There’s this crazy house but
Where? No one really knows.
And it’s full of poems, not a line of prose.
And even though the sky’s the roof
all the doors are closed.
She keeps the whole place clean
and neat so anyone can see
that what she’s really after is Possibility.

For this is the Dickinson rag, yea, yea,
this is the Dickinson rag.

There was that carriage, sweet and slow -
Sunday driver – stop and go.
He picked her up along the way -
It seems it was the end of day,
and they drove to some strange mound -
damp and musty, underground.
Was her gossamer gown a bit transparent?
Cause the guy’s intentions weren’t apparent.
I guess she really liked the ******
Cause she wrote him poems in great number.

For this is the Dickinson rag, yea, yea,
This is the Dickinson rag.

Her characters are really weird -
Those roses “out of town?”
Wish I’d gone along with them –
but I got no scarlet gown.
Yea, Emily, your verses rock,
but I know I’m not alone
In not quite understanding
what means “zero to the bone”.

And that’s the Dickinson rag, yea yea,
that’s the Dickinson rag.

The sea – calm, immense as space
and shining – one instant in time
with breath rushing in before me,
flagstone path turned silver
in the moonlight –

Your hair in the wind -
gently picking up the sand.
It’s hard filling the days
without you.

But the nights fill themselves
the velvet peace that is yours
and soon will slip into me.

Childhood address remembered
all these years. Used now as
a password, a code, a credit card number:

the place itself a mist
of memories, light palpable
in the smoked filled air

Lawn springing downhill,
steeply impossible to mow,
steps winding up to a green door
as if in a dream.

garage below where is used to hide
among small dark thoughts
hanging from their webs
barely discerned in the dust
of time.

That’s where it all began
the endless internal battle,
the wasps’ nest of emotions,
the constant buzzing of the mind’s
heavy present that always
“seems to fail this bubble of a heart.”

To soothe away the pain,
first dip into the glacial glow
of a million galaxies,
full of fire and ice.

Next, catch a moonbeam –
just one – in the palm of your hand
to remind you who you are.

Then carefully collect the wreckage
of the past to celebrate rebirth.
Search for wisdom’s blade of grass
hidden in the crevices of naked stone.

Deeply feel the force of things
but try to find how not to shatter
in the in-betweens of chaos.

Let the half-moon remind you
Of the of the shiny side
of you. Then go out searching
among the prickly weeds,
armed with shears of patience
To give all good things
a chance to bloom.

What medicine have you given me, Doctor,
that makes those thoughts hop about my mind
like an invisible sparrow, leaving only
a trembling branch behind?

What is this new blue breeze
rippling through me, this vibration
of airy fluidity playing with me
like a child with a kite?

Is this natural, this floating life,
this joyous rambling, countless
curiosities popping up along the path,
this soft mist inking life’s stony edges?

If Moon is the essence of mind’s
ever-changing illusion, then clinging
to world is hopeless. Yes, Doctor,
I’ll take your medicine, if it let’s me
dream forever.

Moving an enormous past,
so many years of things,
each once having had
it own significance,
now become a burden.

That lacquered box
of coasters, gift from
a dear friend,
that hand-crafted elephant
from a long-forgotten holiday.
Books are the worst, still speaking
in loud voices of hours of pleasure
spent together.

Life cut into small pieces,
boxed, stored, given away.
Heartbreak is what remains
in the tiny space allotted.

Abundance now resonates
with regret, yet it’s all about
letting go. Time transformed
to some wonderful winged creature,
recognizing no difference
between before and after.