sometimes
i get a glimpse
of words i think i ought to know
from poets i used to read
way back when

i keep running
down dark alleys
chasing shadowy figures
and alluring words

where do the ghosts
of dead poets go
anyway?

i don't know how long
it has been
since
i shut myself
off from the world
around me

i reinforced
old boundaries

closed the gates
to new acquaintances

stopped talking

i see myself
stepping away
from some old patterns
and people

only the pattern
is
me

under my blue polo
with the emergency logo
i think there is a hole
in my chest
but i am afraid to look

another deep breath
and another

send the ambulance
to the old lady
who has fallen

what if on further inspection
there really is a hole
in my chest
and i find that i am missing
that big cardiac muscle

i still remember
when he said i was
heartless

read all the ones who came before. From Sappho, to the King James Old Testament, to the graffiti artist who scratched that quip on the bathroom wall.

2. read your words, out loud, when no one listens. Make sure all the stops and starts fall in all the right places. Make sure the words all sound like they belong where you put them. Be honest with your ear.

3. be transparent. Remembering - it is easier to be straightforward with strangers than with the people in arms-reach. You have to start somewhere.

4. be modest. Merit will always outshine bravado.

5. be full of heart. There are no prizes for stringing fifty cent words together on a string. Clever and poetic are too entirely different animals.

6. not every thought deserves to be a poem. Learn to separate the chaff from the wheat. Be discerning and your readers will honor you.

for that next
bit of information
to come across the radio

units cd 12

subject detained

no injuries

sometimes i hold my breath
to try to listen harder

i hold a life in my hands
in my headset
and if i could put myself
in between my units and danger
i would gladly

but sometimes all i can do
is listen

there are differing opinions
i would guess
and i am not a scholar

a wise woman once said something
about
feeling as if no fire
could warm her
and it is still true

how do i know
when it is art?
when no matter
where i am
a syllable escapes from my heart
oh

maybe loud enough
that my supervisor
asks if i am alright

because sometimes
dams are meant to break
if not by a crash, bang, boom
then maybe by a barely
audible
"oh"

when i get home this morning
i'm gonna throw a log
or two on the fire
and oil that wheel
and ply some yarn

maybe

if the bobbin
doesn't break
and i'm not too tired
and the fire's not already out
and the yarn doesn't knot up

maybe i will

I wandered through dreams
this morning.

Walking and walking.

And all of a sudden
I heard the door open
at the bottom of the stairs
-in a house I haven't
lived in since I was twelve-

and a female voice
called my name

it sounded so very
familiar
but I can't
quite
place it

maybe a clue
to lost memories?

looking back at me
from a 16th century painting

Count Alborghetti of Bergamo And His Son

it was your face
your hair
your eyes
your hands

i never had a photograph
of you before

i searched
until i found
the artist and the subject

holy ****
you really shouldn't
sneak up on me that way

i remember
being married to you
a thousand years before
and a couple of hundred
years after

but this image
is a shock to me

my mother texted the other day
apparently
my brother was arrested
after an altercation at the dollar store

it sounds very kentucky
i know

i thought it has nothing
to do with me

i mean in all reality
i contact him once
every five to seven years
to see if he is capable
of an adult relationship
and we're not due
for another try until 2017 or after.

but then i looked at the mugshot
and i looked at the charges
and i remembered
all the times
he threatened to harm me

and maybe
i have a little yet
to process

i read a book yesterday
cover to cover in just
a few hours

the first book
i have been able
to finish
in over a year

i cried a little
when i was done
for the character
and her family
for me

i recognized something
in her
and now my head
is reeling

trying to make sense of damage
and repair
and the language
of it all

the first time i met him
after sixteen absent years
was at the Pinnacles.

it was a good place he said -
i walked into his arms
and time melted away.

maybe too much time

when we climbed to the top
he talked to a stranger
and i sat on a rock
soaking up the November sun.
i heard drums in the distance
they wrapped me up in a memory

the next time
i hiked with my daughters
i got dizzy
felt like i was falling
my heart in my throat.
when the feeling cleared
my daughters had hold of me
asking if i was okay.

