No Wiggle Room

This last crucible left me

hanging awhile. More nails 

than usual were pounded in 

to keep me strung up and out

 until it was accomplished.

Resurrection had no priority

in the plan to finish it once and

for all by walking off the back

of the ferry into night's belly. 

Cold water takes good care

to numb the pain before 

the gurgling and gasping 

end comes, right?

 Grief and sadness can be

 frozen first, right? 

An old friend once told me - 

never make plans or

 rewrite the rules made

 on the mountain

when down in the valley.

I forgot to be scared, aware or 

concerned about this minor detail. 

I needed a sign. Speaking with

authority it came into my field of

vision. The Captain insisted I take 

notice and obey the written rules. 

I didn't have permission to 

disembark the vessel, middle 

of the ocean, eye of the storm. 

Period. Period. Period. 

Please don't call the suicide prevention help line for me. This is way better. Poetry is the best way for me to put chaos in order. I don't know if other people have moments of complete and utter darkness or not. I hope it's a rare thing. I've said it before, I don't want medicated. I'm not sold on the results I see. A lobotomy isn't the answer. Love wins. It does. 

On the other side of a rough patch, I always know I've learned some crucial lesson. I always have a growth spurt. The agony bears good fruit. 

I think I wrote this out loud so some other person facing pain and darkness would know that they are not alone. Leaving's not the only way to go. There is the option of going through it instead of around it. 

I love you. I understand. Here I am in the trenches with you, shoulder to shoulder. Muddy. Bruised. Fatigued. Just like you. I raise a glass to you. Let's scream, "L'Chaim" together. To life. To life. To life.  Where's Tevye? 

Today, I'm relieved someone else writes the rules. And sometimes that same captain beckons me to step out of the boat and double dog dares me to walk on water. I am. And I'm not looking down. 

Tattered Stories

Bindings hang heads

weak with worry. Thread

 rots worn signatures who like 

the familiar neighborhood. Spines

find no sturdiness in molting cheesecloth

clinging like a hen's last determined feather

 or a shimmering snake skin discarded.

Still, the book magic strengthens 

the sentences and paragraphs,

and the pages and chapters 

hanging on for dear life  

to words inked. 

Phoenix Promises

Ivory lace and wedding satin 

coffined by an undertaker 

instead of the local laundromat -

 before, not after the bridal day. 

Six satin covered buttons 

included gratis 

in case closure is needed 

during the afterlife.

Penciled sketches 

sprang to life 

via storyboard design. 

Original haute de couture 

never intended to be flaunted 

down famous runways.

Surrendered, sacrificed, 

unfinished, unworn - 

this weighted lace hem 

will never trail behind 

her barefoot path. 

Habitual sarcasm can't be allowed 

to ridicule the love stitched 

(now needle pricked) 

dreams we dreamed.  

Cram cremated remains in an urn.

 Light candles. Pray continually. Wait.

Her resurrected beauty may rise, 

born again from ashes

 appearing cold and dead. And so
help me God, will I. 

Waiting in the Dark

Encased, chicks, caterpillars and buds 

are not privy to time lapse frames 

speeding by or hopeful endings 

where light lives and wind breathes. 

 They need to wait patient without a future 

till first flights and colors call them out, 

seconds witnessing dawn's duel 

against darkness on reckoning day.   

Morning Relief

 

Could those tiny prisms

dancing on swaying green tips 

be the remaining evidence and 

proof that invisible warm breath 

unthawed night's icy grip

 on perspective once again? 

There's a Yiddish proverb 

that says,"Each blade of grass has 

an angel bending low whispering, 

grow, grow, grow." 

It Doesn't Compute

But it adds up. 

It might look insignificant,

common, or just plain quiet at times. 

Your daily routine doesn’t get air time

on the nightly news or make headlines 

on the front page of the paper. 

What you do every day

matters, even though it seems

unremarkable in the moment, because 

we don’t have a Clarence who suddenly

appears when we need him most. 

There’s no one to show us flashbacks 

or the ripples made in the rest of the story.

The ordinary, invisible, mostly 

mundane parts of our lives 

don’t seem all that wonderful 

from our point of view. 

But wait, there’s a different perspective.

If only you could see all of heaven nod 

approval while they stand in thunderous 

applause, breathing deep sighs of satisfaction 

as they knowingly elbow each other in 

complete agreement -  what you do

matters. It makes a difference. Forever. 

During your most  run-of-the-mill-days, 

just imagine the Star Breather 

clearing a lump from his throat 

and wiping a tear from his eye 

 watching the myriad ways you: 

Love. And live. And give. And laugh. 

And grow things. And find time to create 

beautiful things in between endless chores.

And care for words. And find ways to be 

thankful. And make lemonade, anyways. 

And midwife and doula, nourish and nurture 

everyone around you. 

[deep curtsy] 

Kathleen Overby 

Perfect Days

Split pea soup's simplicity
testifies to warm bread's
complexity. The soup, bread,
and I heard the young mother
ask the little girl pulling up
a chair to help finish and stir,
"Is there enough salt, Viv?"
Brushing her bangs back
from her eyes she dipped
her spoon. Blowing first,
sipping twice, once in earnest
consultation with her taste
buds, the next time smacking
her lips zestfully, she declared
it perfect. And so did I.

Edges

Leave the edges wild -
a hide for hunting
sirens and muses.

Leave the edges wild -
let nature nurse the wounds  
Muggles make.

Leave the edges wild -
shy ideas mate with
bold daring here.





We went to an Over the Rhine Concert at The Triple Door. They were new to us then, but we feel better acquainted now, after being immersed in the music and stories.

I found a tidbit on their website that prompted this poem. They found, fell in love with, and bought an old farm. As they started to reclaim it, a wise father encouraged them to leave the edges wild. They followed his advice. It seems like this slice of country has been the birthplace of much art, poetry, music, good living, laughter, goodness, and love.

Slow Mail Eulogy

Mailbox relics 

reassure me.  

Birdsong will
be around forever.

Casting Seed

Maybe I mistook  

your intent for

a calculated move 

 to cast me away

cast me aside

 cast me off 

  a disposable way 

to discard what you 

no longer found useful. 

What if you

wrenched your pain open 

to release me,

ceding the pleasures and comforts that 

tightly closed pods afford? 

I no longer need to depend

upon the wind's inconsistent 

whims or wait for someone 

else to pick me. 

Cast, seeded, I am free.