Wilderness

Of what 

will we build our fort, 

my dear, of what

will we build our fort?

these sticks, collected here

to burn, gone soggy

from the unexpected storm upon storm

will only create a lot of smoke now,

I'm afraid;

which might scare off a hungry bear,

but never keep us warm.

Why we didn't cover them

right away, secure

in a waterproof place?

hindsight is perfect sight, 

but I was not born backwards, dear,

or with eyes 

behind my head.

Most people are given 

just enough light 

to find the next stick

to add to their fire

or reinforce a wall; 

most people only see

what is right in front of them

if they see anything at all.

But

Most people don't see anything, 

my dear.

Most people weren't born 

with eyes.

So close yours too and

fall asleep, 

let the drips from the leaking flap cover,

and the distant winderness howls 

lull you-

tomorrow you might wake up

somewhere else 

entirely.

  

It's Not The Worst Thing

It's not the worst thing 

to have a broken heart,

when the crack in the middle

of the tan flowered wallpaper drips

some kind of ages old 

thick brown goo 

slowly down 

but never quite all the way

to the linoleum floor 

peeling at the edges

on which you stand; 

your bare feet sticking every time you take a step,

raggy toe nails

that haven't been painted since

October

and then, bright red.

Contents

This will not be contained within my borders. 
This will splash out onto the sand and the rocks and leave a mess behind
of shells and glass that have broken in grief's
wake.
After the flood has passed, the waters calmed,
the deepest earthquake's core shift realigned, or
at least temporarily settled,
someone else might walk along the shore,
might find beauty in what was left over from my insides
being forcefully flung far and wide all over each way and sundry.
Someone else will consider my pieces, softened by repeated
abrasions, and put order to the chaos. 
"Look," that someone might say,
"I went for a walk and found all of these,
now together sparkling in a jar." 
at that time will I be able to see the beauty
in what had cost me all I once contained?

The Wreckless Prayer

I give up,
you have wrecked me.  I am crushed
beneath the weight of heaven as it splashes out from
the depths of my soul to breaking everything apart
in it's wake.  Wake me to know you,
awakened to the new, but first this heart, this heart
must be pumped and pumped
i don't know how long you're going to keep squeezing but I feel it
like a crush.
you have crushed my heart and it sits and it lays
still it pumps straight to your feet.
((I give up))
(((You have wrecked me.)))

Long The Person Still Am I

The tallest tree I know reached
all the way up to the sky.
I was sure that I could touch a cloud
if I could climb that high.
But even then I knew those limbs
too thin to hold my weight,
would break their bows
to keep me held in gravity's estate.
 I'd look with longing through them,
sure the highest branches felt
just the lightest touch of heaven
as the whole of heaven knelt
down to look upon my broken
little heart and mud smudged face.
And I'd say a prayer to see a glimpse
of who was in that place.
Oh the whistfulness of childhood;
letting go, but holding on
sure the miracle is coming,
sure this time it won't be long.
The years have passed, and I
still keep my face turned to the sky;
the mud is gone, the girl is long
the person still am I.

Harbor Sea Lion

I was as innocent
as a harbor sea lion
sunning and snoozing on a Sunday
before the tourists started
peering from the pier above. People,
at least is you're going to stare,
could you toss me some snacks,
I'm starving down here;
there are so many fish,
but the sea is cold
and this saltwater stings my eyeballs.
no wonder I'm bark growl crying.

Doors

When the doors open, when the doors close
will you be inside,
or just have walked out?
will you be putting on your coat,
or taking it off?
will you be walking towards the sun
or towards a warm fireplace? 
Tell me then
Who determines where you call home
or
when the place you lay your head blurs
from a house to a home;
are the doors revolving or are they wooden,
solid,
do the hinges squeak like regret everytime
 you open or close them
or can you sneak around the middle of the night without
wondering if you'll wake the baby.

What was it like to be Queen

 Days
you wore the heaviest crown
Over a serious frown
but
Under your thick heavy gown,
What made your guarded heart pound?

(everyone gathered around;)
(everyone stooped, bowing down.)