a few years later
invited to a journey workshop
i fell off the cliff again
in my shower this time.
i held onto the wall
so i wouldn't be lost to gravity.

and later that day
in the workshop
i saw the whole grisly scene
my warrior husband
lying on the ground
broken baskets and busted pots
my tribe demolished
the enemy advancing

it all became clear
i felt the fear
of being taken
and i jumped

you always know
don't you?

you sense my cycle
you feel it in the deepest
part of your maleness

even when we don't talk
even when you haven't
touched me in months
and years

my blood sets
your soul on fire
still

you always know

i know it too

for weeks and months after
john passed from this world
i told anyone who would listen
that my words ran away when he did

but that wasn't really true,
was it?

wandering back through my poetry
from beginning to end
i notice that inspired
tends always
to come from conversation

my poems all have faces
and voices
and i had closed those gates
long before john flew away

the one i loved
felt that inspiration shared
was a betrayal

he didn't want to share
my passion

and even after
he went away
i kept those gates closed

it is time to see
if i can still fly

i have about three
memories from my childhood
more or less

my brain vault
is a bottomless black hole
of good and bad
that never seems to yield
anything

but once in a while
i remember
a chubby boy in a brown coat
with beautiful blue eyes
on the second grade school bus

he moved away soon after

i met him again
as a teenager
and he was a thin
adonis model
with long blonde hair

so maybe i have
four memories
more or less

maybe i should
write it down
before i lose it

I can't sleep.  
I can't remember.  
There are so many moments lost.
And I understand
that a lot of those memories
were blocked to protect me.

But I can't remember
the first time you kissed me.
Where was it?
What were we doing?  

I remember the day
that you thought about it but waited.

It couldn't hurt to give
that memory back
if you have it.

*and of course
there was no answer

i don't have a lot
of things

i had always wanted
a birthstone ring
and one was gifted
once upon a time

it was my most
prized possession

but when my eldest
daughter
started high school
i noticed
she needed something

i gave the ring to her

the gifter did not understand
how i could give away
the gift
if i loved him

and today my youngest
going through
some old jewelry boxes
noticed how
i give things away

and looking around the room
i realized all the tiny little things
my grandmother gave me
growing up

my most treasured things
made me feel loved

*i don't have much
but if i love you
it is yours

i am finding my life
in small stitches
lately

mending the hem
on a pillowcase

darning the hole
in a sock

patching a hole
in well-worn sheets

i am finding my life
in small stitches
lately

until i have the energy
to make larger seams

and i know that i need to do some cleaning out
i just might as well say
that i should probably start with me

i started a stressful new job
around the same time
that i became a reiki practitioner
but i put one away
and focused on the struggle of the other one

i find myself pulling away from folks
who don't know how to actually have a conversation

i see all this bitterness and ugly
seeping out in my attitude
and i swear i know better

i need to get out and visit the trees
but **** it is so cold
bear with me
i will be a better me tomorrow

i am stuck
in a groundhog day hell
of sleeping and working

i accomplish a bare minimum of the grown up people things
i wipe out the bathtub and sweep a floor
every day

and i do some dishes and laundry once a week

but
i am aching to accomplish something more

every flat surface is filled with stuff and dust
and everything needs to be cleaned out

i need to paint a room
patch holes in the walls
make something pretty

create something new

finish the sewing projects

clean out the piles

use the hand spun yarn to make a shawl

if you find my motivation
i will just be over here
somewhere
between asleep and awake

i've been wanting to say
i love you

all three words, one after another, each word pronounced distinctly
it's been so long unsaid
i might start to spill over a little

spewing i love you's

to the cat and the neighbor's dog and the little old lady behind me in the grocery store

folks might start to look at me strange

maybe i better save them all up
one heart's treasure trove
for brighter days

do you know
how lonely it is
being a mountain
to yourself?

the sun rises
to melt the dew
off the wild roses

but there is no one
to see

the sun sets
and the darkness
covers
an ancient heart

-freezes-

and still your feet
are rooted
where they stand

     forever

          eternal

there comes a day
after great personal tragedy
when you know that you will live again
though you aren't certain
that living will ever matter

i wished you out of my dreams
once too often

now there's nothing left to miss

I wish you would take my hand
and walk away with me.
Conversations may float
from autumn branches
or we may find
that silence is sweeter.
There are wildflowers somewhere

   -waiting-
to wave in the wind.

