Happy New Year!!

I'm ringing in the new year,
By myself.
Well, okay,
The dog is at my feet,
And the cats are ringing their bells too.

Remix

Humpty dumpty worked on a sunday
Humpty dumpty had a not fun day
He said, "well, today
I learned that it's best
When God tells you so
Take your day of rest!"

Tasting places

What is moving a lot like?
Oh, I dunno.
I guess you could compare it to icecream.
Some folks always eat vanilla,
And some have to try every cherry fudge ripple
Or banana caramel crunch that comes their way.

Icecapades

You!
Wristless, armless, handless,
As good as with casted stiffness!
Wildeyed with boredom,
Uncomfortable.
Pray be cheerful or I will make you!

Moonlight sonata

In my moon-strewn room I pray.
Pleading with a father I love and who loves me,
For friends who are struggling to stay a family.
Struggling against a force that seems inexhorable.
Seeking blindly to wedge them apart.
I cry out to my Father against the injustice,
Against the pain, the fear.
Christmas should be joyful.
And in this moment,
When I feel others suffering,
I hear the words of Longfellow.
Then pealed the bells more loud and deep:
“God is not dead, nor doth He sleep;
The wrong shall fail,
The right prevail
With peace on earth, good will to men.”
And I know, because he has told me,
That all is well, all is well.
And in the snowy, sunlit morning, it is.

Potty-training

Dry snow brittles crunchingly
Under frozen toes,
Souding like a sleeping puppy
Groaning in his sleep.
Said puppy frolics
Tasting pure newness
While I wait patiently
For yellow liquid
Wanting to go inside.

The shelter moment

Blue eyes through silver wires,
Purr as rich as silky fur,
Cream and chocolate bliss.
All she wants is love.

More moving poetry.

Empty walls,
Once a gallery
For Individuality
Now nameless,
Faceless,
Once more.

Letting go

It is difficult not to worry
Over things you can't control
But oh how necessary!
To give them to one whose role
Is to carry those burdens for you
So that you can be happy, whole.

Refuge from a cold fall walk.

My glasses steam as I enter the warm, humid store. As the mist leaves my sight, I see a bright fish duck into a crevice surrounded by swaying, flowery coral polyps. A grey fish, slender and seamed with muted rainbows, slides by a smoke bubble tunicate. Young clams, lips painted in outrages leapord prints and swirls of pink and purple like a lava lamp, pulse open and close while forced currents sweep the fine gravel beds they live in. A strange orange fish, like an alien dimsum, flutters waveringly past a suave black denizen with white markings. Milk white albino snakes weave through their brown and black friends. A chameleon pins one of his wandering eyes on me, the other one fiercely trained on a cricket the size of his head. A tortoise noses the corners of his wooden pen, long black claws scraping thoughtfully with the sounds of a scholars pen. My survey done, I go to finish my walk.

Trials

My trials are in my mind.
I have given my fears power over me.
I've never broken a bone
Or stepped over a line
I am locked in stagnance
And will never go anywhere.

Temptation

I know that Coconut cream pie
Is an evil concoction
Of hormone laced fat
And cholesterol laden eggs.
That the cows and chickens involved
Were probably not treated humanely.
That runoff from their farms poisons fish.
And that I will feel gross an hour after I eat it.
Then why is it so hard to resist?

Raising butterflies

I love you,
You are my mother.
Sometimes,
I wish we were less friends,
And you made me do things.
But then I think,
If I just go my whole life doin what other people tell me to do,
Sure, I'll do a lot of stuff,
But I won't ever learn how to make a decision on my own.
And I think that would be extremely crippling.
So thank you for not forcing me out of my chrysallis,
No matter how painful it is for you to watch me struggle.
Because someday,
When I'm soaring in that blue sky I'm yearning for,
I will look back and know that it was right.
I guess what I'm saying is,
I know you're worrying about me,
And that sometimes I'm frustrating.
Right now I'm bound by a fear of striking out on my own.
I know that when I get past that I'll be okay,
But until then,
I'm sorry.

