All those moons ago
I plucked a stone from shore
and whispered my intention
with each waxing and waning.
I took it back to the sound today,
intending to sing a final goodbye
before casting it far into the waves.
It sparkled in the spring sun
then slipped from my fingers
into the sludgy low-tide pool
of barnacles and gooeyducks.
I simply walked away
and watched the gulls drop oysters,
fighting over what belongs to whom.

The waves will carry the stone to sea
the same way the green has returned
like the green in me.
A gentle and abrupt easing -
A slip out to sea with the tide.

First sun-warmed sand
First boots-and-socks-off beach
First ankle-deep stand in rushing water
First SPF rubbed on my face
First crocus pops up in the yard
(Delicately)

Nearby, a young father begins
to teach his toddling young
how to fish.
(Patiently)

Last high-country snowshoe
Last low-country woodstove fire
Last hot bourbon toddy
Last dreamy days of Pisces
Last longing for lost love melts away
(Finally.)

Early over the mountain
the nearly-but-not-yet worm moon
spies the confluence and I below.
(Knowingly)

Here at the place where things change,
the wild world fills me
and I devote myself once more.
(Wholly)

For one who is in love with the chase
And the glory of all things yet-to-be done,
The true rapture of Nature is in knowing
She is too Big, Wild, and Free to own.
(Like me.)

I am no gardener, but I do know this:
Perennials and orchards need the kiss
Of an early frost, a freezing deep,
To hold them whole through winter’s keep

A bloom in false spring, (winter’s hollow),
Before the heavy snows that follow,
Will have the cell walls bursting, cracking,
Freezing, thawing, expanding, contracting.

So too, must dreams lay dormant still,
Or else becoming Winterkill.
Much as I wish them to bloom, bloom now,
They must lay under the mulch and bough.

I tell myself, “Learn what you can from the season”
Patience, Myopia, Acceptance sans reason -
You are stuck in the wheel, right here and right now,
Hearing naught in the dark, muffled underground.

Yet I am no seedling! I am no tree!
Though my flesh warms and cools just as easily.
So why should I wait? Why be pinned by the cold?
Do I have a choice in the story that’s told?

Could I be a cold crocodile, nose above ice,
Or hibernate warm with the marmots and mice?
Why not come in from the outside to thaw,
And savor small tidbits of hope in my maw?

Could I choose to fly south, or to stay evergreen?
Must I really wait for the melt to be seen?
I wonder, though I’m sure from what seed I have come,
Is it winter that dictates what I will become?

I wonder if you know
how often I pass
that church door where we kissed
(and kissed, and kissed)

Or how I'd desecrate
a thousand more
just to do it again
(and again, and again).

It feels now like a deal with the devil,
and too good, it lasted as long as one would.
For rapturous blasphemy, for ludicrous bliss,
I sold all my fears for just one shot at this.

I wonder if you know
that we are our own devils,
that nothing's contracted
that can't be redacted

That we spin our own fates
and can re-thread our revels -
Did you know? But you must,
(you must, you must.)

Yet I'm sure that you won't
and that all that we built
is crumbling, returning,
To dust, to dust.

All of my targeted ads remember
that we wanted to go to Iceland
in winter
to see the Aurora Borealis,

and they bombard me relentlessly
as if marketing in memories.

This instance is not unique.

It seems
no matter how many buttons I push
in attempts to subdue
these bright incursions,

I can't mute you completely.

I have had enough of lovers
Wishing to be the sun in my sky
And creating diurnal dependencies
That block half its dome at a time.

To shine with such effulgence
Should be an honor all my own.
Who else is my constant companion?
Who else sets my caverned heart 'glow?

Instead, let all that is loved by me
Be a dazzling array of constellations,
Each brilliant Sirius and Betelgeuse
Whirling, returning through my seasons.

And if I should find such a Star again,
Let them be not Sol, but instead, Polaris -
Gleaming steadfast, in their own region,
Never dipping 'neath horizon's terrace,

Their simply existing
A northward guide
Keeping me truthfully
Aligned.

I am a champion of Longing.
Full of gratitude, yes,
but born with an irrepressible
Desire to Chase.
I am always
peering around the corner,
staying up all night,
and stoking the fire
for only the greatest of dreams
of art, adventure, and pleasure,
of science, nature, and mind.

The beginning of romance too,
is taking on the role of explorer,
setting forth into the unknown,
getting my feet wet,
and splashing forward
by drawing a map.
I am exuberant,
(sometimes forwardly so),
not because I seek to plant a flag
and claim connections as my own,
but because I seek to chart the boundaries
of hearts unknown.

I wish to delight in each waterfall,
spelunk each hidden treasure,
plot and survey each peak!
Is that not the greatest joy -
getting to know
that which finds your soul,
multiplies it,
and hands it back to you anew?

