i mean i had always known
when a man was
just about to kiss me

and he was different
that kiss
caught me off
balance

and he seemed surprised
but
i thought he was magic

because
how could he do that

and i thought about it
for almost a year
and

one day
i realized
that he never even
thought

there was no mind to read
no early warning radar
he just kissed

and i wished
it was magic

i learned how
to diagnose myself
somewhere
along the way

trauma
dissociation
abuse
depression

so many words
to describe
who i may be

words i don't talk about

i worry about
drowning
in waters
no one can see
but me

they fly in
and sit on my shoulder
even when
i don't want them to

old Bob's ex-wife
had his sofa covered
in some horribly ugly
historic print

(i thought it was
kinda pretty)

i saw a haversack
made out of that
self-same fabric
in my possession

today, Bob handed me
a leather bag
he had sewed with
that fabric as the lining

i hope i smiled

because the other vision
was of his family
clearing his possessions
out of his cabin
after he passed

i'm afraid it isn't
long now

Dear Emily,

You may know me.
Sometimes when poets read my words,
they call me that other Emily.
You were the first.
I found you when I was a little girl.
My grandmother gave me a book.
And there you were.
I lost myself in your words so often
that I started to remember them.
I took you with me wherever I went
and when I was lonely in a crowd
there you were, my lovely companion.
They said you had trouble
learning to tell time, and so did I.
My hair is chestnut, too--
with a little gray showing here and there.
My eyes are brown.
I don't have a white dress, though.
I have a gray sheer
with white window pane pattern.
I wish our gardens connected
sometime
so that we could meet at the fence
and share receipts.
You might like my blackberry cake.
A cup of tea. A glass of sherry.
I wonder if you knew that you were
extraordinary.
Your gifts not just poetry.
You were a sentient person
surrounded by the deaf and blind.
You saw more.
Heard more
than your neighbors.
I just wanted to say that I understand.
We are alike in many ways.

Your most obed. servant,

Emily

I was going to write
a poem today.

I've been reading
poets
every spare moment.

I've been sorting
through
the rubble
of the last six months.

Conversations
have worn me thin
just now

maybe I'll just
go home
and take a nap.

i am not
my favorite poet
not even third or
fourth in line for the title

the hawk circles
laughing
at such a notion

and i bury my toes
in the dirt
waiting for the mockingbird
to chime in

I have a hard time
Being literal

Explanations travel
In fits and spurts
With sometimes
No suitable
answer at all

And maybe
The truth is slanted
And you will
Divine it
On some cloudy day.

We will get there,

I had a vision once

jeeps and dust
an apocalyptic America
and I was scared

this morning I stood in the shower
thinking
maybe I should tell my daughter
to let her hair grow
to pretend to have a boyfriend

our system of checks and balances
is being stomped on
civil liberties
and inalienable rights
are extinct

psychic vision
is poised to become reality
and I never imagined
it would be our own government
holding us hostage

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.

on good days
I carry a trash bag
around the yard
and pick up messes
others have left

I have a hole in my foot
where I stepped on a nail
and my hands are torn
my shoulder
is complaining loudly

but it is close to
growing time
my windowsills are filled
with dirt covering seeds

a few more fires
to burn the brush
and my neighbors
should be prouder of me

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.

if only I could
curl
up like the armadillo
when i'm sleeping

there would be no soft underside
to be pierced by my nightmares

and maybe I would wake
without
pain

if I could forget again
all the things
that I have remembered
and all the things
that I have not remembered

maybe there would be
no nightmares
in the first place

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

someday
when i've left this realm
and come back back again
i want to be a tree

you think i jest

but my goal has always been
to stand taller and be more honest
and what could possibly
be more honest
than a cedar
standing tall through all the seasons

his bark is peeling
and his green is prickly
but the birds all light
in the tallest branches
and sing sweet tunes

his roots run deep
and his arms reach wide
i used to think i wanted wings
so i could fly toward heaven
but maybe i'd rather be a tree

my sister-in-law
who I know
by face and name
asked me to share happy memories
to comfort
her children

she doesn't know
that I don't have
memories
good or bad

waiting at my mother's
before the funeral
I suggested
that we get out photo albums
to pass the time
and find a memory

she couldn't be bothered
she was afraid
we would take the photos

maybe she doesn't have
memories either

I do have
plenty of nightmares
maybe remembering
is easier
when you sleep.