By way of apology

I wanted to write a sonnet.
I started to a few times.
But my heart just wasn't in it.
My soul put forth no rhymes.

Moving

Trembling we approach it,
This thing that we have chose.
To leave all that we've worked for
And follow Daddy's nose
To an unfamiliar city,
With new, unfamiliar rows
Of neatly painted houses,
With their tidy garden rose.
And for a new adventure
We'll buy ourselves one of those.
It's a terrifying prospect
To pack up all your throws
For a different sort of winter
Where instead of rain it snows.
But in spite of apprehension
There's another sort of tension
That speaks to one who knows.
And the prospect of new people
And opportunities glows
Across the face of wise ones
As they track the ebbs and flows
Of the myriadic peoples
Who live in tidy rows.

Making Diabetic juice in the van.

In the front seat she pours koolaid powder into a wendy's cup.
Cherry flavored dust swirls, becoming chinese ink clouds,
Bright, sparkling in the sunlight.
The little boy in his carseat laughs.
"Heeey Leadto!" He shouts.
And no one knows why koolaid clouds
Remind him of burritos.
But they smile, and he smiles,
And they sing the burrito song while she pours super sugar,
Not fake, but beyond the powers of plain white sugar,
Into the wendy's cup.

Mother and the Aunts

Five sisters,
Sattelited by children
And significant others
Sit around the sunny fire.
Their conversation
Necessarily excludes
The moons that surround them.
For they speak of their big bang.
The cosmic force that binds them.
The pain and wonder of their childhood,
The formation of their formidability.
Their own unique gravity of levity
That binds others into orbit around them.

Running from a disturbed hive

Angry buzzing in my ear.
Blind flight over fallen trees.
Startled faces around the fire.
Pricks along my scalp.
Crawling on my leg.
Concerned shouts from camp.

Detecting

Murder mysteries on TV:
People touching minds.
Or rather their now empty
Homes with shuttered blinds.

No more

It's getting chilly at night again,
Time to close my bedroom window.
No more fresh air blowing in
No more sounds from below.
It's time again to read my old books,
Cuddled in the safety of throws.
No more curled in outside nooks,
Where the gentle breeze blows.
The colors are changing every where
To reds, golds, browns and varied grays.
Greens live on in darker wear,
No more ever-bright days.

Fortress

When I was a child, I liked secret places.
The Pantry under the basement stairs,
As high as I could get in the cherry tree.
I even hung fabric around my bed.
I liked places where I could be alone to explore me.
I wanted to have places where no one else went.
Where I was safe and invulnerable.
Some might say it was a freudian desire to return to the womb.
I think not.
I was simply overly sensitive, and needed a place to not be tense.
Somewhere where my unfolding self would never be judged or ridiculed.
Now, I try to be that place for other people.
It isn't easy, and I fail a lot.
But I want to let other people be safe around me.
I never want to wound the the tenderness of newly revealed self.
For that is the greatest crime of all.

I find status reports on social networking sites a rather fraught exercise. Attempting to render the essence of my being in this moment into a single sentence in such a way that won't be misinterpreted is scary. And yet, what is this blog? A compendium of the results of that same exercise more or less. And what about my fear of misinterpretation? It's not like I psychoanalyse my friends status'. My fear is silly and irrelevant, an outgrowth of my fear of judgment and inadequacy. Really it doesn't matter.

Visions of someday

I fly to you
In dream fragments.
Shrapnel of my
Exploding imagination
Piercing the armor of my soul,
Showing me what I dare not show myself;
The deep hidden desires from the wellspring of myself
For someone to talk to in my quiet moments
When I ponder the most delicate questions of my being.
Someone to shelter in return,
From the stones thrown by an unyeilding world.
Or if not shelter, ease the burdens,
By bearing part.
Desiring to bear all.
Finding in myself the highest aspirations
Of sacrifice and love,
Turning my face to the warm, bright sun
Christ, my savior,
And understanding even more his love for me,
Seeing it mirrored, if only faintly,
In the brightness of our love for each other.