Perhaps after thorough study
One may find a home.
And yet, there is also magic
in just passing through,
an extended holiday,
a retreat when healing is needed,
a reminder of that which makes us
ourselves.

And thus,
I will love, and love, and love.
Not always thoroughly -
sometimes in small explosions,
sometimes not as much where I'd like,
sometimes too much where I'm not needed -
But still I will.
Still I will create, do, inspire,
wonder, and love as much as possible,
Knowing that which does not nurture Longing
is temporary.

Before

My feet are big
And growing ever bigger.
Large, wide,
And filling every shoe.
They stick out from me
Making flats look ridiculous.
They are like life rafts,
Falling to the side like pillows
When encountering resistance.

After

My feet are long
And growing ever stronger.
Supportive, storied,
And deserving special care.
When pointed, they are elegant,
Skeletal and muscular, even when in heels.
They are like canoes,
Chiseled and carved with love,
Gliding forward with intention.

Dear Ghost,

Would it be easier for you
if I ignored you,
blocked you, hid you,
and came back later
after an 'appropriate' amount of time?
Or is it easier if I stay,
patient and persistent,
occasionally dropping my two-cent
invitations, heart, and laughter,
gently
(repeatedly)
reminding you
that in spite of everything
I still give a ****?

I ask
because I do not know,
just as I can not ascertain
whether to hope or to mourn.
I hypothesize that neither
will improve this situation,
but I agonize over which
might make it worse.
Your input on the matter
would be greatly appreciated.

Sincerely,
Lost in Limbo.

A reminder -

It is still winter,
We are still in the thick of it,
Chains and snowshoes
are still requisite,
Imbolc and Candlemas
are still to pass,
Groundhogs hibernate,
Tarns still as glass,
The tumbling finch song
has yet to be sung,
and even the false spring,
has not yet sprung.

So lie still a while longer,
Let the chill freeze you through,
Warmer days will return
in their own time,
And so will you.

We could have jumped
directly off the cliff
but instead,
we're paragliding.

These winds of change
are terrifying, tough, and turbulent.
Still, our stomachs are in knots.
Still, we wonder where we'll land.
Still, we will coast,
eventually
to the bottom.

And maybe I won't be scared
of heights,
falling,
or the ground
by the time it's over.

The road ahead
is full of possibility,
but not for the faint of heart.

Luckily,
I am not faint of heart.

Bitter anger and confusion
like vinegar
won't stop love from flowing.
They are both liquid
coursing together
through the great channels
carved by passion.
When dammed,
these too overflow.
I must, somehow, create culverts
and new places to go.

It's as if we're climbing
over mountains,
except by some cruel trick
we trek along the fault line
rather than across
and as we crest each painful saddle
there is no choice
but to slide back down the other side,
blistered, limping, starved,
and carrying too much weight,
hoping the next peak
will be the last.

Except,
it's nothing like climbing mountains,
for at least in the mountains
I can breathe.

The photo you took
and then gave to me
still hangs framed
above the altar,
next to the calendar.
Should I have taken it down
when your words slipped away?
Perhaps.
But it hangs as a reminder
to hope
for Lovely, Wonderful,
Improbable things.

Disbelief -
I am
Not a "thing"
I am just interactions -
Stories.

I have faced down
the existential anguish
that drives lovers
to padlock themselves within.
I have woven blankets
to warm my cold shoulders
when I tumble
through the abyss.
I have created
Reason, Religion, and Reverence
out of Absurdity and Stardust.
I will always be
more desirous of desire
than secure with security,
more comforted by wonder
than wondrous of comfort,
and more of the romantic than the realist,
though neither is whole
without the foil.

Please, please,
Don't be a ghost discreetly -
Please, please,
Don't let me go completely.

Where there is love, but there is no passion
There is a hearth that has gone ashen.
It is a sleep where there is no dreaming
Day will break, but there is no gleaming,
A familiar dish, lacking in heat,
A well-known dance, lacking in beat,
A complex wine sans maturation,
A photograph sans saturation.

My eyes fly open
And flick to the light
This time your ghost
Has stayed the night.
Your smiles and laughter
In dreams I've kept,
But I've held too long
And overslept.

It comes in the morning, now -
That heavy vapor of gloom
That spreads like water-soaked ink
That stirs the gut to quiver.
Once a night traveler
Content to sit on my lungs
and whisper toxic reminders
of mortality,
This demon endemic to life
has taken a new schedule,
and with it, a new voice,
and new pairs of woes and clothes.
It reminds me, now,
of my world like molasses,
jolly people I have been,
and joy I've destroyed,
tempting me with a heart of ice
I could use to replace my own,
and make this song go away.
It is my job then, to refuse.
"No."
I must climb out of bed
And wield a sword of summer
For one more day.