My dream said
I was avoiding
That old ghost

And I said
Good

After twenty five years
Of hitting
And missing
I don't need
To go anywhere
Near there
Anymore

I want to pick my own dream.

There should be a kiss
At the base of my neck.

And wrinkled sheets.

And a long, hot shower
With arms that wrap around.

I've been patiently
Waiting

No more nightmares,
Okay?

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'?

Once in a while
The wind picks up
That old ghost
Gets lonely
And starts thinking
about me.

The tremors hit land
Before the words do
And sometimes
I am tempted
To walk out
Into the squall
To see if I can be lifted up
Into the jet stream
Like the buzzards do.

The sun is shining today
There are no clouds
Maybe the storm is passed.

I took a freshbaked pie
To show Bob today.
Stranger asked-
What kind is it?

Sweet potato-
And I kept walking

Heard him say
I thought she was flirting.

But I don't
Flirt.

If the work of my hands
Doesn't entice

And the work of my mind
Doesn't intrigue

And the sparkle of my eyes
Doesn't embolden

well, you know what they say
In the south

But I don't flirt

She was 87 years old.
Has trouble with arthritis.
Daughter said
Can you smell that cream?

She told me her mother
Was full-blooded
Cherokee
And I told her
I could see it in her face.

She said I had cherokee blood
She said she could
See it in my face

She said someone
Brought her a seven-sided statue
She said she didn't know if she believed
His story.

He said an old chief
Came out of a tree
And gave it to him.
He said the old chief
Said it was meant for her.

He said he would
Take her to that tree
To see if the old chief
Would come out
To meet her

I told her
I believed

It isn't uncommon for war veterans
To meet
In our little log cabins.

Nice gentleman from Tennessee/Air Force
Was in today
With his attentive son.

Marine vet/fort manager
Thanks him for his service
And wanders off.

Air Force retiree
Asks former army ranger
If he's seen the movie
"We were soldiers".

Who replies
I don't have to see it.
I was there.

And I sit reviewing my week

I dyed my linen petticoat
With cherry bark
And iron oxide.
I have five colors now.
Almost enough
For a box of crayons.

I pulled weeds
And planted garlic chives
And two kinds of gourds.

Hoed the garden
In between rains.

Baked biscuits
Twice.

Picked old Bob
A bag full of kale.

Spun some yarn.

Ground corn meal
With a big stick.

Pulled more weeds.

Started cleaning
And drying
Chicory root.

And more stuff
I can't remember.
No wonder I am
Tired.

I hope that I
Inspire you in a good way.
The way that
You inspire me.
Too much wine
Can give you a terrible headache
And I don't like it
When consequences
Meet the cold light of day.

I always want to give
The best part of myself
And you--
Are no exception.

Maybe I wonder
If there even is a best part.

This is what inspired looks like
Today.

it started out innocently enough
herb gardens
and vegetable gardens
interspersed throughout the fort
in various stages of disarray

I started putting them into shape
one by one
pull a few weeds
put the toothache back
pull a few more
plant some feverfew
catmint and chamomile
and several other herbs later

and I find myself
compelled to pull weeds
wherever I am

maybe I need a multi-step program

co-worker started to holler across the way
about my **** addiction,
but heard it in her head
before it came out loud

but I really do think
I need help

Sitting on a log
This morning
Trying to fan
The smoke of wet firewood
Into a tolerable flame

Nice lady walked by
And asked
"Where is your blanket? "

My what?

"Your blanket,"
She said
"To send all the smoke signals.

I had to laugh.

I only send mixed
Signals

Especially to white men

I think I am an adult

So if I tuck myself in bed
at six a.m.
with a breakfast of
microwave popcorn
and cold beer

there is no body
present and awake
with the authority
to tell me otherwise

If somebody could just
convince this cat
to look the other way

(cats don't even like
popcorn)

If you should chance to find me gone
absent from spinning wheel and loom
dasher idle in the butter churn

If you survey the fields and hills
to find me not at work in the garden
and not returning from the spring

If you should look around to find
sewing cast aside
dishes strewn unwashed on the hearth

It could be

     I've wandered off alone down to the river

     to lose myself in the cool flow.

