By The Vine

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By The Vine


The image is haunting
Fresh ghosts, no old ghosts or past demons
More of a grey entanglement
Never was there a more perfect physical picture
Eerily beautiful
Twisted with potential
You, wrestling the old, welcoming the new
I, an admirer of your work
You, artist, sculpting out of brittle death
A place
For new life

The work is daunting
Man fighting nature, on the cusp of Spring, you take charge
More of a knight in shining armor
Never was there a more perfect image of you saving us
Brashly handsome
Plucked from a fairy tale
You, saving the day, battling the old enemies, ours and theirs
I, the princess, receiving the fruits of your labor
You, the warrior, slaying the dragons of what was before
A place
For new life

We had no choice in this tale of ours
Happily ever after
Comes to those
Who cut back

The vines that choke a life
You went in
Guns ablazing
And we ended up on top


Still Here

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Still Here

Cut grass, sweet and fragrant
Spring’s trademark
You could bottle the stuff, sell it
At Neiman Marcus
It punctuates my days
From sunup to sundown
Like the lady with the beehive on the elevator
Heavy handed with her perfume
In an effort to try hard, too hard
To cover her transgressions
Sweet smell of store bought grace

Smells like childhood and memory
Out there
Skint knees and day-light savings time
And those pint sized 747’s  go from here to there
You could set your clock by their work
Pollinating and cross-pollinating
So focused on their work
They produce guilt
In the poet
They, single-minded  and task oriented
The artist, wavering and wondering

And I am still here
Left in the wake of new beginnings
Wallflower, wondering
Why poetry dried up
A heart mining deep
Caught in transit are the words

I come to a ghost white page

Blinking cursor like an old school marm
Tapping her impatient brograns
Where are the words you claim you
Bought and paid for with your living

Where is the poetry
Saved up
On the floor of the mason jar
Like lightening bugs
Gasping for air

Still here
Polishing, pruning
Mining the story
And praying hard

The words don’t return to ash
And dust
For lack of air

Breathing deep
Still
And restless
Poet warrior
Her pen, her weapon

Seeking peace
And moving the sprinkler
To water the words

Celebrating
Poetry Month
In the still quiet
Of irony and longing

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Joining Laura Boggess for Playdates at The Wellspring

The Day Spring Almost Tied The Knot

wpid-IMG_20130814_190058.jpgThe Day Spring Almost Tied The Knot

The Earth just opened her new box, waxy smells wafting out, tips sharpened
Virgin points, aiming toward heaven
Like instruments of praise
Whittled odes of rejoicing
Wrapped in slick paper

Names like that of the new season’s OPI
Nail polish
So perfectly given
One cannot tell if the name made the color
Or the color birthed the name
And which, do tell came first
In any event
It is a birthing of new
And to her surprise
As she opened the box
With the ity bity black hole in the back
Low and centered
Round and welcoming
For sharpening, when tools become dull and spent

The whole box was 64 shades
Of green
And creams
Dual monochromatic offerings
For coloring the Earth in her
New garb
For shading the world
In new birth

The world was once again
Awash
In the hues of greeney new birth
Of shoots and leaves
Grasses and stems
Trumpets of new flora and fauna
Vines pressed through the layer
Of dark and dank

She closed the box
Hoarded and saved
This school-bus-yellow
New box of crayons
Perhaps it would be needed
On another day, Winter the tyrant
Has never played fair
Deliverer of death and dark
Cold and fear
Lights off
Lights back on
Mysteriously, again

Unsure, uncertain
And truly afraid
That this was a prelude, precursor
Preamble, only
To Spring

Her box of creams and greens
It may be needed again
To color the world
Brightly resplendent indeed
One day soon

But of one thing she was certain
With no doubt at all
The Earth was her loveliest
When dressed as a bride

Approaching the altar
Both timid and brave
Head bowed in her virginal
Expectant state, behind a thin veil
Of cream lace

She wore a gown of 1950’s Virginal White
And carried a bouquet of  The Grinch Stole Christmas Greens
Loose greens, free and just garden picked

Closing  the box this March Monday
She determined to
Wait patiently for
The Real “true” Spring
Spring Green to arrive
Followed by Pea Soup Green
And Grass Through Your Toes Green
And her favorite, Pistachio Ice Cream Green
Or was it Thin Mint Green

So she closed the lid
And placed her new box of Crayola’s
On the tippy top shelf

And waited patiently
For the bride of Spring

While painting her toenails
Moss At The Base Of The Pine Tree
Green
For the big event