Missing

You wake up sad
Because Mom is gone.
I pull you out of your hole
And hold you in my arms
While you cry.
Nothing more.
Just you and me and your sobs
Until your done.
Then we roll cars down a board
And you are happy.

Summer writing

Sweltering, hot, in my sunlit room
I ignore dread thoughts of failure, doom
To focus on the screen.
Characters dancing Corps d' Ballet
I watch them as they, saucy, sashay
In lines upon the screen.
Puppets controlled by pale, quick fingers
Telling this tale like Opera singers
Telling it from the screen.

History

Singing through a shrouded room
Untouched by sunlight's gaze
The music of a culture dead
A sadly ruined maze.

Writing

I feel the story flowing from me,
A part of me,
Apart from me.
In me
And in others,
A piece for all to see.

Obssessing

Plummeting down
Into angry depths
Where I seldom please to play.
With bitter thoughts
That entice me in
To a sick buffet of hate.
Where I ponder
Long past slights and wrongs
And twist them out of their shapes.
Grossly bloated
They poison my mind
Until I thrust them away.

Butte Creek falls on Crooked Finger road near Scott's Mills

Gentle thrills of caution
Not trusting solid stone
Ahead of the others
I walk out all alone
The wide earth falls away
On either side of me
Carved away in eons
Of waters gentle spray
Pouring down wild cliffs
Measuring the world's time
Until cradled in hands
Rocky, hard and sublime.

Dryer

Welcome blast
In frigid air,
Warming to the toes.
Neatly fold
And match in pairs
The newly laundered clothes.

Sharing

The monkey-boy in brown T-shirt
Implores the towering brother
Morsels of food descend from the sky
You must love one another.

Gentleman

I am cold, and it's growing colder.
I feel a brush upon my shoulder,
And your coat is keeping me warm.

Saddle Mountain

The world unfolds around me,
Familiar places in unfamiliar views.
I see the shining ocean.
Great waves reduced
To small pond sparkles.
Feelings of insignificance,
Ignorance,
And profound respect
Fill my enlightened soul
As I stand on top of the world.

Six facts about me, because my friend tagged me in a meme

I like to take my socks off.
And my shoes.
And feel the warm soft mud squish
Through my toes.

I can find a snatch of song
In my mind,
To suit any occasion
I may find.

My favorite place to read books
Is in trees.
It's more peaceful up there, except
For the breeze.

I adore the name that's me,
It is mine.
It's oddity and beauty
Suit me fine.

I enjoy wearing weird hats
for each mood
I've found it provokes nice chats
Which is good

I like to eat sour cream
Plain and straight.
Now I eat cream that's vegan.
Still tastes great.

Getting to know you

Scattered groups,
Joining, dividing,
Moving, colliding,
Primordial soup.
In which perhaps
A friendship
Will be born.

Creation

The shrill song of the wheat grinder breaks the stillness of the hot summer air. Hundreds of hard red grains sink into the unseen whirling mechanisms. The sight and sound are hypnotic, drawing me away from the to-do list scurrying around my mind. I lift the white top off of the silver base, and pause to sift the staff of life through my fingers. The texture is very different from the sort of flour you would buy in a store. It's less silky and ethereal, more substantial and earthy. It feels more real. I measure the yeast, molassess, salt and hot tap water into a large steel bowl. The recipe is so familiar I have no need to retrieve the small brown bread book from its resting place. I dump some flour in, watching the cream colored mountain break up into icebergs and then disappear in the rythmic circling of my fork. I can see the gluten start to gather, I imagine a conga line of gluten people and laugh. I pour another, smaller mountain of flour on the table, and scrape my infant dough into it. I gently fold it in on itself, bathing it in milk-powder flour. I massage it out, and repeat. Kneading the bread is not zen-like. It IS zen. I feel the changing tension under my unrelentless knuckles and know that it has had enough. I lay it to rest in it's steel cradle, tenderly tucking a clean, hot, damp dishtowel around the firm, resisting ball. A couple hours later I pull crisp crusted brown loaves out of the oven and slice in, revealing tender steaming hot bread. Pale yellow butter soaks into the sturdy, grainy surface. It is good.