What was it like to be Queen?
to see all the ugly unseen
that made the most tender soul mean?
When you were actually queen,
Did you intend to be mean?

(Did you ever know you were mean?)
(No one was meant to be Queen.

No one should sit on a throne
Lonely but never alone
Known but completely unknown.)

You were a girl just like me
Who played in the mulberry tree
Fell out and bloodied your knee.

Once upon a Time. Before
You had the power to start war.

Everyone dies in childbirth

Everyone dies in childbirth.

...of course you were killed

 when a new life was spilled

onto the planet. 

 How could you not, when 

that first breath was caught

and released?

Remember, there was a time

 when everyone died

on the planet;

 maybe thousands, or millions, a billion,

I wasn't there.

Only 8 people escaped. 

 The flood waters burst open

from the depths of the earth, 

 ripping jaggedly through continents

and more water dripped from above.

After that, there were rainbows.

Things That Should Never.

There are things that should never have happened, but somehow they happened to you.
At first you're like, "what?" trying to fathom what couldn't quite truly be true.
There is shock and then aftershocks; brainwaves
That rock your soul loose from it's core.
A knowledge of things you wish badly to know nothing of, like before.
So now, here's a day to assemble, fix your hair, walk and talk like before.
"Hello world, I know I'm not crazy, just broken, unwoken, and sore.
"...but that's not the part I will tell you. I'm just trying to make this day through."
 When something that never should happen has actually happened to you.

The End Of An Era

A song will play in your mind,
not the whole song but just
a few notes and maybe a word.
not very loud,
just enough to make you wonder
how the rest of it went.
There was a time when you knew
every note, every line, every nuanced harmony sharp and flat-
"oh here comes the bass line. but do you hear the sweetness of the flute floating just above the tension in the violin- oh and wait for it, wait for it-..."
     ...wait, what?
Today you woke up
 from an aching dream
 of
 "what was that song,
I wish I could hear it again."

Water

I remember when I thought I could walk on water;
all I had to do was keep moving faster
than feeling.
That was before I knew
your atoms were connected to mine;
the impossible heaviness;
that when you stopped moving, so would I.
That was before I knew the weight of salt.
That was before I knew that a body is made up mostly of water and
Sometimes
we
drown
Inside of ourselves.

When you come back from the war

When you come back from war,
Bring the spoils to my door;
Not a gemstone or chord
That you chopped with your sword,
But the memory, ignored,
Of our one favorite word.
Bring the you I adored
Before battle's cry roared
And the itch left you bored.
I'm just trying to record
Who you were. What you wore
When you showed me your sore
And we talked of before.
It was never a chore,
We're connected, I'm sure,
(And I miss you, much more
Than I should; to my core.)

Windchimes

My life is like the wind chimes on your southern farmhouse porch,
still silence on the cloudless days the sun would dare to scorch.
But when the breeze begins to blown my hair wild in my face,
The notes it strikes are discordant, awkward and out of place.
The tension builds, confusing notes continue to increase
But every echo down somehow resolves in perfect peace.
So pull your rocker here by mine as night approaches fast,
Our lives may not as yet make sense; this moment may not last.
Later on, we'll tell them (only if they ask, of course)
How life was like the wind chimes on our southern farmhouse porch.

The bones that we buried in winter

Will bones that we buried in winter
 expose when the snow melts in spring?
I'd fly from this place so much faster
if I'd ever learned to grow wings.
Now here, in my silent reflection,
I watch to chase vultures away.
Why couldn't we bury a seedling
instead of a body decayed?
Salt water drips down from my memory;
my heart whispers, "never forget."
These tears could bring slow growth still hidden;
instead, here the ground is just wet.
I'm restless. I'm clumsy this morning;
I've never been good at these things.
To wait the bones buried in winter
exposed when the snow melts in spring.

One Night We Wrote a Map

One night we wrote a map
 of how to get from here to there.
 One little line connecting you
 to me and back again.
 One night, we took the map and scribbled
 red and black all over.
 and then we poked out all the stops we'd choose along the way.
 It looked like constellations
in our made up future sky-
so simple; what seems complicated is
 really just a line,
 a simple line connecting you
and me,
and all the stars that light the way between.