Hay Fever

The horses of my memory
were brown and white and black.
There used to be a large green field,
the horse pen in the back.
Beyond the lake, but up the hill of rocks,
there was a trail.
I rode the slow and gentle one,
kind eyed and swingy tailed.
But now the horses have all gone;
when did they leave and why
does memory keep them always here
beneath this dust? My eyes
still itch at the neaness of hay,
of what was black and white,
and brown, and ridden on trails this dirt's
now hidden from my sight.

Not Pirates

We live in the wildly untamed
and every day make up new names.
We travel the seas
and discover what pleases
the King of a foreign domain.

Not pirates; we mean you no harm.
There's no need to sound an alarm.
We don't want your loot,
not your gold or your foot-
balls.
Won't play ancient games
with our charm.

Surprising to find peace of mind
by leaving the strictures behind
once set up to chain
you to not use your brain.
We were meant to be free,
but still kind.

Bling

Which one is new,
 and which one's old?
Which one is made
 of cheater's gold?
If you can't tell,
 then why should I?
But here's the truth:
 I will not lie:
Sometimes the cost
 of luxury
is more than I
can care. You see,
it's always valuable to ask,
"Is this a treasure,
or a task?"
"Does this add value
to my life,
or does it just
 bring pretty strife
that others look on
jealously,
not seeing beyond
what they see?"
And so I challenge you
with this:
Your true bling is what brings you bliss,
not what enslaves you
by its cost.
True treasure can
never be lost,
or bought, or sold,
 or given a price.
((Which doesn't mean
nice things aren't nice.))

Go back to the River

Go back to the river that made you.
Step into the stream on the rocks
smoothed down through the years.
Let your worries and fears
float on by.
Dress your son in his Crocs.
He's not steady enough yet without them
not to slip as he wades without care-
singing to himself
songs he made up himself
in the moment.
Go there and be there.
Thank God for the river that made you,
and shapes you each step in its flow,
knowing that you are held
by love that compels
you
to unclench your fists and let go.

At first, we must weep

It is right
that I bathe in my fresh tears
what tears at my heart to get in,
to implant
through scar tissue deep roots,
then grow up and out through my skin.

It is right
that I water it nightly,
all day let it bask in the sun
and watch it bloom: delicate wonder,
new life that has barely begun.

It is right
that I weep at the sowing
and grieve as the soil is displaced,
and mourn losing all that I once knew
to welcome the joy in its place.

It is right;
let it flow and don't rush it,
this crying will stop, it won't keep.
But to fully receive this new blessing,
Oh darling, at first we must weep.

The River on Sunday

I drove to the river on Sunday.
 I sat in the stream and got wet.
The sun on my shoulders so blazing
 and there was no shade there to get.
A baby fish swam all around me, then darted off, where? I know not.
I saw it and then it was not there, had swam away deep in the rocks.
I also saw gold on a white quartz, a small shiny fleck, just the one.
I wanted to hold it, but somehow, I looked again and it was gone.
But I know what I saw in the water,
 the baby fish, yes, and the gold.
and no one can tell me I faked it, and no one can say I'm too old
to still dream that something could happen, so fragile, and precious, and new
to me as I sat in a river
and thought all day long about you.

Two Fathers

My First Father gave me these mountains and rivers,
My second one took me to see them.
The first made my eyes,
and the second surprised me by teaching me how to find rare gems.
Sometimes, it was glass insulators near tracks he'd collected by digging them up there.
Smooth agates the water had washed over decades and now were so smooth to the touch there.
My First Father made and had hidden these things that my second had sought and collected,
then lined up on shelves after cleaning them off, things that everyone else had neglected.
But both of them knew what is perfectly true: that a treaure is just what you treasure.
My First Father made what my second collected, and both, I think, found it a pleasure.
Now both of my Fathers are together in Heaven, and tossing me  gifts from above.
Such as you, and the way you showed up here one day. Now it's you I will never not love.

We buried my sister in Winter

We buried my sister in winter.
She didn't come back in the spring.
Nor did she shoot up through the tangle of earth like some miracle flowering thing.
Nor did she fly down like a bright butterfly just to show off her newly dried wings.
Nor did she sing songs on the breeze blowing past just to show off how well she could sing.
We buried my sister that winter.
She didn't come back the next Spring.
I still found a way to skip rocks in a river, but that's all the trick to the thing.

Silver Scars

Where all your scars shine silver on your skin,

I see the girl you buried deep within.

I don't know where she slept the night she broke;

the pale pink blanket clung to as she woke,

alone; a bad dream fresh in memory.

(she closed her eyes pretending not to see.)

But oh, I love her; will you tell her that?

That dreams still thrive, that hope has not gone flat?

Above her, nights are peppered by the stars,

In day, sun shines upon her silver scars.

Anything New

That isn't this,
and this isn't that;
(now, just keep those straight in my head.)
Such savory bliss,
since that isn't this,
but this is just this thing instead.
Then was not now,
and now was not then;
(Dear heart, what's in memory has past.)
Delightfully how
Knowing then isn't now
means time still moves forward
and fast.
But anything new
can still happen to you
it can happen!
It did and it does.
so put rights to right
Unclench and unfight;
Come!
leave away where all that was.

Rebranded

This morning at day break,
I still could see smoke
from a fire that burned far away;
The smoke from a fire that burned the entire north end of the state yesterday.

I took it all in through my eyes and my lungs; felt it scorch as it branded my heart.
Reminded of all I have minded to call mine
That never was mine from the start.

Instead, I was yours, I was yours all along. All I held once, now cinders and ash.
Did I take it to heart that in order to start sometimes day breaks
right through with a crash?

This morning, I swept up the embers I'd kept up too long. It was time to now trash.
I'll remember the story, from hazy a glory,
that once cauterized a dark gash.