After spending a weekend in Michigan celebrating a wedding, visiting family, making new friends and visiting gardens I am inspired to talk about traveling, and the impromptu things you come upon when you are open-minded.
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Categories
Thankfully,
Thankfully,
In my small city I get caught often
on the sidewalk
walking, running even
just to get exercise
or when I want a coffee
in the morning before work.
.
A boisterous blow in the form of language
opinions, experience, knowledge to know
anything that prevents me from speaking
and ruining the train of thought
.
Thankfully,
I have the gift of tight penmanship
words of my own
whispers against spent breath
when I don’t speak, but only write
to arrange words before letting them fly
out of control
to some poor someone, listening.
Cheating
is a marriage between the rich
level of a family and
the bride of sorrow
who dances from the heart, hurt in love
acknowledging the least
greatest thing
is held secret,
and is what keeps everything together.
Patient
I will be patient for the reward of your patronage
and desires darling
given that our youth is spent
and I have learned to wait.
Happiness
.
The smallest pleasure
may be more rewarding.
.
Do I fool myself?
I question, as I reposition the answers.
.
The sly smile of old men friends
afternoon coffee
all women in black dresses
on the street of a village
a church
with a modest chapel
.
The difference of my pace here is
work on two feet
I travel the world after all
to come home to own
familiar comforts and
my freedom
left unsacrificed.
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Too young to worry
Too young to worry
.
Lusting in the time
of old towns spent alone
the cabinetry of our wishes
and moons further sources
.
I feel like talking to him again
The onset of monogamy
after sleepless nights as rest
the whole of my being
set against all relations
positively myself
husbands speak to wives
different as best friends
the worries of our worlds
fall onto laps to young.
The street and the village
from two stories around it.
.
We work to our deaths
the prayers for our penance
that we may wake one morning
to the grievances behind us
.
It is there
I sat to play
the baby, grand as a piano
an Italian town
children to lunch
in the silence of fallen rain
a tall drop wanting.
.
I see the church
steeple steps
new whiteness
the cooks in the shed
weddings on the way
brides name as mine
secret into the love of a husband
the schools, the work or the play
the hardening knot of
what’s been brought on us today
.
A freshly scraped grave
the condolences of a new enemy
the familiar face behind the counter
bringing the fresh brew of coffee
.
We long to take our steps
in trustful moves toward one another
I wonder why we may be hiding
in the desperate spare of forever
our secrets dreading
the souls between us.
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Swim in an Outside Room
I watch the city as it leaves over my shoulder
and I watch the moon and star follow
one another, the star circles the cusp of the moon.
.
Churches are resurrected off glossy faces in the mountains
I swim in an outside room, the small rooms grab you
I am in the vast mountains
floating myself in a pond to take leave
floating back to a rock sky
disturbances are counted in the number laps
back and forth, reaching my toes
like children throw pebbles into a brook
the ripples we have made eventually fade.
.
One wine with my dinner
I set my table alone
then drive around the mountains again
down a dark road in the evening.
.
There are such towns of people
where codes, law and peace
all abide between yellow houses
and gold hills
Their minds have sought and their children discovered.
I touch dusk just after it is black
and make a drawing to suffice myself.
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Spring Flower
Flower Ball
.
A daylight lamp
turns sparingly on
the world she covers.
.
The seasons warm and cool
in rhythmic paces
so common and reassuring
to the plans of spring.
.
The roses continue to grow
even where the old steps lead
no where, and where the concrete crumbles.
.
The peonies are balls of thin seashells
a rounded woman’s belly,
about to become a mother
emerge like bees from honeycomb,
butterflies from the nest
a newborn baby
too heavy to hold their head
the peony blossoms fall to the ground.
Grounded
There is life between the peaks
grey ash falls from the glaciers
direct triangle orders ascend
until they break off at the sky
or at the top of my paper
when I drew mountains as a child.
White clouds take over the mountains
just before storms
and just after.
The sun swirls like ovals
into the red-orange sky, black shimmering rock
most of the landscape
the mountains, the alps
one large echoing room.
.
Grey soapstone rivers to the left and right
grey ice rivers
the mountains cup in the south
a hilly incline to the Jungfrau
we walk into their huge valley over the saddle
and head north to the gorge
are held in a glove until leaving Switzerland for Italy.
.
The alps are so large that cities hide in her shadows
an orchestrated sound of wind strikes
far away church bells and cow chimes
sound like dropping stones into a shallow creek
the mountains are an entire raised ocean of frozen waves
we walk in the dissipating midst
easily disoriented
there is a jagged sunset, the outline of the sky blurred
with the misty clouds.
we capture the sunset on the underbelly of a cloud
smoking the dusty alpine air.
.
In a cave
along the black rugged walls
granite rock, my husband
releases his hand
opens it to many years
of rivers and verrigation
of a dusty sky
a wispy earth.
