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















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.

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

my mother worries
that there will be no one
by her bed
when she dies

she doesn't remember
that when i was a toddler
she put herself to bed
and made me her parent

she forgets that she used
those little hands to rub
her back--her head
until she felt better

these grown up hands
still wince
at the thought of touching
her skin

somehow i will have
to find a way to fulfill my
adult responsibilities
perhaps she still has

a day or two til then

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

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

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 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.

The hawk must be the only one.

I know he sees me -
He makes a sign.
A secret code
That siblings use
When speaking straight
Might ensnare.

I walk through worlds
With quiet steps.
But not too near
That any see
Or feel my breath
Or even guess.

Yes.

The hawk may be
The only one.

My wings are straight.
My wings are strong.
And one day soon
I'll fly to him.

(in no particular order)

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

An almost-stranger
called me to the hospital
And I rode with my family
Nearer-knowing the reality
than I thought.
I walked through old familiar halls,
Remembering a bout with pneumonia and
Family brushes with car wrecks and cancer.
And then I found my mother--
Weeping,
Tissue box in hand.
“He’s gone,” she said.
And I looked around for my children
And wondered how they would be
Affected by the news.
We sat
And waited
for God only knows what.
And the coroner came and took us in a room
To see him,
that grey, husk of a man.
How could they say that he--
that cold man
Is my father?
I shed a tear or two
And made decisions
Right and wrong
Dreading the day when I would grieve.
Days and weeks passed,
Years came and went,
And I,
Was left to wonder
How you can miss someone
You never had . . .

I saw a question
in your eyes
the last time we walked.

I can’t remember
the sky
ever shining bluer.

I wonder, if, somewhere
under passion-colored leaves
you found an answer.

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

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

He said that
I hadn't posted anything new
For twenty two days
And noticed
That maybe I better dip
My toes back in the pond
Of creativity

Maybe he should have
Specified
Something regarding quality
Of said creativity

:)

I haven't seen
So many angels
Hiding
In the clouds
Since John died.

They seem to be
Equipped for war.

Necesito
Todo
Los angeles.

My heart is heavy.

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?

First there is this: 

sentience 
echoes of a pounding heart
un-asked for dread 
looking to the sky for answers 
one ear to the ground 
a natural alliance 
in intangible connections. 

The amethyst beneath
distressed wood
and chipping paint 
stubborn in its design 
Buddhist expressions 
listening for enlightenment 
the package of unity
found on this door step 
inexplicably
dissolves everything 
into itself 

Then the words: 

your voice sinks deep 
like gravity as it applies to heat 
and then a skipped space

and:

walking that line 
where the crack in the sidewalk
nurtures your vibe 
must have been something
we were talking about
whatever day it was. . .
Hidden designs lodged into our psyche 
Others may have seen it before
we did but it's hard to say 

and then: 

I give you my voice 
and we tiptoe around what can't be said. 
You watch me turn this into a dance 
& sigh reminiscent 
And I talk lullabies in hillbilly drawl. 
Conversations long to stretch themselves thin 
Patience.. We pass each other
shift-work. 
Stories and thoughts become play time
I take over and you catch some zzzz's. 
How can this be? 
and How can it not?
final thoughts.. for tonight at least

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

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 have to admit,
I never pondered the mysteries
Of cornbread.

Mammaw fried hers
In the iron griddle
So thin and light
It tasted like
Sweet, starched lace.

Evenings like these
I regret
I never had her light touch.

Sunshine
Floated
On that griddle.

Her kitchen table
Was a magic place
I wish
I could take you there

Dream with me
We will neither one
Be hungry, thirsty or alone
Any more

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.

poems are just conversations
that begin and end
when your eyes
meet the word

and inspired
happens
in conversations
just like this one
and those other ones

i would be happy
to volunteer
as president
of your fan club

i have a little experience
working in and around
make-shift zoos

here's hoping
you stay inspired
so we can continue
the conversation

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

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 wrote poems once
About blackberry picking with my children.
They were lovely.
The children, too,
When they were sleeping.
I thought about those poems
When I was stomping teasel and milkweed
In the field behind the barn
With my big green muck boots
So that I could get to ripe berries.
Alone.
Hawk dueting
With the two little goats.
You have to wonder why
In such a moment
That you would work and sweat
For two measly quarts of free berries.
When I was younger
It was not unusual
To get proposals of marriage
For cobblers and cakes and dumplings
From old men who were already married.
Two quarts down.
Several to go.

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)

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.

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

Hello, fellow human mortal soul,
it is nice to find folks
who can converse
in the same foolish language
that I make.

being Muse makes me very happy

It is nice to find poets
who know all
my secret favorite words.

a lot can happen
to a person during times of
struggle/growth

there are still nightmares to decipher
and songs to sing

you keep me company
from way down there
in the garden of Eden
where you're all pine
and we're all cedar
i bet the rain even smells different,
where we're all limestone and you're clay

Yes, like I am -
I won't forget you.

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

I went out this morning
to clear the cobwebs
off the walking path
though truth be told
it was too cold for spiders.
The plants and trees
were more or less
hospitable.
That one **** spit
seeds at me --
will have to remember
to learn his name later.
The pawpaw trees
are looking well.
I greeted all the ones
on my level.
The violets winked.
A woodpecker drummed.
There were no still waters--
but I swear,
He restoreth my soul.

your words flashed quickly
                       like bolts of lightning
each.brilliantly.illuminating
     charging my perception.

words pulsed
                       from you to me
     and back again
luring me through dark mazes.

the storm lights my way
                 magnetizing our connections
                                   melding our words.

phantom thoughts
   become real
                      loom large through
                 your alluring
                                 inducements.

seduction played into
     the power
                   of the idea.

wanting more than just
               vague reminiscences
    wanting to wrap my mind around
                                 true understanding.

mysteries, enigmas --
       reaching
                              always reaching.

enticed by the unknown
      i lean in
                  drawn by an attraction
             that eludes description.

i cannot extricate myself
              from the web of enchantment.

the day my brother died
I had psychic visions
all day
of him coming to my work
and blowing his brains out
in front of me

I wasn't surprised
much by the phone call

Today I had another
vision
it was me
stabbing myself
in the stomach
with an English scalping knife

and I don't know
what it is supposed
to mean

Because I'm sitting
at McDonald's
with my daughter
on the free wifi

I can't be dead.

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.

maybe it was me
that cursed you
and i might admit it

you dreamed
there was a bird
singing in the corner
just a little off-key

woke fitful

tossed and turned

your little toe
ached
for no godly reason

a tingle here
a chill there

i am almost sorry

i just missed
your conversation

You’re whispering secrets to stars
and I’m warbling love songs
to confused meadowlarks.

Tennyson is too romantic
for a fool like me.

Maybe I should keep to my tower--
busy fingers making seams
no one can see.

Even if there are curses.

I will still walk
through the green valley
holding a valiant hand.

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

those times when
my roots stretch deep
in barren soil

searching

I don't know
if you could guess
the urgency
of my need

the clouds whisper
how soon
until hope
rains

and I look
skyward
again

Last night was such
a ridiculously busy night
In dispatch.

And we were vastly outnumbered
by the work
We needed to do.

That when the gas station clerk
called to say she found
a roach--

I said,
You don't mean an insect,
do you?

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

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?

Because
I probably won't answer.

Electronic mail
Is good enough
For today
I guess

Don't call me
Not today
Anyway

I probably won't answer

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

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?

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.

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?

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.

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