i don't hear the voices
on the other side of the line yet

as a dispatch operator in training
i only see the calls in queue
mostly waiting for ems squads
to come and check all the vitals

sometimes they radio back
waiting for patient decision

sometimes i hear patient refused
treatment
against medical advice

there are trips to the hospital
and symptoms
and problems

sometimes a bright spot
little girl rescued from the flooded creek
patient has been delivered code 12
no emergency

there is a language
all our own

like we are trying to keep
the rest of the world
out of the conversation

codes and signals
that only we know

one day soon
the voices will be mine

and my voice will be delivered
to the sick and afflicted

maybe my voice will carry
them back to safety

I have all these questions to ask her
but she flies away from the fence-line
and over the barns

I hear her calling in the early morning hours
but I get no answers
not to the questions my heart makes

and I feel the hot heavy breath
of the hunters
their foot treads sound ominous
on the forest floor

I have been caught too many times before
I have been folded up in heavy hands
until I couldn't even breathe
and I am reluctant to be lost again

I need that Muse-woman
to come back here
and tell me if I am really ready
to fly.

love isn't always
hearts and roses

sometimes
it's an ashtray
perched precariously
between us

sometimes it's a
purple crocus
blooming
in January

sometimes it's just
the smile
I see
in your eyes

the yellow brick broad
i travelled
started with finding my voice
(it had flown away on a Kansas tornado).

Somewhere along the way
I hoped I would stand taller
-- be more honest
but, you know, the munchkins
they always get really nervous.
they worry about the semblance
of sanity

and the wicked witches
and their flying monkeys
are forever concerned
that all their black histories
will be laid raw and bare

and i am not blameless

i have learned that i can be
painfully honest in poetry.
kind folks congratulate me
on my imagination
because they can't imagine my reality

and i have to wonder

about the depth and breadth
of my sincerity
when i hide in plain sight

laying my heart bare
to strangers
is not brave

and i have miles to go

before i can go home again

the smiling creator
takes his light in his hands
and whispering something
of lovely summer
places tiny seeds in pots
and hovers close
anticipating the joys
of imperceptible growth

I remember you
your whispered half-questions
resembling the thoughts I almost had
on another cloudy day.
Your honest words filled me,
tempted  me into flights of
unexplored consciousness
and step by step I ventured
farther from my own locked doors.
I wandered out alone
into bright, dead-of-day streets
full of my own possibilities
seized by my own fallibilities.
Some days I will meet the gaze
of the demons that haunt this world
but on others
when my self-fed fears are too much
I may need you to walk beside me.
Take my hand.
Your words are my strength.
Your strength is my hope.
My hope is your redemption.
We will save one another.

I've never liked
looking in the mirror.
Something about the reflection-
there-
never suited me.
That face couldn't be mine,
could it?
So today when
I felt your heart beating
in my chest
I wondered
at the strangeness of your particular rhythm
and how it beats so perfectly within me.
One day, maybe,
when time slants sideways
again
we will escape back into-
whatever it was-
we were before

I am no Wendy;
but my voice brings you back to me.
And you sit around my feet,
anxious for a story
or a kiss.
Listening to my words
spinning adventures,
like so much golden thread;
spellbound by my gentle whisper.
You are welcome to stay,
through spring rain
and autumn crisping,
though you still search
for someone with soft hands
and bountiful breast.
And when my gracious gifts spill over
from my full-grown lap,
you scoop them up with wondrous hands
and all the hunger
of a Lost Boy

sins of the past
however wrongly accused
should be forgiven--
let go; burnt offerings to falcon gods
sad ashes that float on the same winds
as yesterday's mis-spent dreams

am I then my father's daughter
blind and mute and imperfect?
unable to express the nervous tragedy
of days that follow after days

perhaps one morning my children
will offer these dry bones
on that same stone altar

perhaps I will be forgiven too

Like the ember
smouldering
unseen in the ashes,
my heart will someday
flame passionately.
One breath--
is all I need
to change this
seeming-charred soul
into a
furious
fire

Leftover yarn
wanted to be something
and so I began
to crochet stitches and rows
until it started
to resemble a scarf.
I thought of you
as my hands worked
how you would
appreciate the soft angora thread
how the length
of it would keep you warm
on cold days
when you might be missing me
it is yours, if you want it

