I envy the artists
their mastery
of line and shape,
shadow and melody.
Color, language and light.

Trophy words,
aching to secure a place
in human discourse,
that subtly convey
haunting, graceful movements.

Stirrings.

Glimmers.

Words that transcend
the deepest realms
of our truths
the sureness
      swiftness
        security
of thought, cunning in its deceit
crafty in its assignment
tenderly reminiscent
elusive of what is real
      and here
         and now.

The virginal canvas
void and unsullied.
Redolent of pain.

The makings of magic.

My triple-digit
hissy fit,
a relic of generational pride.

Basking in your sculpture garden,
the sequence
of perpendicular tensions
plays out.

Fennel bulbs and laundry
do not justify
your tactile pleasure treks.

Bright lights on iron,
shadows trapped in stone:
the cleansing effects
of your interjected missiles.

Conflicts misunderstood.

Long before craftsmen
sought walnut, cherry and oak
for cribbage boards and magazine racks

Daddy set a match to the unusable cuts
from logs he sawed into planks
and two by fours.

Massive configurations
of bark and knotted scraps
lined the ditch bank.

Massive conflagrations,
my father’s inferno,
burned well into the night.

For years, I avowed the actions
of a six-year-old daughter
who feared the flames

would devour and destroy him.
I tossed the contents
of that little red can onto the pyre,

holding firm in my belief
it held only water
At sixty-one,

is it safe now to confess
I only wanted to see
the fire dance?

Words hurled
onto pages of pristine white,
not unlike chunks
foisted upon a receptacle of
cold gleaming porcelain
late at night,
sick with fever
and nauseous purgings
of what preys upon my brain.

A vomiting of ideas,
stream-spewed consciousness
raw and unfiltered…

Oh, wretch that I am!
How to heave a tidy
sanitized version
from the dregs of my mind
simply because
you say that I must?

So   often, who I am speaks to me.
So  often, who I want to become, becomes clear.
So often, the angry voices begin to still.
Soften, self, and embrace the possibilities.

Day dawned dreary
skies grey and void
my pack, heavy
my motivation, waning.

Press on, I must.
No other options
if you don’t count death,
or obsolescence.

Onward, my mantra
however disheartening.
My stomach filled
with meager portions
and sleep supplied
within stringent parameters.

Scarcely enough to sustain…

Struck down as I was
with the numbing hardship
of the onslaught,
I feared reward
was no longer viable
but that did not prevent
hope from creeping in,
from coloring the blackness with
pastels and birdsong,
luscious shades of creamy
dreamfulness,
choirs of joyful redemption,
teal trumpets and scarlet saxophones.

Truly, that is the only thing
that kept me going.

We set out on a path
of wavy, winding light.
Cobblestones deeply grooved,
made more prominent
with tricks of photography,
voila! the finished product.

Skylarks in distant meadows
feed their young
nesting on the ground,
easy prey for red-winged
messengers in the early light.

Street lamps lit by ocean spray
small boats, helpless, in the rocky cove.
Abandoned relics
mute and silent
aside from the cries
of ravens and rooks
on hurried wings.

The glory of the sun retreats,
beauty in its own right.
Night falls.

We are spent.
Rest, now.

Rest.

The tall grass hides me
it sways in the breeze
tickling my cheeks, my bare thighs.

On my back
the earth cool and damp beneath me
I search the sky
groovin’ on the cirrus clouds overhead
so many lifetimes beyond my reach
a dome of invincibility
I will be reluctant to leave behind

some fine future day.

Summer lasts forever
when you’re barely fourteen.

You think your world is bigger than mine,
and any slights that invade your space
carry more weight,
inflict more pain,
require a heftier penance.

I’m tired of believing this is true,
of going all in on self-loathing,
defending myself for what I know
are sometimes just good intentions gone wrong.

So weary of thinking I’m simply not enough.