to include
the garage itself, with all its contents
plus
twenty-three coffee cups, nobody’s favorites
breadmaker, juicer, waffle iron, wok
all those clothes for someday
and in the corner, tattered cardboard box
of dust and magazines you’ll never read
years and years of conflicting messages
Real Simple and More
Start your own magazine, composed
entirely of air, title it: Enough, Already.
The Rid Yourself Of Excess Garage Sale
Fairy Lights
Strung along our walls
thumb-tacked and draped
close to the ceiling
early, late, every day
I held my breath
plugged in this antidote to winter dark
house rainbowed at every window,
joy for five dollars a string.
One by one, the strands
go dark, something hidden in them
breaks. I throw the dead
in the kitchen trash, though they deserve
A proper burial
for all the light
they gave, until they had
no more to give.
Down to one room now,
this room,
still glowing
Green, yellow, pink, red, blue.
Friday’s Trick
you conjured
Spring for
one day,
conspiration
of blue sky local
crows last year’s berries
on the mountain ash.
Only Connect
I know it won’t last, because that’s how it is; spring comes in fits and starts”
~dapplegrey @ Invisible Horse
Two lovely posts at Invisible Horse inspire hope for spring:
Oasis of Color and Going Back For More.
Another tiny miracle
arrives
in Winter’s frozen box.
Somewhere, the grass
has greened, the wide field
covered itself in fragile violets
and bright, sturdy crocus.
If you lay down on the ground
through the damp you can feel
more green gathering itself to grow.
I know all this is happening
on this same planet
because you
another world away
showed it to me.
Enormous miracles
are not required.
Market Place
“To be detached is to stand in the middle of the marketplace, with all its confusions and noise and to remain present to yourself and all that is.” Judith Lasater
I rush off to follow a delicious scent,
hurry to the vendor of dreams and silk,
linger by the dovekeeper’s stall,
listening to the murmurs of
sleepy doves in gilded cages.
Dozens of languages pass by,
bright as robes of every color tossed over shoulders.
The falafel man’s food is sizzling,
someone in the next aisle of the bazaar is playing music.
The stringed instrument’s notes, soft and low,
slip through the crowds,
below hems, over canopies, through every stall,
Music washing our busy faces.
And what with keeping an eye out for pickpockets,
haggling prices, juggling parcels and dreams and coin purse,
I forget to stand still,
immersed in everyone else’s hectic presence,
Present here in our market place.
Designated Driver
Steering by headlights,
drive into darkness
into a driving snow.
Deer herd passes by
heads bent over whatever
remains to be foraged
from the stubbled field.
One doe, head up,
watches you, or watches
the road, the snow,
the moving
yellow lines, guardrails.
Houses pass with their lit windows
like headlights in the night sky.
In this driving snow
as deer study the stars
connections
to the planet shift.
The car stands perfectly still
While the world rushes by.
There, proof— reflective signs
warning of leaping deer.
Candle, Light
Attend
How light shines
Through candle’s thin sides
Little bowl of Fire.
At the Darkest,
Coldest
Turn of the year
Thrill to something— anything
Lit up.
I see how it was
Back in the caves
How we believed
Fire
Was
Magic.
Though we learned to
Welcome it as
Warmth and Weapon
Our first love was
And always is
Light.
Learn To Love Silence
Sip it slowly,
at first. Tiny servings,
a jigger, a shot of silence.
Ignore the ocean of quiet waves,
far from shore,
on all our paths.
You do not have to
swim across today.
If you dwell on the ocean,
you panic and flail,
drowning in all the ways
you’ve ignored yourself—
All those nights desperate
for a crowd, any crowd,
parties, dinners, sports,
in a pinch, the shopping malls
and 24-hour grocery stores.
Instead, a cup, a pint until
you remember how
to love the ocean.
Quiet, In Winter
holds the air
as summer never will.
Bird’s song, traffic, children in the trees,
muffled, tucked away by
storm windows, closed doors, falling snow
in concert, singing to the world,
Hush, now
and Here, hold this:
a mug of cocoa
a cup full of quiet.
North Country Snow
Winter makes a statement here,
impossible to drown out or ignore.
Metaphors cling like snow to sidewalks,
analogies thick as icicles hang from the eaves.
Blizzards rush in, so thick and sudden
your only job is to get home and stay there.
Then there are storms like this one:
Flakes so tiny
it looks like no snow at all.
Only when you are deep in the middle
do you realize and name it.
Feel how sharp those tiny bits of ice,
see how they build up around your house, your heart
without you seeing them, without recognizing and
naming the danger—
Till divorce or springtime are
the only things immense enough
to guide you through the storm.
Puff Of Smoke Poems 