I keep creating
impossible lists
to save myself
from listlessness,
of books to read
and things to do,
for I know the only
way out is through.

It must be maddening,
if not terrifying,
to be loved by me.
Attempts to temper me are useless,
For I can only love with flames
burning hot, bright, and white
like dazzling stars,
until smouldering embers
ignite everything I hold dear,
leaving brittle, black scars in my wake.
Even now, as the dreams I clutched too closely crackle and crumble,
my cheeks burn,
flushed with embarrassment and anguish,
and the grieving pouring down them is so hot, they could boil and steam.
My stomach churns with heat,
and I am a dragon heaving forth hell.
I am too impetuous, impatient, imprudent,
a relentless, tempestuous firestorm.
I am too many words too quickly,
A meteor shower of poetry and regret.

I have woken up too early
For a sun that will not rise
And my dreams have flown with moonlight
Leaving cold and clouded skies.
But maybe next breath,
Next hour,
Next sun,
Or next moon
I'll be warm?
I must hope that I will.

I'm supposed to pretend that I don't hear
Sobbing and swearing in the next room.
I usually turn to my ear-buds,
Pink Floyd, Led Zeppelin, and Ke$ha...
But my playlists,
So carefully crafted
from dreams and moonbeams,
are now mine fields -
Nearly unnavigatable
Without triggering an explosion
Of him.

I think, perhaps,
That vulnerability and wit,
(the aims of this challenge),
have sufficiently sharpened my words -
and judging by the slice of life
that I have served,
and how my exposed outlet
now needs tourniqueting,
I think, perhaps,
It is the swordsmanship
That I must now practice.
I am no devotee
of the church of restraint,
But I think, perhaps,
That there are limits
on how much you can bleed
before running dry
or drowning others.

I still need the occasional jolt -
a pinch -
a reality check -
to wake me
from the dreaming world
of long-held hopes,
suddenly manifested.
I try writing it all down
and replaying all that I remember -
Revelations, hands, scents, astral bodies -
and I just fall deeper
into the unreal.
So for now
(absent that jolt)
I'll make do
with the occasional buzz
from my pocket.

At any given moment
Two paths lay ahead.
Would that I could travel both,
and from there, all.
But my heart aches
And my mind swims
with all the branching, fractal possibilities
from there.

Give yourself the gift
of a day alone -
a day of your own making -
of singing madly,
scribbling passionately,
eating well,
listening deeply to your own desires,
and sitting with your own folly.
Give yourself this,
and you will never feel loneliness
as an insurmountable ache
again.

For a moment
the world is mist and stillness,
but then you hear it.
A distant howl pierces the fog,
accompanied by the clattering
and thundering
of the unseen beast:
metal wheels on metal rails.
And suddenly, the iron dragon appears.
Steam rises from its nostril
and it bellows a warning
that echoes from the mountainsides.
It's charged frame
cuts through to this plane,
snaking its way through canyons
and impossible passes
for just a moment
before passing back through the veil
to the realm of the mystical
from whence it tore.

I can stretch my sanity,
I can bare my soul,
I can wear it on my sleeve,
on my wrist,
in my pulse,
I can bear the vanity,
I can stretch my sanity...

I can stretch my time,
I can do it all,
I can stay up with my pen,
'til my eyes
start to fall,
I can work the overtime,
I can stretch my time...

I can stretch my limits,
I can be so chill,
I can hold myself
down and try
to be still,
I can breathe it in,
I can stretch my limits...

For Now.

The fresh memories of
the impossibility of your words,
the incandescence of your eyes,
and the intoxication of your lips
comes in flashes,
running down my prickling neck,
through my tingling core,
and to my trembling toes.
They are small bolts of lightning
striking the same place,
over and over and over -
infinitely unlikely,
shocking, shaking, and grounding,
all at once.

I need air,
I need earth,
I need water,
For each breath is shallow,
And my bra is too tight,
And on sudden occassions
My chest twangs
As a lumberjack sinks an axe into me
Taking me down for my
Precious Heartwood.

It is Scorpio season
in every possible sense,
For there is no safe, solid,
middle ground to stand upon
That hasn't been wet-soaked
with its flood and blood,
That transforms the gentle earth
to obfuscating mud.

But then, perhaps, it is actually clay,
taking shape under a vision in silver,
For the full moon in Taurus also glides
across these charged, ******, Scorpio skies.

Honesty comes at a price -
But so did the countless rounds
of glasses, boxes, bottles, and cans
that we bought
while searching for a substitute.
We may be in one hell of a mess now
But at least we'll never
have to drink that much again
just to speak our hearts.

