Building Dreams

Dreams come and go 
and sometimes they stay and get to know me for awhile
rustling in the night and sharing a secret joke
sometimes they come with a glare and a slap
or a pinch
sharp and angry  
and exit dramatically like a summer storm                                           I add characters and settings
and other times
~ most times ~
 change the words
I carry them with me everywhere and escape into them as often as I can
because I much prefer that world to this one
I toss their pebbles into the water and watch where the ripples go
and I follow
casting spider threads across 
to build a bridge of silk 
for the dainty feet of visions to pass
Dreams come and go                                                                       and I splash them with the colors of their emotions
and the deepest dark ones I try to surround with light
but sometimes I am too full of dark myself 
to spare any…
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Fall Just A Little

The bride and groom looked at each other
and her voice broke when she said the words
and she fell just a little
against him
because the do us part was already so near
already in the high grass stalking
gathering force
there is no way to stop a hurricane once it starts
and all the lilac flowers and cake and cards and golden bubbles cannot hold the destruction back
promises made in the dark sometimes only bloom there
a kiss to seal the promise
a promise for all time
but time itself is a thief and steals the moment
steals the roses from her cheeks
leaving lines carved in a face the color of dirty dishwater
and when a fist and cry is raised to heaven
there is only the startling of the birds as reply
and we fall just a little
against each other
and try to gather the crusts and crumbs of the wedding feast
roll them up in linen coverings with spilled champagne and sad confetti birds nests
to bring out as tribute
as a shield proffered to carry out this broken doll
her strings snipped
too soon we cry
but the abhorred shears flashed
and the strings fell
just a little
against each other


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“The poem I want to write is impossible. A stone that floats.”             ~ Charles Simic
To wrap a touch of thought in gauze and carry it carefully to a warm place where it can rest
and rise 
there is no word to describe the wave that fills your pores and a scent you have never found but remember so well
it takes you by the hand 
by the throat sometimes
and though you try to hold the imprint on your eyes 
 you forget so easily
and it falls away into the dusty corners
until swept out and a tingle on the back of your neck makes you turn
to pick the shining bit up and put it with the others you have collected and nurtured
to thread onto the poets crown
and watch it burn with words on fire
until dropped sizzling into the well of souls and cooled with fresher waters 
this is your honor and your curse 
to glance against but never catch
a thornsharp thirst no wine
 no running stream can alleviate
to never gaze your fill
and never
reach the end
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Purple Ink

The letter came
I don’t know when
it may have just magicked itself in
from another dimension
I wasn’t looking for it
….not exactly
but when I saw it I knew
 it was all I knew
all I had ever known and would ever know again
and my atavistic DNA rose up in defense
as I felt my world start to tip over
at the smell of the envelope
the scent of something young and fresh and exciting and not-me
the sight of purple ink handed me a disdain edged tool
 I wanted to hold it up and jeer 
but the words
the words
no gushing childish midlife crisis doll baby
this was a letter written in confidence
and in solidity by a woman
and that rock scree shifted underfoot a little more
a little faster
with my eyes wide and burning I tottered
waving it unsteadily as you came in and the nonchalance in your face
was the one scenario I hadn’t rehearsed
the reality
was that there would be no apology
I retreated
 I dug in deep 
and silent
because my camouflage was pleasant
and understanding
and I cooked meals
and washed clothes 
and polished little things in compliant niceness
see how good I am being? see how good I am?
See? SEE?
 and thought that I could hold on forever
padding along the walls unseen and small
I wrote too
 letters of erudition and entreaty and lofty forgiveness
please love me
I wrote and I ripped and crumpled and shredded
and wrote again
until I was wrung dry
until I wrote myself sane
wrote myself upright
and finally released you to the purple ink 
and watched with no expression as the overgrown termites mound of discarded letters caught fire
and burnt my flimsy bridges to the ground
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The Perigean Theatre



The sun sinks below the horizon

dropping into the water with a hiss and the sky swirls in hot colored celebration

of a completed day 

the clock turns and quietly

without audience

the moon rises with a mysterious haze

cool and pale and inscrutable 

and on this night steps forward and throws herself at the spinning blue orb

uncovers her luminous face

in all its moonstruck roundness

 and swells


until the craters loom like open sea above our heads

and we gaze in wonder and surprise

as if a shy, clumsy girl always hiding in the back row suddenly stood up and sang like Florence

and suddenly we remember why we worshipped her

why the stones were set to catch her glow

why we wish 

and cast spells in her light

until the slashing rays of dawn call her back 

and she fades from sight

for a few beads of time

until the next shower of light and celestial pilgrimage

bring her back to the skies theatre

where we wait to share once more in her unveiling

her rising star

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Robin Williams. In shock and sorrow.

“We don’t read and write poetry because it’s cute. We read and write poetry because we are members of the human race. And the human race is filled with passion. And medicine, law, business, engineering, these are noble pursuits and necessary to sustain life. But poetry, beauty, romance, love, these are what we stay alive for. To quote from Whitman, “O me! O life!… of the questions of these recurring; of the endless trains of the faithless… of cities filled with the foolish; what good amid these, O me, O life?” Answer. That you are here – that life exists, and identity; that the powerful play goes on and you may contribute a verse. That the powerful play *goes on* and you may contribute a verse. What will your verse be?”                                               ~ John Keating (Robin Williams / Dead Poets Society)

RIP Robin Williams. We let you go with heavy hearts….

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Sad Girl

“Some people turn sad awfully young. No special reason, it seems, but they seem almost to be born that way. They bruise easier, tire faster, cry quicker, remember longer and, as I say, get sadder younger than anyone else in the world. I know, for I’m one of them.”
— Ray Bradbury, Dandelion Wine

Sad girl
standing in the playground with large searching eyes
looking for a kind word
to collect and keep in a box under the bed
a part of the circle seems chipped off 
and the connection is intermittent
so she looks all the time
sad girl 
sharing her lunch with the birds because nobody else is near 
no matter how hard she concentrates she can’t make them understand
and she cannot make them stay and sing with her
they are afraid of her giantness
birds don’t know sad
sad woman
typing in an office and looking at the same wall
the same clock
the same doorways
the bathroom is an escape and alone for a friendly moment
she dreams herself happy
hands properly washed and blown dry
steps back into the well ordered aloneness
sad woman understands sad
knows how to wear it
how to travel it
how much sugar you need to add
and only occasionally now
still wishes the birds would sing with her


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