There is a rock
high on the hill
where distant drums
still pray.

I want to take you there.

yesterday's class involved
serving the suicide caller
if you know me
you may suspect that I have met this issue
a time or two before
some days I looked it in the mirror

there was real struggle
on several faces around the room
everybody reneged on last night's plans
nobody felt like playing games
being social

I wandered off
sat at the lake
watched the water in the reservoir
placid and blue-green
and wandered back to sit
in my room

the pied piper of somewhere
wandered down the hall with a guitar
and we all followed
sang songs for a couple of hours
make a joyful noise
is sometimes the best therapy

and after the pied piper
and all the merry girls disappeared
back down the hall
two very real conversations
snuck up on me
out of the blue

it will take some time
to digest all the information
sometime after midnight
a text came to my phone
with the message
"be still, and know that I am God"

my job may be to rescue the perishing
but there is someone who will rescue me

once
i sat alone at a civil war battlefield
in a picnic shelter
at dusk in the fading light.
i sang old songs
to amuse myself.
my voice is not golden
but there was no one
to annoy.
i noticed
at the far end of the shelter
the faded out shape
of a man
standing
and then another
and another.
there must have been
a dozen in the end.
i suppose
it had been
a goodly number of years
since the old soldiers
had heard a woman
singing.
i sang all the old songs
i knew.
the sound of a car
and headlights
diverted my attention
when i looked back
the company was gone

he came in the house
in a panic
out of breath
turning all the lights on
maybe the hounds of hell
were after him

son, what is the matter?

     somebody said 'boo'

foggy sleep addled reply
was something like
that could be anything

I notice though
that he stayed close
that he left all the lights on

and this morning
in the light of day
i wonder

do spirits of the other realm
think it is fun
to say 'boo'?

I swear,
I was laying in bed this morning
minding my own business.
Letting the children get themselves
ready for school
and intent
on falling back asleep for a little while.
And in-between
the text messages
and the phone calls
came a hug
from someone I couldn't see.

I sent out a panicked message or two.
Tell me that you are okay
so I don't have to worry.

I swear,
it wouldn't be so bad
if the invisible
would just leave a calling card.

Your icy breath brushes my neck
on summer days when no one sees.

I doubt that you ever

belonged to me.
I don't recognize your spirit.

Tell me
what it is you want
and maybe I can set you free.

Coy, little butterfly
with the fragile wing
teach me your Secret.

So that one day
when I have
grace enough to fly

and Wonder
wraps me in gentle
breezes

I will float Free.

In 2013 I lost a friend, soul brother and collaborator. He is the John in the titles that say written with John. Over the next few months another poet and I collected as much of his work as we could and put it in an anthology as a sort of living memorial.

https://www.createspace.com/4939401

I would be glad to email the pdf to anyone that is interested.

I was a mythical creature once.

I lived in a small picturesque town
next to a little hole of blue water.

I sang the sweetest songs.

Mortal man never heard the like before.
They wandered by to listen very often.

They say my feathers fairly sparkled
and if the sun lived closer he might outshine me.

There was darkness that the feathers covered.
No one could tell what destruction lurked beneath.

But I lived to sing that song.
Morning, noon and night. I put my heart in it.
I never faltered, but once

and I looked in the placid lake to see my own reflection.
The monster that looked back at me grinned
at my surprise.
The darkness laughed out loud.

And I did nothing but climb that tall live oak.
As close as I could get to the sun
and I built my nest with twigs.

I lined it with bits of color, silken scraps
to echo my plumage.
And I lined it with sweet-smelling spices
cinnamon and lavender and myrrh.

