september morning

when you sleep
it is with your arms flung open wide
as if you could hold the whole spinning world
in your infant embrace
and I stand on the edge
my heart, so close,
like honey from a rose
wishing that the world was safe enough
to give you
to hold

when you are a grown up

I will write a grown up poem
about the joys of adulthood
of being happy because
you have a new garbage can, all your own
and can stop mooching off the people who lived next door
and moved
but left theirs.

A new garbage can will really make your day. 
So will things like curtains, and hanging pictures on the walls.

A poem about the tiny accomplishments
of standing in line and government forms
in phone calls and directories and feeling useful
yet losing important things.
kids aren't the only ones who lose things, you know
I happen to be very good at it, myself.

Yes, you feel satisfied when you can cross things off your list
like installing things and remembering to buy batteries
and then cross when there are ants in the kitchen
an insistent line that makes you cringe and feel itchy all over.

When the towels are folded and the dishes clean
thank you notes penned and stamped and addressed
there's no prizes or stickers or ice cream sundaes to reward you
unless you  give them to yourself.   

courage

slip from your bed
push the crumpled sheets aside
and look
through the window
adorn yourself
with this turquoise sky
one emerald treetop
to give weight to your shaking hand
like some betrothal ring
from love at work in this world
violets for your tiara
and spiderwebs for a veil
step outside
of your everyday
love affair
for a waltz with the morning star
for a tango with a wolf

broken down dragon

(My reworked prose poetry piece for Poetry Thursday)

When I say it's over, I mean this:  the dragon is now without power.  The jewels she guarded, the rubies and emeralds and precious rocks with names older than we know, jewels from ancient seas now turned to desert and mountain, these jewels have lost their lustre. Worthless now, they have bled their color over the stones of her lair, they are like pieces of coal, black lumps of nothingness.  Her scales, once her greenest glory, glimmers of gold and silver in the moonlight, these have turned into grey scabs, one by one by one.  Her triumphant wings, like tongues of blue fire, are broken now.  She can no longer fly across the star scattered sky, breathing destruction over sleeping villages.  All the sulphorous fire and smoke in her lungs is snuffed out, leaving ashes on her tongue, mere fairytale puffs snake from her nose. 

All danger is gone.  It is over now.  Go now, tell this story.  Fear is no more.

gabriel at work

the first of many dawns
where loneliness propels me out the door
seeking comfort in the roads waking to life
the horizon faded from the remants of a long night
cold steering wheel
ice obscures my view left right
the only choice is to go straight
and pray
coffee and muffin sought and bought
the heat warming my feet
and now dawn has upended her teacup
spilling pale yellow dreams and pink tulips
staining layers of clouds
the light of the world has come
more gentle that the most glorious sunset
sliding a message beneath the door to my heart
to fear not
the light has come
fear not

camellias in winter

January comes
with her long black hair
her sliding violet eyes
full of deceit
charming us with warm winds
and blooming camellias
we didn't notice
they were the color of spilled blood
yes the year comes in
hand in hand with death
that terrible playmate
leaving us with a basketful of questions
and no hankerchief for our tears.

glorious

last night my sleep was
rich delicious
as dark chocolate
stretched full on the couch
to the drone of the local bumbling news
some dogs who dragged
human bones from the woods
so tired even mystery, tragedy
could not entice me
I stumbled to my bed
cradled in soft lamplight
my sleep was as deep
like some deep sea diver
sliding along the dark shadows of the ocean
swimming up, up to morning light
being tenderly kissed awake
like some precious child
like this glorious woman

lovingkindness alive

the condition of my heart
is simply this:
awashed in whatever deep seated emotion that we only can
name as joy
the parent of happiness, the godmother
of mirth
unabashed roar of wave followed by emerald wave
colliding, the final spin crashing
on the shore printed with
the memory of your beloved feet
the toes you wiggle as you are falling asleep
as you dive into your draught of dreams
or perhaps the deepest
sigh
as I enter the borders of bed, bedecked with fresh sheets
and my hungry eyes
awake in the golden light
my laughter as near
as John to Jesus
as the whir of the Rhodes
to the old time gospel singer
tears dripping off her chin
pleading to come on down
and get your heart right with God
before it's too late
too late I know it's not too late
to climb up Jacob's ladder,
says the song
and the darkness of second thoughts
of hesitation in the face of the glory
is sailing down the river
of life, yes
flowing through me. 

dreaming in color

The color has been stolen from the sky,
gagged and tossed in the back of a black van.

In its absence we are suffering
through the wet fog of lost memories.
Leaf through the encyclopedia, there is no record found.
The sky has never been any color
other than white, thickly
sitting on the earth. 

In caves we are painting
our dreams
of skies full of crimson and violet
of clouds as thin as the edge of an envelope.

And if we pray
we don't ask for peace, as we see the horsemen coming.
We only beg the gods
for a little blue sky. 

anniversary

one deer blazing across the dark highway
a branch falling from the sky, crackling down
to stick in the earth
near misses, almost calamity
yet the safety of each other
laughter woven into being afraid and lost
in a strange town with cold spaces
and stories pounded into the brick
yellow spiders and strong coffee
dusk in the graveyard
holding your hand

I never want to stop
holding your hand