Poems

My mind is twiggy,
A poorly pruned bush
Whose berries are tiny,
Whose old branches

Outweigh the new.
Energy flows into
Too many canes,
Resources thin at each end.

Before equinox,
When coldness still outweighs warmth,
I pull in,
Embrace dormant days.

I observe my new buds and old stems,
And new stems I don’t want to encourage,
Then remove some parts unproductive.

I want to enter spring’s tide
Aflush with new energy,
Focussed on less
To give more.

Leave your words on the doorstep.
It’s time to come in and listen
Without movement.
Allow yourself to love
Without judgement.
Allow yourself to partake
Of whatever your Host will offer.
Enjoy, digest,
And rest.
Then,
When connection has been made,
And the light of your heart rekindled,
Your Beloved will open the door,
And you will put on your words
To step out into the world.

I have my marching orders.
My path is firmly set.
But the fear of risk and harm,
Fill me with regret.

Haven’t I worked long and hard?
This is the final straw.
Escaping threat of land life,
I sail into the maw
Of the ocean’s mammoth native,
Who, upon me, snaps his jaw.

Whale, big and hollow,
Like I am, only huge,
No rescuer can follow
Lest be swallowed by deluge.

I’m alone within the vasty deep,
Leviathan’s domain,
Moving far away from
Once comfortable terrain,
Alone and clothed in shadow,
But protected all the same.

The darkness isn’t friendly,
But it doesn’t pose a threat.
No stomach acid here,
I’m just dripping water-wet.

Neither warm nor chilly,
I sit in smallish cave,
In the deepest depths of time out,
Which could chasten or deprave,
Reminding of the way
A human mammal should behave.

I can’t sit still for too long,
And I don’t set well as food.
I’m not a tasty morsel,
And I wreck the large beast’s mood.

Soon the muscle tremors
Undulate and squeeze,
My visit nearly over,
I feel a final heave:
The monster vomits violently,
Forcing me to leave.

I toss and twirl in agony,
Confusion and dismay,
Not knowing which is up or down,
Or if it’s night or day.

Finally the swirling
Of the water’s feral flops
Push me toward the shoreline
As a sand and gravel mop,
Onto waiting dry land
Where my body rolls and stops.

Lesson learned? Be happy
With lung-friendly habitats.
Escaping from my duties
Won’t show where peace is at.

To leave is fine, but short-term,
A thoughtful getaway,
Not meant as a new life goal
Or a lasting place to stay,
But a pause to get me focused,

Then send me on my way.

I stayed up too late watching TV.
My husband went to bed hours ago.
I brush my teeth, use the toilet, wash my face,
Then shuffle through dark in slow motion,
Sock feet sliding on wood floor.
I lift the blanket and melt into
An toasty bed oven.
The pillow is cool, the way I like it,
And under the covers is warm.

Hubby’s throat is a vocal rainstick,
Then glottals trade places with sighs
And blown-out puffs of air.
I start to feel throbs of a headache
That haunts me sometimes lying down.
But the pillow is cool, the way I like it,
And under the covers is warm.

Soon high temps tingle my toes.
I engage in my nightly routine:
Each foot uncovers its sibling
Then both kick footwear to the floor,
Shoving socks out between sheet layers.
My pillow is cool, the way I like it,
And under the covers is warm.

A poem of gratitude comes to my mind.
I build it in dark and silence,
First for myself, but then,
Obligated to write it down,
I set my clock lamp to low brightness –
Enough to see journal page penlines,
Not enough to see what I’m writing.

After I turn off the lightsource,
I slowly sink into a sleeping.
Outside the rain softly patters.
Beside me, my man Velcro snores.
My mouth guard squeezes my top teeth.
My pillow is cool, the way I like it.
And under the covers is warm.

Butterflies and grandmothers
Are very much alike
If you’re new to Russian language,
And you hear them side by side.

I met a native speaker
Who was confused by my conflation,
Not hearing the sameness
Which I heard as imitation.

I wonder if my eyes would see
A nearly alike aura
Comparing Order Grandmomia
With that of Lepidoptera.

They are both past their unfolding,
Beyond strenuous transition,
That engraved them with clear markings
Of their “older now” position.

Both creatures thrive in sunshine,
And stretches of dry weather.
Their bodies hide from rain or snow.
Their concerns are light as feathers.

Both delight as visitors,
Unless flighty behavior
Brings them over boundaries
And (slightly) out of favor.

Without the Russian language,
I might not compare the two.
But my mind looks at the evidence
And sees that it is true.

Grandmothers are butterflies,
For whom our awe is due.

No and Yes
Aren’t always opposites.
Maybe might not be between.
We’re so used to seeing
2 sides to things,
We forget that life is 3D.

One sun, one moon.
One song, many tunes.
One soul, many minds.
One human, many kinds.

Bright light behind clouds,
Life is hidden under shrouds.
When we travel in dark places,
We see “strange” in other faces.

Dear moon, dear sun,
Shine your light on everyone.
Your source is ours, too.
In its glow we spring anew.

Hello Dear One!
This is your day!
You will need to share it
With others, of course,
But that will not
Diminish your portion.
In fact,
Every One you include,
Triples what you receive.
Your day is our day is yours,
In a spiral that leads
To the sun.

(One portion originally written:
“But that won’t make your share
Any smaller.
In fact, every one you include
Triples the amount you receive,”)

I am your sister.
The metaphorical DNA test
Came back positive.
We have the same eyes,
The same origins,
Similar gestures
And predilections.
We breathe the same air,
Soak up the same sunshine,
And walk on the same earth,
Together,
In this,
Our family home.
So nice
To finally meet you!

(Update: I like “compatible predilections”)