freckled thing

Love is a freckled thing,
touched by sunlight
now and then.
Though pale at times
in places covered,
it shines a permanent reminder
of that which once graced our glad skin
and left a speckled wonderland.

to love an onion

to love an onion, cut it deep-
shed its layers, take a seat.
learn to live inside each loop,
keep your balance in a hula hoop.

if you went swimming in my circles,
peeled back my skin- pink, white, and purple,
would you like what you saw?
tell me, could you love me raw?

honey bees

when the poet wrote of honey bees,
they filled me with delight,
but when I saw one buzzing by,
it gave me quite a fright!

then I watched it gently land
upon the petal of a flower.
i waited in its presence-
let it touch my heart with wonder.

a bitter thing, the bee’s sharp sting,
but his labor the most sweet.
why shrink in fear from something dear,
its blessings swift forget?

knitting needle

If you were a knitting needle,
I’d like to be the yarn
knit snugly around you-
sprawling, spiraling out
in little loops
nothing could undo.

Let’s create something together.
Perhaps a scarf or sweater
to wrap around and warm
a wintering world.

If you were a prayer,
I’d like to be the hands folded-
quietly to hold it,
holy.
Then sprawling, spiraling out
to lift it up.

Let’s love something together,
something greater than each other-
then show it, stunning,
to a watching world.

lightning bugs (part two)

Because I’m on a lightning bug kick, and trying to use the form of a limerick...


When lightning bugs danced in the field,
The thunder bugs followed with zeal.
The rain bugs fell down
From the great cloud bug’s gown
Til the sun bug peeked out from his shield.

lightning bugs

Our lives are lightning bugs
flick'ring in eternity's sky.

Sparks that linger but a moment,
lifted from eternal light

Lord, catch me in your hands
and hold me gently til the end.

Your thoughts are higher than my own,
outnumb'ring grains of sand.

little owl

Oh, to see through the eyes of a child
the pictures music makes.
My fingers on the piano
are brushes gliding through paint.

Earthy brown,
sparkling silver and blue-
I feel the pale shine
of a faraway moon.

Then, pressing the pedal
down with my foot,
I add drops of water
to the paint.

Colors soften into
the shape of a tune-
the watercolor cry
of an owl in June.

the best medicine

she shrugs off her sorrow
and lifts up her chin,
tells me:
"laughter is the best medicine."

friend,
show me where the gash is,
and in sackcloth and ashes
I'll weep with your heart as it weeps.

halcyon

Her father was the keeper of the wind,
and she, the loving goddess Halcyon.
He sent the sea a-swirling with his hand.
She left his side to wed a mortal man,

the king, Ceyx. Their love was sweet and deep,
unfalt’ring when his ship sank in a storm
and she, devoted, drowned herself in grief.
The gods looked down in pity, to transform

their bodies into two majestic birds,
who made their nests in winter near the shore.
Their dear eggs swept away, again unspared,
she cried to Zeus to calm the ocean's roar.

In tranquil solstice days their love lives on,
The speckled blue-orange Ceyx and Halcyon.


https://www.greekmyths-greekmythology.com/the-myth-of-halcyon-the-halcyon-days/ (the myth of Halcyon)

vision

When we, daring, drove under the bridge,
for a moment I felt what it was
to be under a train as it passed-
violent, rumbling, fast.

When we drove up the hill to the top,
I felt myself slide, sinking back-
back in my seat, toward its rhythm and heat
furtively, half-asleep, halfway packed.

When we sat at the light, waiting there,
I collapsed into dreams unaware.
Impatient, I knew I had places to go,
Yet I felt with a pang that I'd never go home.

When we sped off again at the green,
I thought on the things I had seen.
In the light of the train and the light of the moon,
I think that I saw the sad future too soon.

the princess

I did not choose my name,
choose to sit upon a throne
or wear a crown of your invention,
dressed up like a doll in the dollhouse
of your good intentions.

All day long your hands
are tiny moving men
altering my home,
though I know well it's not my own.

I did not choose
the furniture in my room,
this or that shade of blue.
I did not choose to be part of this game,
to wear this face,
to live in your castle,
my cage.

And so I choose
to escape.

Cover myself a commoner,
a human girl,
a wanderer.
Mount a magic carpet ride,
try to catch the world
as it whizzes by-
to blend into its swirling colors,
hide among its starry wonders.

I imagine the sky never chose
to be blue,
but it seems content to be so
and I wonder if I could be too.

No, I did not choose my name,
or my room,
or this game-
but now that I'm here
I can choose how I play.

I can choose how I use
my crown and my throne,
I can choose to love you,
my neighbor, my mom.

library

Behind the glass I linger,
safe
from wet and wild and
wistful rain.
Nestled among books, I
wait
in a wooden world
of shelf and page.

The written word,
their fragile thoughts
would melt
away
at rain’s soft
touch.

I watch it, feel it
as I read,
and listen to
the widowed trees
welcome the sky’s sweet
offering.

So many treasures
locked inside,
but first to grow
and then to die.
My heart resounds,
“And so must I,”
reaches through glass
to trembling
life.

spider in the shower

My fear is a tiny spider
Spotted on the shower wall-
Makes me cower in a corner,
Shudder at the slightest crawl.
In a rush of naked panic
I forget that he is small.
Unprotected and alone,
I feel him looming tall.

I dare not move, I dare not cry
For fear others will come
And see me in this helpless state,
The coward I've become.
I clutch a weapon,
Try to solve the problem on my own-
Wait to strike, still paralyzed
By the fear of the unknown.

Then I stare at him and wonder
Why I feel such great disgust.
He never gave me reason
To doubt his motives or distrust,
Only wandered unsuspectingly
Into a private place.
I throw the object and ignore
His own sad, frightened face.

Now my fear is a tiny spider
Smashed upon the shower wall,
And to see him dead and powerless,
I regret I feared at all.
I wash myself of dirt and dust
But cannot shake the shame
That I killed a thing in self-defense
That never meant me harm.

the author

It is easier to write a dark poem than a light one.
The light one lounges in the center of my lips,
Pulls my mouth into a hammock
Where it gently rests.

The dark one seethes behind my perfect teeth,
Cannot escape, so it tunnels deep.
Finds fingers, reaches for a pencil,
Slithers out lead
And solemnly sleeps.

My eyes are California skies, bright blue
In the early days of June,
The start of a season
When they do not know how to rain,
At least, not in front of you.

They sparkle sunshine over my hammock smile
And warm the soul that rests inside.
I do not have to write this poem
Because you already see it-
Can feel it slowly burn your cheeks.

Below, my stomach is a colorful jungle
Where swallowed light and shadow wildly dance.
The acid rainforest buzzes and hums,
Awake.
Breaks them down into their parts,
Into my words.

I am not the poem,
Asleep for you to read,
A face for you to see.
I am the author,
The stomach digesting.

So if you happen to fall in love with me,
Don’t fall in love with reading.
Bring a raincoat and cut me open-
Let me take you to the Amazon.

dear diary/dear children

a pantoum...


I do not know what will become of you,
O careful keeper of my secret thoughts.
When I depart would I have you go too,
Leaving my children to connect the dots?

O careful keeper of my secret thoughts,
Spiral-bound soul of me, set to death’s fire.
Leaving my children to connect the dots,
They’ll search the flames and find in them a mirror.

Spiral-bound soul of me, set to death’s fire-
I’ll leave you open-hearted on the shelf.
They’ll search the flames and find in them a mirror-
Dear children, the reflection of myself.

I’ll leave you open-hearted on the shelf
When I depart, and let you see the truth:
Dear children, the reflection of myself,
I do not know what will become of you.