Diary

 

Keeping a diary

Once thought as a weakness

A haven for foolish, girly romance

Now honored as a discipline journal

A castle for motherly, ancient wisdom, insight,

A legacy

blue

 

Blue

Piece of sky

Flying by

bluebird

The curse of knowing things

Like Mozart’s variations on “Ah vous dirai-je Maman” is used in Castle S2E2

Like woodpeckers love cracked corn from a bird feeder

Or the grass in the beautifully manicured lawns of the rich is very weak

People don’t want to hear useless shards of knowing

Like the difference between the howl of a coyote and the cry of a wolf

Or the most beautiful sunsets are viewed in Arizona

Or the seed I bought probably won’t sprout because of what was done to it

Like the jackalopes at Texas Roadhouse use bunnies instead of jack rabbits which are actually hares

Or art imitates life, but rarely the other way around, and then to the detriment of those who practice it

Or there’s at least five ways to do a thing and you have more choices than you know

No one wants to know what I know, especially in the middle of a news cast spitting erroneous information, or at a concert whispered mistakes, or a long trip reading signs

Now you know I know things, but they don’t know I know.

You know?

Caught

 

Caught between youth and age

I watch my children trimmed and bearing fruit

I watch my mother fight dormancy, bearing the sweet fruit of experience, passing it along

To me

To my children

To my grandchildren

An eternal flow of good things

Buck

 

A glimpse of movement in the silent trees. 

A buck materializes in front of me.

I freeze. 

He considers me. 

I’m reluctant to move. 

He is so beautiful, power filled grace, muscles tense.

He stomps, intimidating, warning. 

Adrenalin hits my chest.

I stand my ground, mesmerized, hyper-focused.

Bird song muffled. Trees blurred.

Statuesque, majestic, owning the velvet path beneath him. I am in his woods. He allows me to exist, my walking staff a weak defense.

He huffs, sudden, loud. 

Fear reverberates in my chest. 

He turns and evaporates, leaving only his tracks.

Vibrations suspends me in a sacred moment.

Gramma's

 

“We’re almost there.” 

Something new always happens at Gramma’s.

Pulling in past cement driveway sentinels. 

“Oh! You’re here!” says the sweet voice.

Scrambling out of the car into Gramma hugs.

Exploring the Christmas tree growing beside the strong stone house built by Grandpa, the back yard searching for animals at the cold bonfire, birds singing. 

Then up the stairs to the fresh bread aroma of the kitchen.

Finally free, following the lush carpet garden path searching for butterflies, dragonflies, baby birds, grass snakes, the fragrant wild flower field.

There, in shoulder-high weeds, daisies, grassy tufts, she finds a new beetle.

Sacred

 

Coming back from my evening walk in the woods I paused to seek the animal who scurried into the brush.

Above, the oak branches shredded the slanted auburn sunlight, its trunk ancient strength.

Chirps, songs, and calls joined the crisp breeze as burgundy leaves clapped.

Filling my lungs with pumpkin spiced air I closed my eyes inhaling the sharp musty breeze, old leaves mingled with the last green autumn grass.

The sacred space tingled. My heart slowed to listen.

This place chose me, and I come to escape, pray, meditate.

If you can’t find me, this is where I’ll be.

Flight

 

Trip to Minnesota. 

Terrifying turbulence. 

First flight. Mostly silence.

I don’t recognize the relatives who pick me up. 

I’ve only seen photos of this college where they drop me off. I don’t know anyone.

I find my room. Maybe I can find myself. 

I talk to nice people quick and clean. 

Heart empty. Compass gone.

I follow the crowd remembering my mom saying, “Go have an adventure,” shopping, restaurants, movies, swimming pool, desert rain perfume, Inca dove calls, mountains, sunsets, saguaros, scorpions, palm trees, rattle snakes, roadrunners, hot breezes, cold air conditioning.

Turbulence ebbs as my arid soul steels.

Bike

 

Excited, I rode the new two-wheel bike. 

I kept falling off. 

I begged a turn on the old red tricycle my brother rode. 

He said, “no.” 

He rode by himself.

A few years later, I rode my new big red Schwinn. 

My brother rode his new blue one. 

I hated my girl bike with the swoop for the skirt I’d never wear. 

I wanted the strong pole in the middle like his.

One day we had a race. 

He swerved into me when I tried to pass. 

Tires locked and we went down.

Now I ride by myself.

two

 

Two witnesses lied

And got fried

You

 

You were born on this day

And I played the fool for you

Then, when I realized what I had done

I left

And now you’re the fool, creating imaginary bonds where there are none, dreaming of going back in time and wasting the present at the expense of the future

Every April 1 I remember and forget

Celebrating Poetry Month - April 1

 

April 1

“There is no April fools at the newspaper,” he said. This normally laid-back publisher was stern.

This new boundary in an office of shifting boundaries was welcome.

I hate practical jokes.

They hurt.

They steal trust.

They lead to emptiness, anger, leaving…

 

I guess that rule no longer exists.