I never was much
for rambling on and on about a thing
but if you could see my thoughts
well, then, I guess
you'd know

can I sit with you?
not too close
just over here a little
I want to see what you see
I'll only rest my eyes on yours a moment
before I look back to the horizon
tell me
some private history that amuses you
let me hear the bravado in your voice
as I imagine great adventure
lean closer
so that your hand nearly brushes mine
as you paint pictures in the air
your wry smile
wreaks havoc with my heart

night fades in
teasing and taunting
rest seems to be elusive

I whisper
come to me then
wrap yourself in my arms

lay your head so close
you might lose yourself
in my dark places

stars still shine somewhere
songs swell in celestial harmony

eyes closed
your lips trace hills by touch
and memory

longing swells slow motion force
arms wrap around now
strong arms

and I lose myself
in dark places somewhere
in the middle of you

rising and falling
through moon and mis

Resolute
stood the mountain laurel
on the little hill.
Steadfast
held her leaves of green
to the noble sun.
And came along the little Bee
curious and bold.
His whispered words
of Trembling pulses
Yielded forth the prize.

It's something about
dreams I can't remember
when my mind rambles on
running through hidden rhythms
looking for something greener.
It's something about
meeting you there in the mists,
in-between natural conversation
and forgotten memories.
Having known you
and lost you and found you,
I still grieve those vacant hours
always harder before the rain comes.
It's something about
the way you hold my hand--
I'm sure of it--even if,
I can't remember how it felt

and if the rhythm
punctuating my day
feels just like an unseen heart
beating between
my two trembling hands
{maybe it was a forgotten song . . .}
I am still left to wonder
at the comfort felt
when your imagined hand
brushed back my hair

Your loss must have exploded from your heart.
I heard that small, still voice of longing as the ash
settled from the sky --
melancholy floated over the hills on the wind.
I tried to catch the emotion in a mayonnaise jar
like those lightning bugs when we were little--
But, I never thought
and it turns out that the holes in the lid were too large.

I was sorry to see your grief set loose
from my childish jar
to lose a thing and then lose the sadness--
to be doubly bereft.
I expected the feeling to have floated
halfway across the country by now . . .
and, yet, there it still is
draped around your shoulders
as if to keep you company on lonely nights.

Poetry is a place
outside
under blue skies
breezes trickle by
clouds wink
hills look on

Poetry is a place
where I am more than the chains
that bind me to my desk
during lunch
I'll slip them off with my shoes
arrive barefoot
and free

I am a plain brown bird
singing off-kilter
through the darkness.
I wonder at your tribute
as it wafts upward
on these cold nights.
Those words make me stronger
than I am.
My heart flutters
at the starshine heat.
May be
I will fly

your words
ran away with me
this morning

maybe it was the fog
creeping in through open windows
til I surrendered

maybe my imagination
was seized strongest
by the first words I met on waking

maybe I dreamed you
only to wake and hear you whisper
*stay close

I know what you're thinking
and I am sorry.
I can't explain.
I don't have words enough for it . . .
I want to be honest.
Bare all to you,
it's just
there's so much weight
bearing on me today.
Too many voices
whispering in my ear,
wanting too many things.
I may avoid your gaze now
but later
the skies will clear again

When I was young, my grandmother would tell me stories
about her grandparents.
There were stories about the origins of the universe.
Legends that connected me to my world.
Embedded in the stories were admonitions to live a worthy life.
Sometimes, when I walk out with my daughter to pick berries,
I think about those lessons . . .

Mama, we have to pick all the blackberries so the bugs don't get any . . .

There's plenty of berries for you, me, and the beetles, baby girl.

I don't like the beetles. See that one?

Where? Oh, look how beautiful and shiny his wings are. . . the beetle respects us. We should respect the beetle.

What about the birds? Do we have to share with them?

Plenty of berries for them, too.

But, why, mama?

Because we are supposed to share with others. Don't eat so many, there won't be any left in the bucket.

I only eat the ones I pick . . .

Alright, girl.

Mama. . . ?

Yes?

Do you want to pick blackberries by yourself now?

Are you wanting to go and play? Go on, then, baby girl.

You aren't the same man
any more.