And then I sang my best last song
'til the suns rays came too, too close.

I kept singing til my last breath was ash
until the day that I will begin again.

(I think it is telling me to sit still like this and reflect for a moment)

the rain brushed her hips along the fingertips of the mountains
someone is grinding a tear drop of mine between two stones

the moon is no help to me now

light sings a squeaky lullaby and i am lost to the rhythm

kicking my feet inside the womb of this sun
though I do not remember dancing or listening

she was a whisper that cried into a mountain
and I was her fantasy, slipping thoughtlessly into a dream

she was a wraith singing songs of longing
and the loveliest one of all was the one she sang to me

i followed the sound up the mountain
she was a faceless vision and my steps never faltered

the curve of time disappeared into the horizon
she was behind me, like a puzzle pressed against the sky
a sky giving birth to the back of my mind

she touched my hand and nodded upward
eyes alight with the shimmer of a summer moon

it's all impulse, there's very little conscious thought to it

they tell me
i saved a life
once

it felt like surgery
self-inflicted

the incision widened
day-by-day

my reluctant hand
reached in

i cut my heart out
to save a soul

and here i sit

grieving

all the pretty

lives lost

i remember playing red rover
and ghosts in the graveyard

monopoly and chinese checkers
and yahtzee and spades

i remember playing wife
and mother

and employee of the month

i walk dangerously close
to the edges of my life
sometimes

but i never play there

i've known a summer storm
come sudden
out of blue clouds

i've rushed for cover
and prayed
against
bolts of lightning
that walked too near

i've watched the skies
waiting
for the winds that might come close
and devour
me

i've known a tempest
that rages in a heart
and wails so loud
that sunlight can't
shine through

There is no shelter
from the storm
no rest

seasons rage
and the storm wears me thin

there must be
rest

some of those vital statistics are undeniable

i may be five eleven and a half
but i generally round the number down
(my son exaggerates me into the six foot range)

my eyes are brown
and my hair

but someone who craves my voice
may tell you that they never notice
either

age changes, not year by year
but moment by moment

wisdom sometimes measures me a hundred or more
and joy may number me a child
with shining eyes

i can accomplish temporary feats
of domestic talent
sew a quilt to keep you warm
bake a cake to keep you fed

but my voice accomplishes phenomena
that defy description

i make miracles
sometimes
when folks aren't looking

nothing as tall as a skyscraper
something less tangible
and ordinary
as light or healing

my size may be slight
i may be timid
or bold
depending on the weather

storms wither
clouds focus

i had a vision
for where this was going
when i started
maybe someday
I'll get there

anna has been carrying around
the dog-eared Robert Frost lately
she wants to read poetry with me

and sometimes we read bedtime poems
and sometimes i put her off til a little later
because there's always time for frost

but this morning
when we were waiting for the school bus
i thought to distract her

and had her looking at the tree in the field across the road
and how the branches laced through the blue black sky
and stars shone through the cracks like tree ornaments

and i had her taste the deliciousness of cold air in a new year
i told her that was poetry

and she said
that i should put it in my next
book of poetry

and i wondered if we shouldn't write it together

it occurred to me this morning
as i was building a fire in the four-legged cast iron stove
that my technique wouldn't win me any prizes from boy scouts

i would have to say
that the way i get around to warmth and light
is similar to the way
i do just about anything else

a little of this
            and a little of that

bits of paper
strewn on the floor

a handful of broom sweepings

dryer lint

a fervent wish for leftover coals from the night before

a charcoal briquette or two

kindling

the dance that happens cause i forgot to open the damper

peaceful meditation

smoke in the living room

another lit match

     and finally a flame and a crackle

amazing when miracles
suddenly manifest
beach-birds rising and circling
high above the Audubon
mystery steeps in unfurled wings
we slow down
for a smile and a sigh
passing gracefully over
barely noticeable steps..
close and hollow..
ghost ***** ephemerally longing
for a moonbeam's generous hands
a universe dispatches
a casual touch
conflict, contrast..
each mating w/in its own species
the spirit is migratory..
eternal as we coexist naturally
lines are blurring
and separation becomes less apparent.
We are woven into the fabric
of the Universe.
we slow down
for a smile and a sigh
and you take my hand
And, yet, somehow
in transcendent moments