End of the trek

Soft grass bends before me,
A gold and silver path,
Leading into Zion,
And all my Father hath.
I sit beneath the trees
The only shade around
And weep for untold joy
This is the place we've found.

Sweetwater

The water is dark and cold and swift,
And in it like toys rough blocks of ice drift.
With a sound as desolate as the breeze
Despairing the broken fall on their knees.
The water is swift and dark and cold,
Too much for the weary, the sick, the old.
The young men's eyes meet, their owners say,
"We will carry you all across today."
The water is cold and swift and dark.
Those strong pairs of arms, like Noahs ark,
Carry the people too weak to go
Through the black water to banks of white snow.
The water is pleasant and warm and bright,
So diff'rent in this sunny summer light
That shines as I stop and ponder on
The sacrifice of those brave boys long gone.

Olympic trials

Strong arms propel sturdy bodies,
Throwing them into the sky.
Graceful spins in weightless air,
Whirling, twirling, way up high.
Precision etched in determined faces,
Regardless of ages, forms or races,
Trusting themselves they fly.

Lifting a toddler out of his stroller.

Your arms are sleepy, heavy.
They automatically curl around my neck.
And unaware your little hand
with tender concern pats my back.

Father's day

Pickles and cards for Fathers Day,
More similar than you'd think.
Crisp, sharp, flavorful, tender,
I believe he's tickled pink.
And yet I sort of kind of wish,
I'd had the time last night,
To buy some peaches for a pie.
It might have been better. It just might.

Sunshine

In the green water
Fourth of july fireworks
Crackle their white hot glitter.
Mirroring the cinnamon sugar sparkle
Of my golden skinned, tender white donut.

Foul digestions

Oh tummy, poor tummy,
I wish you could understand.
Oh tummy, poor tummy,
Press yourself into my hand.
Oh tummy, poor tummy,
You're in twisting, knotted pain.
Oh tummy, poor tummy,
I'll never eat it again.

Little dictator

Imperious he stood upon his chair,
And commanded common folk.
With regal mien and stately air
He quite specifically spoke.
"No! Sit!"
His Sister humbly obeyed.

Woo Hoo!!!!!!

Last night I posted my one hundredth post!!!!


Avacado

Dark green skin,
Like river pebbles,
Smoothly rough,
Cannot resist my
Silver knife,
Splitting open
To reveal flesh,
light green,
Butter rich,
melting in my mouth.

Ode to an evening daisy.

Ivory petals,
Slightly lilac,
Flowers in their own right.
Radiate from a
velvet center,
Deep purple black midnight.

Northern Star

Sifting through jewel tinted animals,
Smooth, faceted surfaces cool in my hands.
Twisting silk, wool, and metallic fibers
Imported from incense scented lands
Hearing the bold, brassy, come-hither chiming
Of coin-dripping embroidered waistbands

Antidote

When I'm here, I'm here,
When I'm there, I'm there.
As long as I am happy,
Does it matter where?

Keeping it real

For what reason am I writing this poem?
Is it because it is expected of me?
Am I trying to impress someone else?
Or show off my "talent"?
Am I writing something that is of meaning to me?
Or am I simply searching for some brilliant phrase or twist,
Whose praise will pet my ego?

Connect

Why is there war?
Is there a hell?
I'm not sure I believe in one,
But Hitler's got to go SOMEwhere.
And dark henna lines flow
From the still pond cellophane in my hands
To your cracked desert land skin,
Like the soothing words I speak to your aching mind,
Connecting for a moment.
And I know, even if you don't,
That in a small way Hitler was
So that this moment could have meaning.

Music

music is not a sound,
music is not a talent.
music is not a set of laws or a tune.
Music is our souls speaking to each other.