Your mirror lies

if the reflection you see
hasn't changed.

The weight of hard years
lifts from your shoulders
day by day

and ordinary
miracles are still worked
by extraordinary hearts.

Light shines
so often
from unexpected sources.

I am amazed
at the transformation

Am I real, today?
Hovering somewhere between
the darkness and the light
like a spirit
or a dream
I feel the vibrations
of a thousand
heart beats.
You felt it, too.
And if the heavens tremble,
locked in an invisible struggle
So must we.
The rain was real
but it's gone
now.
And knowing
that you and I and he
all felt the same void
last night in our dreams
suddenly
makes it all seem
less lonely.

The hills lay raw and bare.
Unbound ******* heaving
in the gray mist of early morning.
I wish I were the hills
and this car you're driving
was a strong, slow hand
snaking around my own loosed curves.
I want to be crossed by your
barest elemental energies--
moved by passion’s own embrace.
I want to stretch and reach the sky
and stretch and touch the dirt
and feel each resonant-twinge in between.
I want to be filled with the light
and the heat of a new day--
just as the valley
after the fog is burned away.
I want to feel the vibrations of thunder
deep in the middle of me
rumbling of something resembling change
again and again and again
until the light is extinguished.
Then I will breathe deep and slow
******* heaving raw and bare
in the gray mist of a hill-night

I am still waiting
for another shoe
to fall

Because loving you
was always too
easy

And the sun still lingers
where you
smile

I wonder if I have invited the storm--
     Provoked passion--
Traces of sweat in swelling heat
      glisten
and I taunt dark clouds singing siren songs.
      The curves of my voice
thrill lonely spaces.

Flashes of light crease the sky --
      similar bursts echo
from your eyes.

Reaching around I tremble
as the heavens
      rumble loudly back.

I will meet you there
     inside the tempest.

Let it rain.

are you certain-sure
I’m not just some
figment
of your imagination--

a pleasant memory or two
grown large
over time
until the telling of it
becomes more legend
than fact?

I sometimes doubt
that I exist
at all.

maybe you’ve whispered I’m sorry to a scarlet sky,
maybe you’ve lamented prodigal sons and wandering daughters,
why shouldn’t I apologize to the wide, wonderful world
for all the things I cannot change?

I blame the weather when I get to this place,

those who are lost to us don’t need me to be more personal;

those who have mastered the little lessons and gone on
don’t mind my foolish ways.

just because I want to  pluck myself out of this life
and chisel you out of that one;
my childish heart would still play house with you.

I would follow that smile wherever it leads me.

I suppose I'll whisper another I'm sorry to the wide world
just because I can.

Time to pick up
all the shattered pieces.

Cement the colored
fragments of memory
and voice

with hope
and something new
that resembles
confidence.

A new day shines--

I will emerge
brilliant
as the sun.

I have no gift for you.
My hands are empty.

These hands
that would build a mountain
for you
rock by rock.

That would climb
that mountain
to carry you a smile
    an embrace
        a reticent bloom.

My heart is full for you.
I have always been
    yours.

there’s something about the way
I can’t quite match my stride
to yours—

I reach and reach

but can never quite

keep up

it’s not that my legs aren’t long enough,
it’s not that I don’t want to match my step
to yours

do you reckon my Robert Frost
was ever a match for your Plato?
or my Dickinson
to your Cicero ?

the stars still shine in your smile
and if I find myself a little behind
I hope you’ll take me by the hand
and pull me close.

I never asked you to write me love poems.

You are a philosopher
and I am a poet.
I’m fairly certain that poets shouldn’t walk together
someone ought to keep their feet on the ground.
  

We think in different languages you and I.
You speak in the stoic's tongue
and I converse in butterflies and chicory root.
Your ideas are concrete and stone
and mine are dandelion seed and cloud stuff.

You are ******* me sometimes.
The words you don't say.
The tone your voice takes
when your feelings are raw -- slices deep.

Do you know what you do to me
even when I don't say it?
Because I guess my silence
says something in the end.
I'm not sure the child in me has words for it.
Sometimes I just have nothing to say,

I want to be still.
I want to listen to the rumble of your voice,
I want to sun myself in your silence.
There aren't words for that
and so I don't say anything at all.