we are the miracles

i used to dress my words up in all their sunday glory
before i sent them out into the world
squeaky clean and sunday morning i was determined
to let my little light shine

forget a blue period
my next phase was all about
boiled down to the bare bones honest
pretty didn't have any consideration
or private
but my words met metal

then the weather turned wet
and i sobbed along
wringing my grief out of loose pages
and you still stopped by
and sometimes you'd even sing along

then i prayed to be taller
to stand straighter
to be more of what i am

i got lazy and lined literal words up
all in a row
lauded for creative
cause everybody knows things like that
can't literally happen

somebody's in my head again
stretched out between those two earholes
they've done been in there for two days
maybe more
don't know what they're lookin for

i keep all the shiny stuff put away
with the butterflies
and the spiders webs

and my thoughts
they all wear different languages
the kind i talk in my sleep
and you won't know them anyhow
you haven't met them too close before

somebody's in my head again
pushing,pushing
straining, yearning

and i wish i knew who it could be

it sounds like an old joke

i've lost over a thousand pouds
over the years

what, you say?

how can that be?

when a soul is born
to learn the biggest lesson
well, sometimes,
you have to go through some stuff

sometimes, you have to starve
to appreciate the end of famine

and so i am learning
to say goodbye
to those who can't
or won't
love me

maybe i will still be
a blessing to those folks
somehow

but right now
i've got to roll up my sleeves
and learn that biggest lesson.

every once in a while
i send you a note
two words
simple and true
'forgive me'

the ritual started
as a way
to say
goodbye
when i died
and before i was
reborn

so every once in a while
i re-trace old scars
and beg you
to forgive me

and when you answer,
if you answer
you say you already have
forgiven
me

but your voice
doesn't feel like forgiveness
and your heart feels hard

and i keep hoping
that one day i will ask again
and you will say
'forgive me'

my mother
always went to psychics
and palm readers
there were things
she wanted to know

lately
i've been looking
at the lines on my hand
and they
never seem to be
in the same place

i wonder
what a palm reader
might have to say
about that

i haven't seen
one of those neon signs
in years and years
i doubt that i could
in all good conscience
push aside the curtain
of curiosity
to ask the question

i am half tempted
to trace all the lines
in permanent black marker
to see
if i can see
how far they wander

things have been
a little
tumultuous
lately

storms
keep popping up
on the
horizon

and maybe
the roof
blew off once
or
twice

i have learned
to be
suspicious
of clouds

but maybe
if you hold my hand
i will learn
to thrill
in the thunder again

i want to
walk through
your voice

i dare not
ask

i can not
dial
your number

but i long to wade through words
hear you laugh
one more time

i am missing
your arms
but i would

gladly settle
for the warmth of your voice

I have been sleeping
in the same bed
my whole life.

It never occurred to me
to trade it in on a new model.

My life has been filled
with nightmares.
I thought everybody had them.

And one day i realized
**** and violence
never followed me
to strange lands
and different beds.

The place where
I should have felt
most secure
was the one
most susceptible.

My bed is in the front yard now
too full of ghosts
for even Goodwill.

A broken down
hunk of wood
that doesn't understand
why it is being punished.

I figure
we'll have a burning party
when the weather is better

she asks him
do you believe

in magic?

in ghosts?

in angels?

and he thinks
he does

he'd rather talk about
how soft she is
and how lonely
he's been

he doesn't understand
the magnetism
that draws him
toward her

he doesn't understand
the poetry
that happens
in confused conversations

he doesn't understand
walls

or conflict
that advances and withdraws
with no warning

he can't see her blue skies
and doesn't know
that they bring real tears
that fade when
the rain comes

these things almost never
end well

maybe she should have asked
do you believe in me?