haven’t lost heart

write something simple,
gentle,
strong from the heart;

you haven’t lost it,
have you?

No, no it’s in here somewhere.
I saw it when I was searching for the house keys.
It was bright and soft
and confused me because I thought it was my lucky charm.

That old rabbit foot?
Yeah, that old thing. I do hope it’s not really a foot,
that wouldn’t be so lucky.

No?
No.

How long- when did you find the house keys, anyway?
Not too long ago,
maybe last week, or yesterday;
It’s not like I do anything different between the days.
But I know it warmed me, the old heart did.
It was such a find!
Like waking up to snow again after a long gray time!

Yes? Just like that?
Finding the morning light amplified,
so clean and fresh and a perfect reason to live in the cold-
don’t you think it would be warmer, though?

Well, perhaps.
But inside I always feel warm when it snows.
My toes won’t say so
but I do.
And my whimsical heart sits with such a grin-
you wouldn’t believe me if I said it makes deep pockets
and smile lines, it’s my heart and it’s grander than I.

A little bit of motivation

I know I have potential for something,
because some slowly bubbling mush inside my chest
fills with sun,
The ray slows my heartbeat heard in my ears
and fills me inexplicably full;
With more worthwhile breath
than I think possible.

from the pith

Leaves forfeit after all, dismounting and falling away almost like snow,
their branches and buds are bare.

Red and yellow are the only pure colors left to die.
Blue shrivels up with the sun’s casting-off–

I have pushed lucid hints out
to sea, it is a scape,
a bull, a let-it-go-this-too-shall-pass,

I converse drought resistant Others
with you,
behind closed eyes of silence
and watch mothers, brothers, sisters, fathers and their pithy chlorophyll descend
finally to where we are.

Dear stranger, I have to thank you
for not kicking me or turning a green eye, cold.
I have to thank you, for dancing when I wish to pull the land around me, with all of its twiggy crusts.
And, dear stranger, I am sure now
there is no such thing as being lost, but
we must not let ourselves hollow away.

dementia

It is just before dinnertime in late September.
We are unsure of the sky’s color;
blue, gray, creme, gold,
Autumn falls gently
and squints up at the light:
gold, creme, gray, blue,

my family loitering around my grandma.
80 years is a long time to be here, a
long time to see faces, to talk, to
walk, to see time fly-

we laugh at Auntie’s sunglasses on Grandma-
cool, sleek, reclined in a pocket of earth
and she looks, Mother to
My mother;
“Be careful.”

We rejoice,
words
we say
are important, but
not so much as actions.
Autumn falls gently,

Her eyes blue, gray, creme,
gold, open and squint
up at the light. She
closes them, and naps.

present

you’re looking past your hands
like they are an old man
picking up tennis balls
too slowly, too meticulously,
marveling at the bright yellow gems
he’s putting in a metal basket.

stay

the second pair of hands evaporates
above the always empty
passenger’s seat,
but the green flakes are
blooming again
after the caterpillars ate it all away.
And I’m glad
to see the gray tint
of spring in the breeze again,
glad to see the clarity of morning
down my own arms
and invisible in the blue.
What speed my feet have gained,
What patience I’d like them
to hold.

No Catch

The giant’s shoulders are enough
for a small piece of a painter.
He’s a bit of life sticking
in the white light.

A bit of mid-life sticking
in his Casual Friday shirt:
pineapples, melons, a crowned rat
that whispers close, close, maybe soon;

Lonely, the painter walks away,
Lonely As I’ve Ever Been.
while the wall is the city’s muse
on the walk to work.

The giant’s hand circles his ring,
he’s still hesitant to exhale
close, close, maybe soon;
neither lives to run, but only one
walks away.

.
.
.

(Mural: Bezt-“She Never Came” by Etam Cru)

I wish I had a better photo…

cropped

 

People.

On the days when she is standing in the sun,
my aunt will try to give me her halo.
I’ve learned to receive it gratefully:

Sooner or later you’ll regenerate a new one.
Sometimes, this little helmet of light
is white and sleek and new.
It has no flowers.

Naked. That doesn’t matter.
Your friends will accept it without a doubt,
without knowing you’ve slipped them a crown.
Just let them smile.

Only when my aunt is smiling
she forgets what she thinks she owes
and thinks about her halo-gift.
This is right,

You can’t keep one halo
for too long.

Undefined

What do you hold in your hands?
if nothing,
it is a surface for whispers
like the clean wind of winter:

solitude colored with ice and air
or a field of view so quiet
it clots the tainted thought
in miniature pristine patters;

open your hands to the sun:
if you hold nothing,
think of the past, the impressions
still creased in your palm,

here the ground has sunken
where life has taken its time.
where rain dwells and inspires,
something pushes through the brown:

living in hopes of the sun
to stand in the warmth of golden rays,
the heat coincides with its insides.
what do you hold in your hands?

the better of time asks who
and the human asks how
but in your palm, your insides,
tinkers the Undefined

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