L.I.F.E is good

Hundreds of children,
Free happy children,
a maelstrom of discovery.

frustrated

I can feel your attention
on the tip of my fingers,
But bird-like you've flown again
I want you to notice me
Because I have noticed you
Don't you understand this game?
I'm supposed to smile at you,
You're supposed to talk to me
But I keep smiling in vain!
I may have to get drastic
And ask you out on a date.
Bending the rules of the game.

In the labyrinths of my dreams
I confront my darkest fears
Far away from the golden beams
That would dry my frightened tears
I am singing the challenge
Of those who have gone before
In the primal voice of stonehenge
I will not fear anymore

Uncle Owen

I never really knew you.
But I think you gave me my first bike.
Someday I'll sit and talk to you.
That's something I think I'll like.

If

If you had microscopic hearing,
You would hear my skin
Sizzle and pop in the sunlight
Like a pan of red and white bacon.

America

My cup is slippery and ice cold in my hand. The water numbs my throat. The salt from my skin mingles with it, giving it a faint trace of sweetness. I leave it. I step out of the shade and feel my shy skin tingle as it burns in the radiance of a brazen, shameless sun. I hear grass under my feet, carrying me to my position. The sharp crack of ball hitting bat shatters the silence of heat smothered fans, and appreciative shouts and whistles follow in its wake. Soft thumps, like ripe fruit, announce both spectacular catches, and moan-mongering fumbles. A thin thread of sweat caresses my temple, cooled by a welcome breeze. I watch a white sphere spin over me in the blue halls of heaven. I step back, opening the hungry brown jaws of my glove, and like a wolf snap it out of the air.

I'm melting

Like a flower wilts
So do I
When the mercury
is miles high

stupidity

Trust in you heart they say,
I believe it a perfect way
To do something foolish,
And also quite mulish

Walkabout

I've heard of a thing called walkabout,
When men roamed the punishing wild
To escape whatever was bothering them.
I go, but my method's more mild.
I wander the parks of my city
And bundle up the child.

Backseat writers.

Opinionated brothers
And pinnochio nosed mothers
Can drive a girl insane
They won't let you write a letter
Without saying, "Make it better"
Though you tell them, "go" quite plain.

Ending.

I hear a giggle, and soft voices murmur.
Water sings as it caresses crumbling clay.
Some busy insect hums a tuneless song.
A hawk pipes, warning others away.
I turn over, lazy in the sunshine,
My hat slips away from my eyes
And I smile, as my Dad and my Sister
Watch a shimmering silver lure while it flies.

Observations while meditating on Jane Austin

There are some people
Who are not the people
You want to be around
Because they are the kind of people
Who are not completely sound.

Supermarket checkers

I watch you paltry peons
Scanning your prison bars
In the dogged slavery of eons
You peons gaze at the stars

Summer taste

There's nothing like
A perfectly ripe
Tomato sandwich.

Scraping the barrel

It is impossible to write
A poem for me tonight
It is impossibly to write
And not sound inanely trite.

Sleepwriter

The hours are all ticking
And my contacts are unsticking
From my eyeballs. Let me go!
I'm half asleep already
And my feet aren't quite so steady
But these words just have to go.
From me they're overflowing
And I have no way of knowing
If they'll ever let me go.

Cincy OH

Can you sin, sin,
Can you Natty?
Can you Sin, Sin.
In Sin Cincinatti.

I like to go outside.
I always have.
I like to feel the air move
I like it to live.
I like to feel things between my toes,
Mud,
Grass,
Sand.
I like to feel the cool
Green gold glow
Of growing things
In the sunshine.
I like to taste sweet, fresh wild fruits,
Flavorful, meaty, tender new leaves,
And starchy-squeaky shoots.
I like to smell damp earth,
Fresh cut grass,
The delicate scents of flowers
So small you scarcely see them.
I like to hear the silence so profound,
That the whisper of the trees
Is the roar of lions in the breach.
I like to go outside.

