In the overgrown school courtyard
full of the world’s tallest dandelions,
rocks, vines running wild, and pink tulips
that didn’t know any better than to
try and grow here
This spring
surprising and beautiful as
tulips in the weeds
a crop of ducklings
and one vigilant momma.
Bloom Here
Another Story I Tell Myself
Horrified,
you realize
it is because of
you
that your child is pacing the auditorium corridors
and throwing up in the art deco bathroom, mezzanine level,
instead of donning her cap and gown,
her jaunty tassel.
You drive away—
leave the city,
leave the state,
leave the story,
all for Good.
Another Bear Story
Yes, the bear we’d heard rumors of was nearby that day, the day we made a list of
ways to Deal With A Bear:
A loud horn
Mace
A stick
Or an umbrella
An umbrella that shot mace out of its tip
Or an umbrella with a scary dinosaur carved at its tip
Or an enormous hologram of a scary dinosaur
Or an alien
A slimy alien
But none of that was necessary. The bear, hidden only by the scrim of bushes at the edge of the road, that bear ate the vicious pit bull who was about to attack. Pleased protector, superhero bear shrugged off his armor and shuffled off, back to the deep woods far from here, where he ate only blueberries, just like the bear in the storybook.
Not All Markers Are Stone
today ends the small green candle
scented like all new beginnings
bought on your graduation
day. Here, as if I needed
another reminder
and another
of what
to let
go.
Redbud Tree Repost
I’ve never re-posted one of my own poems before. But the redbud tree in my yard is at the height of its loveliness, fully blooming, tiny green leaves just beginning to open at the tips of each pink branch. Admiring it all weekend, walking by it, mowing under it, watching it from my writing perch as I am right now, this poem from last year kept reciting itself in my head–
ADVICE FROM MY REDBUD TREE
Flower first
before you dress
in green and
practical leaves.
Why wait
when this very day
can be spent
covered in pink blossoms
and fat bees,
every single one of them
drunk and busy,
lopsided with joy
just to be near you
at the height of
your beauty?
Flower first.
Flower now.
Extravagance is Everything.
Morning Birds
How do the birds know
in the cold, in the still-dark,
nested in rain-soaked trees,
that this, now
Now,
this is the time to sing
Wild Violet
Picture a tall, laughing girl
cause of sleepless nights for parents
girl like a feast for the gray lady gossips
Long black hair and purple nail polish
always dressed for the party
Somehow both a tight dress and a motorcycle
No one knows how she manages
but they shrug and she smiles and says
Let’s Go. That’s just how Wild Violet is.
Instead, these small blossoms
deep purple, pale purple, white,
peek from the grass, lovely and hidden
dreaming who knows—warm dirt and rain?
Or humming to themselves, turning
towards the sun in a perfumed haze
memory of another self—
jazz bands and martinis and
that reckless smile.
The True River
Written in response to a word list from the site Red Wolf Poems
The mallards always told me
magic wasn’t in the cards—faithless magic,
with its trumpeted tricks and striped wands,
scented and false as dolls. Magic that promises
Fire, torrents of Possibility, loud cascading tides of
sleight of hand, disguising the hard kernel of trick
written in dark ink at the center of the river.
All talk.
This true river has no center, only currents textured by
oars, stones, weeping willows striping the banks.
Forget magic. Follow the mallards who know
the river so well, their glowing selves swimming
Home, whole lives swimming in the muck-thick mists
of this real world.
Magic isn’t in the blood, this empty scenery. Forsake
Artifice, forsake the gramophone’s tinny melody
camouflaging the music of the river. When you Dance,
Dance through the dual worlds.
Forsake the blare of magic tricks for unknowing,
for the bend in the river,
for mallards moving in and out of this cage
the bars limpid, impermanent.
The cage door always open.
Puff Of Smoke Poems 