Wednesday, July 26, 2017

I had a dream

that a tiny bird
flew into
my room.

each time it hit
a wall
or floor
it grew and grew
until it could carry me away.

he was tired
but wouldn't let me help.

i took his picture
from every stance and angle.
finally, he fixed
his beak toward me,
the lens.

and there was a tickle
at my palm.

stirred away 
by the kissable 
fingers or my infant son
whose tiny chest
rose and fell 
as if he 
had been flying.
though his own dreams.
or maybe


I used to have to be grounded
to read.
I loved to read
I used to read my words
And anxiety over others readingmy words engulfed my dreams.
Once there was time
to read
words. Words.
And all mixed up.
Or misspelled could pay
or enticed.
words words words words.
And now I have to scrape
them off my shoes
or find them in the bathroom
or between the sheets
or in the car
at a red light.
Sometimes after a photo of my kids.
just because I am no longer
by words I love
or could find only
a single breath
does not mean they are not out
of mind.
I surround
myself with letters
until the words find
their way back to me.
and then
I will read.
Then maybe

Friday, July 14, 2017

He's a Rabbit

who traded his blood for ink.
Cut from paper with endless
typewriter ribbon,
dressing his wounds.

Finds comfort in the dust
that coats his words--
in the tangle of lost
poems between
ticking clocks and
sun showers through leaves.

He loves the woods
so hard others don’t have
the strength to hear.

He’s almost a shadow
who hums the taste
of what he wants.

He wonders about his bones.

But it’s a slow steady
shrinking into thinking…

What about the rain?

He could disintegrate.
He’s gone unless
he can create.

She conjures up a second heart
to house his sweet pain.
No windows to the world,
only time.

Thankful he’s not ripping.

He needs her.
She drags him from the brink of madness--
the forest’s edge.
Far away from his habit-forming insecurities.

Can he stop looking back
at what might have been?

She holds him close
and frees him from his fear to breathe.
A small tear where fur should grow.

She carries him close, pulls the arrows
from his back.

If only he stopped being frightened of a day--
wasted away,
of being alive.

The sun sets.

And nearing the end,
Tick tock,
or is it click clack?
Keys printing ink on paper.

Life is a circle--
running from the past
from the future.

He’s browning.
He’s wrinkling.

Maybe there’s a moon,
maybe it’s the fullness of his muse.
He hears the howling in the dark,
runs to catch her.

Pressed now, untouched in a book.