TRUE NORTH

Is there a place 

such as True North?

Can my compass point

toward that sugar sweet?

Bees toward pollen, then

back to honeyed hive –

but I’m not like brilliant monarchs

who travel to home and back

black and gold winging

thousands mile journey

never lost. See,

they know their path.

My compass wand points every way

but the one I wish to go…

I am not that salmon

swimming to the spawning pool;

I falter, circling around

Spiraling, my ambition wanes.

Can I ever leave earth?

Fly like homing pigeon, its

pinion arrows guiding.

Lancing through frigid air

wearing tiny scroll, its

message: freedom

Or be like blind tadpole,

bottom-swimming, 

but growing, forming

legs, powerful kicks

through muddy water.

Up to surface, gasping

my gaze raised,

to see that pole star.

I break gravity,

navigate toward a kind of

heaven, to find my own

True North.

China Dolls

They lay crumpled on

the oil cloth carpet

up in the attic

dusty old wood smells.

My grandmother’s toys

my sisters and I discovered

in ancient trunk, hidden

Now they became our playthings

we arranged scenes, their joints

bent into impossible positions.

We soon tired of them,

as boring as reread books,

so we left the attic, left

them to their repose,

in the ancient trunk

awaiting another child.

I have no idea what

happened to them,

thrown away, tossed

most likely, yet they remain in

memory, musty and novel

Discarded and gone.

Together

If I could stand beside myself

and see what I could see

we’d gaze off to the sunset

Together we’d be we.

The top the bottom, left and right

the up the down, the dark, the light,

We’d be all these and then some more.

As I step up to the mirror,

I’d be all things you want to see,

the up, the down, the right of me.

The day, the night, the dim, the bright,

and then, you might be thee…

We’d blend together, mixed up two,

not I and you, but just the we,

stuck together with mortal glue,

and then, I’d lose the me.

Enter April

you begin with a fools greeting
a rabbit rabbit kind of day
the first of many showering ones
but spring peeks through mossy fingers
bulbs push through damp soil
pansy faces stare at you
tulip lips poised to kiss sky and clouds

two days more, enter birthdays:
dad, son-in-law, son and son’s girlfriend
then anniversaries celebrated, mourned
or glossed over, logs covered in lichen
remembering, paining, gladdening
days tumble past, thunder storms
wind, rain and stuttering sunlight

high holy days, palms and crosses
Saturdays and Sundays, feasts and fasts
passover and passed over, noted or ignored
sacred and mundane - (tax day ?!) to mark
the middle, April ides, more rain, cold, heat
virtual this and distance that, stay inside! 
still - days full with riotous glorious blooms

four twenty - if you know it, smoke it
or don’t, be a dope, take a hit and pass it on
onward, greener, warmer stretched out
earthy days, garden mornings
hot and lazy, cool mist, hazy
when will you exit, will i exit you?
a doozy of a month, this April
seems as long as a year - why?

there’s a pandemic, don’t you know -
and it’s not done yet...

Bubbling Words

The doorbell, FaceBook and
playing games
on my phone
all reasons not to write
but bubbling words
rise up and jump the cursor
forward - each word a blip
on my soul radar
each phrase a cardiogram
reading out heart rhythms
embedded in writing from my
erupting creativity
do you squash it, that juicy
bug that rides the blips?
do you nurture it,
catch it in a jar, to
pour it out on empty page?
do you love these words?
feed that bug, follow heart
speak into the void
with a tap of keys
or scratch of my pen.
Then, only then,
will bubbling words
die down like Old Faithful,
Then rise once more

Sweeter Than Honey?

Do not like honey
Vanilla-dripping sweetness
The rushing high
Of too much sugar
Candy coated platitudes
Wrapped in colored icing
So pretty to the palate
For me so trite and nauseating
Choose instead the raw
The bitter brew
Naked coffee grounds
Biting edge of
Canker sore
Salt in wound
No upturned mouth
Just grimace and gulp
Devour the fatty lies
And spewed-out vitriol
Or drown in
Deepest dark depression
Choked down Oolong tea
Black pepper, pungent
Sprinkled on every feast
Drab gray, greasy, oily
Cold gravy, rancid writings
Or words that rip
Scald the throat
Like acid bile
Pucker mouths
Suck out tart juice
And leave behind
The shriveled rind
Now dry as dust;
These jagged scribbles
Like shards of glass
Swallowed whole
They shriek
A howl of famine
Or feast of meaning
They are the ones
I can read, consume
Digest and sometimes
Regurgitate into new phrases
To fill the empty void
Inside each aching gut

My Lips

My lips are not kissable
Not pursed and ready
They form a thin line
Boundary from takers
My cheek is not proffered
Turned away, visage downward
Gazing, or like some
Piebald, that shied away from
Unwanted affection
No doey-eyed gaze
No yes from clothes
Or makeup,
My being is not for you
I am gatekeeper of
Those now trembling lips
I turn the head away
Choose to dress my way
And all for
Nought, if you decide
Your wishes are more
Valid than mine

 

Unapologetic

Can’t count how many sorrys
Said to all or none
Hot guilt of errors
Burning bright my cheeks
Tears of anger pool below
My humble and hung head,

Unwound

seems I’ve been
unwound, pocket watch slowed
down, seconds lasting longer than
seconds should ever last
I hear ticking, slower
matching lub-dub heart
And blood sluggish
Flowing through tired veins
Blockaded arteries

Minutes passing
Grandmother clock
Refusing to chime…
Running out of time
The setting screw
Locked up tight

Can’t turn it anymore
The watch has lost it’s
Burnish and
The clock can’t be
Rewound
Time, used to have so much
It passed quickly by
Hours just like seconds
Days could fly

Now I’m lagging
Torpid, morbid
I’ve lost my chime
Out of time
Waiting for
The very last
Tick

Arms Akimbo

She is awondering, akimbo arms angled,
head cocked to hear breezes like
bird dog whistling – attuned to wind whipping up
she is proud standing, eyes askance she ogles
what is it – a cloud – a storm coming over her
roll and boom of thunder,
crash and smash, arriving fierce
Wind bows her to her knees
but no fear here, no matter
all that water sheeting headlong
doesn’t quash her bravado – up she rises
dancing in muddy puddles
splashed up to skinny knees
and as it rumbles distant
she shakes off storm, unbent and
proud, unquashed she –
akimbo arms snaked into self embrace,
eyes full of grace, enduring after all