Pursuing the poetical, paradoxical, metaphorical, lyrical, artistical, majestical, and mystical.

Wednesday, May 29, 2013

Make Summer Glad

Find wood, gather kindling, strike a match to crumpled paper. 
Toast marshmallows, squish them warm between two graham crackers and chocolate. 
Take the rain flap off the top off the tent to look at the stars. They are waiting for you. 
Sleep naked beside someone you love. 
Make a warm oven under the duvet where cold can't reach. 
Caress flesh and feel the cares of pavement, malls, florescent lights, traffic, and technology flee. 
Pump the coleman lantern. Marvel at the mantles.
Pump the coleman stove. Light the burner. 
Set the tea kettle to whistle time for cocoa, spiced cider, or tea. 
Touch a toe to the freezing water. Go in if you dare, but never skinny dip........alone. 
Stay awake until the coyotes howl and mourning doves coo. 
Listen for owls and wrestling raccoons. 
Stay bundled, cocooned in the morning until your bladder won't let you wait another minute. 
Put layers on. Unzip the day. Fry bacon. Boil coffee. 
Give morning hope and call the sunshine to breakfast.
Lay on your back with wild flowers and blow clouds across the sky. 
Sing to the fire, make it dance. 
Gather a bouquet of violets or willow leaves and dress the table.
Poke the wood surrounded by bruised flames and loose the sparks. 
Look for little people in hollow logs or under mushrooms. 
Listen for the silence to speak.
Let trees embrace your ache.
Let scents of pine and pitch and smoke soothe your anxious thoughts. 
Allow the quiet to cushion your heart. 
Notice the water lapping at the edges. 
Camp unencumbered. Camp uncluttered. Camp unfettered. 
Sweep the dirt if you must and clean your fingernails, but let go of primping and scrimping and limping. 
Swing in a hammock all day and accomplish nothing except daydreams.  

Seedling Volunteers

pop up uninvited. 
They sprout without 
being watered, fertilized,
or planted on purpose.
They don't write letters 
begging for support
or pretend like prayer 
is what they want more 
than money. Volunteers 
sprout because they 
grub stake themselves.
They c'est la vie grow and 
c'est la vie bloom, 
serendipitists with
 a c'est la vie mission 
to sway and wave and add 
color to summer's gold. 
Their bold conception
changes perspective 
leaving fields effectively full 
of perennial potential. 








My garden is bursting with volunteer babies this year. Foxglove, cranesbill, sweat peas, nasturtiums. They delight me with their boldness and tenacity. They appear effortlessly and make me rejoice and be glad. 

Tuesday, May 28, 2013

My Garden

begs me for a walk along paths
through flower patches
where a driftwood bungalow
houses little people hiding.
Large Marge bosses the Mermaid
and the mama hen with three chicks
under her wings from her
throne under the loggia
which is only a simple
garden room covered
with five finger acebia
and hung with sea foam
green windows rescued
from the discard pile.
Sweet peas clamber up
posts, trees, wattled twigs,
and fences. Nearby plants
are shocked to find
themselves wedded to
these bold extroverts
clinging without permission
in a cozy choke hold. If I stay
still maybe I'll become
a sweat pea obelisk and
bumblebees will argue
about who gets to pollinate
my imagination.

Wednesday, May 22, 2013

The Fire Eater

wants to swallow
the feeble flame of me
standing alone
neck deep
wicking a puddle
of melted sadness.
I chase him away
with a slap
to his maw
and tell him
to go
straight to hell.
Taking action
fans the flame
that eats the puddle
of melted sadness
and turns pain
into fossil fuel
               again.


Sunday, May 12, 2013

Ancient Love in the Safeway Parking Lot

He and his cane
shuffled over to her
side of the car
to open door.

He tucked his cane under
his armpit to use both
hands to straighten her
collar as she straightened
her creaky knees and
and rumpled clothes.

They tottered toward
the door with steps synced,
canes on the outside,
holding hands on the
inside.

I passed quickly,
then slowed my stride
to ask them how long
they had been married.

Sixty seven years he said
as he looked at her like he
must have looked at her
coming down the isle.

Winking, he said they
were thinking of making
it permanent.

Ahhhh. 
The holy permanence
of seasoned love.

She's Going To Be Alright

While I played nanny 
with borrowed kids in the park
 a little girl came to talk as
I nudged two swings into rhythm
with both arms. One held
 a baby boy in a basket.
The other held his sister
who liked the wind
 teasing her hair. 

She wanted to know if 
I was their grandma. 
I said no.
I wanted to know 
if she stopped 
to smell the purple flowers
when she passed the yard
dripping with blossoms 
on the way from preschool
to the park. She knew 
which yard I spoke of
 but said no,
 I always want to 
but we don't have time 
to smell flowers 
because everyone 
needs to hurry 
and stay together
 in line. 

She shrugged 
the tragedy off
 and let it lay in the 
playground chips, then
turned her shining face 
up to me and the sun and said, 
I'm a princess because 
my mama's a queen and 
my daddy's a 
king.