Way up in the mountains,
Pumped up with endorphins,
At such elevation,
After such respiration,
I collapse with elation,
By my exquisite companion,
Digging into a sandwich
with such determination,
And every last sorrow
drains out of me,
if only for now.
I heave a long, tender,
whispered prayer:
Bliss and only Bliss.
This and only This.

It is a moment
so delicate
that eventually
a single heavy breath
and slice of light
will crack...
But for now
it is a hushed dawn
so breakable.

My cheeks are scorched
by the fire in my blood
and words begin
to well within
But my courage is scorched
by another fire
that's dammed the well,
and I can't begin.

Are there secrets at the bottom
of this bottle here to savor?
And are they more commensurate
to its volume, or its flavor?
Could ascetic tongues here loosen
and become more libertine?
And could cold feet here defrost,
performing dances unforeseen?
Oh, I think that we should try it -
drink me underneath the table,
For I have no use for secrets,
but I'll trade mine if I'm able.

Can't you see?
That this evening's drama
is all just tangled language
made swollen by repetitive prodding,
and that none of this is real?
I am too tired to argue,
Too burnt-out to share,
Too triggered to touch you,
And too blasé to care.

Watch me
and I am a wheel -
always finding a way
to spin anything into gold.
But given just the right moment,
and just the right rush of speed,
you will see me as I truly am:
A gyroscope,
my angular momentum
keeping me upright.
And you -
You are always the right rush of speed,
And it is always the right moment.

I am not weak
For swimming with the water's course
Rather than climbing ashore
When the river is going where I must,
For it would be far easier,
Far more convenient,
And far less painful
To push my joy,
My sorrow,
And my love far away.
Yet, here I am,
Catching on each log,
Each basin,
And each precipice,
Feeling it all
In the wash out to sea.

Time burns steadily on -
Sage, cedar, sandalwood.
A resource infinite,
But not nearly so,
when all beginnings
must have endings,
and we are each allotted
but one bundle to burn through.
How long have we been here?
Two notches on the incense clock.
Smoke rising and swirling,
evocative divinations
of all things,
future and past.

The winter has her chilling cold,
The wilderness is ruggedness,
The ocean has her pressure bold,
And space, an abyss of nothingness...

Majesty is most often guarded by Peril.
To find her -
and I mean truly find her,
You must first be armored
with tools of science,
and essentials of life,
Then with your wits
and ambition,
And then,
Just one thing more...

(An openness
of heart and mind...)

Then you might reap the wonder
of seeing more, and knowing little.

We can't care for oceans,
We can't care for whale pods,
We can't care for rivers,
Or salmon or cod,
We can't care for beaches,
We can't care for birds,
For the stolen land,
Or its people, or herds,
We reuse our bags,
We refuse our straws,
We opt for less package
Whenever we can
But faced with these scars,
We sink in our tracks,
Powerless, unaware,
Where to begin?
It's bigger than us,
It isn't one person,
One Trashless Saint
Can't save us, that's certain.
"Let's tear down the systems!"
We say, "They're all broken!"
Without hope of waking
The ones who aren't woken.
I have no "right way"
To channel distress,
Cause nobody sees
A way out of this mess.

Oh, sweet hallucination
of a lucid dream,
What I once sought to treasure,
is not what it seems.
I stumble through morning
to shake myself loose,
From the cruel kiss
of a seductive noose.
Oh, sweet imagination,
please leave me be,
All your tender entanglements
are torturing me.
In my waking life
I remember and feel
Things that did not happen,
and are not real.

Just like a river, meandering true,
I'm like a river flowing back to you,
From the Alpine turquoise to the ocean blue,
Cascadia, flow through me.

Just like a Cabernet, smooth and red,
You're like a wine flowing to my head,
I won't get enough, not until I'm dead,
Cascadia, flow through me.

Just like the city running to and fro,
I'm like the city when I even and flow,
Like a train, if I leave, I know back I'll go,
Cascadia, flow through me.

Just like blood, with no end or start,
I'm like the blood flowing back to my heart,
Returning to you, dear, has become an art,
Cascadia, flow through me.

Just like the city train, just like blood,
If you're the soil, I'll be the bud,
Just like the river, just like wine,
If I'm coming home to you, I'm gonna be fine.
Cascadia, flow through me,
Cascadia, flow through me.

The Sun sets more quickly each eve
by mere perceived fractions
But each time I am more aware
the preciousness of breath.

I wonder if it's possible to love the stars
as fiercely as I do
Without loving love just as fiercely.
There is a stirring so deep
and so intimately connected to my whole
when I'm under their spell,
not unlike the song of my heart in heat.
And yet, for some,
These things are disconnected.
I only wish for a way
of knowing your experience,
And a way to share this sweet richness
if yours is lacking,
Like an artist sharing a sweet pairing
of music and words,
wine and chocolate,
or color and light,
Where there previously was none.