

and assembled orchestras

capable of symphonies?

 

and if, as time passed,

pieces and instruments

were reassembled

to create new sounds, new songs,

wouldn’t we still feel the echoes

of each note ever played?

I am so blessed,

the refrain parading

through me all day.

Amazing people,

incredible kindness,

love from every direction.

Thank you, thank you, thank you.