I am a poet. Some days.
Some days I am an old woman.
And some others I am a little girl.
But I always long to sit at your philosopher's knee
and listen to your thoughts.

My poet heart trembles as I bare myself to you.
I never asked you to write me poetry.
Your smile says everything.

On days when
I'm neither here nor there
Adrift in a sea of senseless noise
Battered by waves of unrecognizable emotion,
Floating, just floating.
On days when I have
That faraway look
When you call my name,
Just know, you may have to call again
before I come back to you

On cold nights I seamed
pieces of fabric
left over
from dresses
and girls frocks
and shirts I made you.
Until the fabric squares
covered our bed.
After the stitches
are all complete,
the coverlet
that I
pieced from our lives
will bring comfort
to your soul
and warmth
on long, cold nights.
When I can't
wrap my arms
around you,
You'll still have
my heart
to keep you warm

standing in line
at the funeral home
back where i grew up

waiting for someone
to pay respects
to the dearly departed

i heard the young
dead woman gloat
a little

pleased with the plethora
of flowers and throws
and angel figurines

and the long line of mourners

and the way
her ***** looked
in the shirt she wore

she thought
and i'm not paraphrasing much
that 'she looked pretty good
for a dead girl'

i used to think
that we left this world
and stepped into angel wings

but now i know
we cannot be
what we haven't been

I scan the skies
looking for signs
or omens

the flight of birds
might echo
the will of God

I search puddles
for future scenes
still empty of you

how do you
search
for the prophet?

runes
riddles
totems?

what augury will tell
if you might be
coming back?

I see your hands
two funny, white birds
pecking and pausing
-quirky language-
exempt from the word.
There is a cunning eloquence
-instinctive-
in that voiceless ramble
where thoughts
need no translation

always one to go back
to the basic building blocks

with words

and life

and all

i have been learning
to spin wool
into yarn

first with a drop spindle
the way ancestors
have made thread
for thousands of years

then on a borrowed wheel

waiting sometimes
not so patiently
to be able to have
a spinning wheel of my very own

santa must have thought
i was a good girl this year

or that maybe
i had lost enough
and maybe there should be a plus
in the equation somewhere

the machine and i
are still in the
getting to know each other stage

we move in fits and spurts
the wheel stops moving
sometimes
and goes backwards
grabbing my yarn

but i am learning patience
and one day soon
we will be old friends

i told you there would be a christmas poem
and i meant it at the time
but hours got away
there was a cough and i needed sleep
or thought i did

there is a full moon out
and somebody out there in the world
just thought about me so hard
that it sent chills from my head
down my back

and i thought to myself
i hear you

it has been a tough year
and i know that
i've said that before
but my mettle has been tested
and when the chips were down
i thought i was done

maybe not so much anymore
i seem to have got a second wind
i may still skip out of the stress-full job
and go back to time travelling
in the eighteenth century
they have wool there
and i can spin threads
just like old rumpelstiltskin

i can do that, you know,
have spinning wheel
will travel

my nest is far from empty
but i have suffered
from the eldest little eaglet
flying away
just a couple of three states
for six months so far
but no
i'm just not ready for it

she flew in for christmas
and wanders in and out of the house
still gone
but somewhere in the same county
at least

it is good to keep a sense of humor
especially in the midst
of all the tragedy
i understand now
what my grandmother meant
when she said
'why couldn't it be me?'
i would have taken any of their places
they were too young for funerals

but still i here am
and so many lessons left to learn
at my young old age
and merry new year to all of you

you are still my best gift















it was a slender thread
that connected you to me

not much of a lifeline
no matter how you look at it

a wish stacked on a dream

stacked on a hope

teetering on destiny

it sparkled slightly
in the sun
-this thread-

but it is gone now
and maybe you are homeless

and dis-connected

the world seems gray-er
and
less suited to poets

it's so difficult to live

when you've decided not to

and you're just hanging around

     -nervous-

but you've got dignity

even if you don't have enough pills

                      to end it quick

but you've got dignity

even if it can't pay the rent

                      or keep the power on



still waiting for the right time

       -the moment-

that will be your last

but you might as well read something

you might as well return a note

to someone who loves you

and doesn't ask you to pretend



even if the words are shaking



grasping



cold