Nightmare

I had the strangest dream last night,
It put me in a terrible fright.
'Bout a woman who worked in a packaging plant,
A lettuce grower was their largest client.
Cheerleaders helped the workers along
With a shout and a dance and a cheerful song
Bugs infested this woman's skin
Crawling through her, o'er her, around her, in.
Turning it shiny, broken and black,
Burnt bread crust, shimmering tarmac.
To show how much she drowned in despair
My dream-machine replaced her hair
With pepperoni and cheese pizza
Dotted with a glistening red spicy meatsauce.
Surrounded by her greasy halo
She tried to speak despite a mouthful
Of frigid, choking, peppermint tic-tacs
Until her rotting, scabbed face went lax
And as the evil 'sects jumped ship
Beneath the cheese her death mask slipped.

Toddle

Hmm Hmmm Hmmm
He sings,
Boh boh boh
He sings,
Dee Dee Dee
He sings,
Hands behind his back,
He sings.

When children are free

In this sunny day I'm seeking
For a piece of a place I was,
When the daughter of a Sea King
And the child of a Sea-foam Fuzz
Ran from Someday and Well, Maybe.
Oh, they played all day just because
All the children of the Way, free
From Not Now Dear do and just does.

Kick off

Okay folks, everyday in May is here again! And this year, I'm actually going to write EVERY DAY!!!!!


Happiness

How do you write a poem
To describe a perfect day?
When the sun shone
And the wind blew
What can a person say?


Barn moment

A huddle of children laugh
And test the warm hose water
That trickles down to the dark damp concrete
To splash in fluid gems
Against the legs
Of a black and white horse named Rhubarb
Who's going to get a bath today.

Twentieth birthday

Today is my last day as a teenager.
I can't say that I spent it feeling particularly teenagerish.
I ate some jellybeans,
Worked in my garden,
Played with my little brother,
Cleaned the living room,
Sewed some doll clothes,
And made coleslaw for the first time.
But today is the last official day of the two decade long incubation period known as growing up.
Tomorrow I emerge in my full glory as an "adult,"
I won't be able to say, "what can you expect? I'm a teenager" anymore.
It's weird that a whole period of my life, one that I certainly don't feel like I'm done with, can be proclaimed DONE just like that. I don't FEEL like an adult. I feel young, and immature, and like there's still so much I need to know.

Pistachio pudding

Soft spring green substance
Swirls smoothly on my scintillated tongue.
Elusive traces of exotic fragrance
Humble dessert, a hero unsung.

Waiting for words

When the winds come and the leaves fall
I stand under the willows and wait.
And the water rolls past
My seat of green grass
Where I grow words and the hour grows late.

March at the lake with a toddler

Wet clay clinging to your little shoes, making you lift them comically.
Wind snatching at my flannel shirt, the sleeves rolled up, and the tails tied to fit you.
Your little fleece Elmer Fudd hat, firmly velcroed under your chin.
The great blue-green lake, the bright blue sky, and your grey-blue eyes.
One spring chilled nose bright red against a pale young face.
Hands lifted up in balancing straightness, echoing the wideness of your smile.

Square peg

Do you want to be my friend?
I promise I will try to fit in.
I will make my free spirit bend
To your strange ideals.


Dedicated to Ev

Liking

I am full of lovely butterflies,
Each one a happy thought.
They twirl and swirl, and flutter, fly,
They make my face grow hot.

Insomnia

Tantalizing tidbits
Thinking
Sleepless nights

Proprietary dilemma

If maiden's sweet propriety
Will dare not lift my eye to thee,
Do not think me coldly hearted,
Merely less than boldly parted.
For where your manly step is grand,
Such dainty feet as mine can't land.
Within our staid soci'ty's bounds,
I must keep to gentler grounds.
But with what looks they do permit,
My heart and soul I do acquit
As hopelessly attached to thee,
Far beyond cold propriety.

Knowing

I reached out my hand,
Bloodstained,
Impure,
And touched the perfect
Soft dun fur.
I ran my fingers over
Smooth cream bone,
Elegant branching points,
Carefully honed.
I felt your broken body,
Savior, Redeemer,
In the saving body
Of a broken deer.