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

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.

i look up at the mountain
that banished
tiny me
and i wonder
if majestic knows

that

pebbles

rarely

grow in stature

or

reach into the sky

I've been waiting to grieve
as if
the aftermath of Death
will come calling
like a long-jilted lover.

Maybe
I have forgotten
how to miss
the dearly departed
and there will be
no more tears.

I've been watching the road.
Nobody wearing somber colors
has come
walking up the hill yet.

There is no
plaintive song
calling on the wind.

I was my brother's keeper
for many years.
Maybe
I am too angry
to weep.

I am not afraid of the storm.
Or of the wildness of the winds.

I am not afraid of the darkness.
Even my nightmares
Have little power to frighten
Any more.

I am not afraid to die.
There is very little mystery left.

what is left?
You may be wondering

that may be a conversation
For another day

almost daily
I am asked
about my Native heritage

but my ancestors are mute
unspeaking

yesterday I was angry
ready to boil over
yet no one
brought me any strawberries

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

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

I may be
Losing my mind.

The secret of it
Is
I don't mind
As much
As I thought I would.

Every body
Wonders
What is wrong
With that girl

And I sit
Still singing
Snatches of songs
Out of tune

I was sitting
smack dab in the middle
of the herb garden
earlier today.
All of a sudden
I heard a voice say,
Well, there sits
a pretty flower
in the middle
of all those weeds.

I'm thinking
of changing my name
now.

There is an ache
That sits in my chest
When I read your poetry

I sit long
Trying to wrap
My arms around
Something

Want so badly
To soothe an ache
Yours
Or mine

And so I sit

if you could just plant me
somewhere
deep in your heart

shine smiles on me
here and there

water me with kisses

i promise to grow
into a fragrant bouquet

just for you

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















you are a mystery to me
nameless magician
invisible man
work of art that i can't see

intangible
yet so very, very real

i feel your thoughts
sometimes
like hot breath
on my neck

a tingle
along my thigh
when i lay down
to rest

and the only thing
i know
is your words

(in no particular order)

bereft
vagaries
dalliance
revery
sentient
trepidation
res­olute
longing
ephemeral
steadfast
dulcet
manifest

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 came home.
Built a fire.
Washed the dishes.
Took the youngest to school.
I have dogs stacked
like cordwood in my lap
fighting over a squeaky
Yellow rubber duck.
The big one just farted.
Time for a cold beer
before bedtime.

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

they laugh
because i want to know
all the weeds by name

and when they overhear me
talking to the plants
in the garden

it isn't enough to know
a plant
by name and purpose

or to be able to carry on
half a conversation

i have to know all the seasons
and stages

and guess what might
be lurking
under those leaves

I wonder, sometimes,
if this is how
our Creator feels

some say God is in the trees
but the cedar in front of my house
is always full of cackling old blackbirds

i hear the whisperings
of my Creator
somewhere
deep in the middle of me

maybe i am the church

maybe every pain is a memory
every tear a redemption

When my kids were little
And climbed in my bed
Complaining of a headache
Or a stomach ache
I would wrap my arms around
The problem
And just about the time
They were cured
And drifting off to sleep
I would feel it.

I have had a few successes
In my life
The way I understand success
anyway.

My mother obsessed herself
With breast cancer
Until she finally had it
Then looked to me
To take it away.

I think she would trade
My life for her own.

it isn't my place
To choose.

I wonder though
At the eternal admonition
"Physician, heal thyself"

My pain
Is still very present.

My dad wanders in and out of my dreams.
The conversations are better than I ever remember.
He says stuff to me now.

Apparently being dead does bring wisdom.
We were watching a flood, him and me.
Up home.
Must have been astral travel cause I don't know
how I could have got there.

Well, anyway, we were watching the water storm through the yard and the street and the middle of the house.
And I could feel my insides aching to mourn for all the things that I watched float away.
He just grinned.
And said "let it go, it's just stuff."

And I ducked my head and wiped away the tears and wondered again
how he got so smart.