Green Maples

The definitive stamps in the treetops.
Stamps like handprints across the sky.
Summer is the season of brilliant green tempests.
Tempestuous in its smooth, silken shudders.
I long to lay down below and slumber, rather than wilt outside of the protection.
In the safety I could bask unasked.
Growing together like old friends.

I'd Walk A Mile

I'd walk a mile for a day alone with my best friend.
I feel alone without her good grace.
She's put together when we meet.
As girls we discuss our wedding days.

I think she's beautiful,
She thinks I am too.
Our lives run parallel.
Twin train tracks leading home.

We could wander the streets of any town and have fun.
Or simply sit at home in front of a fire.
She sings for me and not off key.
We're wired to sit listening to her latest musical creation.

I'm sorry I'm not perfect, and neither is she.
But we can ride the rails into eternity.
Tomorrow she's going back to rolling green hills.
And I am left to ponder what good friends do when they're split apart.

She says I can come live with her.
I agree, but she can come here too.
I don't know if we'll ever live together again.
But I like the idea of agreeing.

In times of change we're still best friends.
In times of strife we can hold hands.
Even if it's only a memory.
Even if she's not with me.

Cats in the Next Life

For now there are two people, but perhaps in the next life they'll be cats.
Cats speak in a different language, they speak Catonese.
In the next life they'll be of the feline persuasion.
In this life these two people are one man and one woman.

The woman feels she is never the perfect woman in the man's eyes.
The man is passionate and devoted to what he believes in.
In this life he is good at prose and weaving golden nets for fish to jump into.
Mistaken by the woman he is at a loss.

The man is waiting to become a soft cat curled in front of a fire.
He's sweet on his future life.
The man likes riddles and games.
Probably because he's good at them.

A cat's riddle is centered around wondering what's for dinner.
A man's riddle is collected over time, gain, and loss.
Ask a cat to write a poem for you and you may not get exactly what you imagined.
A cat produces obscure thoughts in tongues.

One person, the man, decided cats cannot write.
If the woman believes the man is virtuous and dignified she is not a cat.
If the man believes he is due an apology, he is most definitely not a cat.
The man and the woman may desire to become cats, but in this life they are people.

People get in fights over the most ludicrous details.
Cats fight over tuna.
Oh, that our lives could be simpler!
Instead the woman minces around wondering what to say to the man.

The man decided he had to end the romantic connection between him and the woman.
He wanted to end it face to face.
Whisker, to whisker, her nose touched his.
They are cats and this life is over.

Wrong

I went the wrong way down a beaten track.
Tricked myself and never came back.
I dragged a bag full of stuff.
And found I brought more than enough.

The sunlight shone for a couple of hours.
When it went down I couldn't make out the flowers.
Lost and lonely, sad but true.
I am a silent pedestrian dressed in blue.

If I went the other way.
Perhaps I wouldn't have to pray.
But time is short and nights are long.
I would rather be where I belong.

Above the rabble and the crowd.
I can finally sing aloud.
I feel myself growing calm.
The silence is my only balm.

Divine Mother

She practices her disciplines every day.

She makes no great attempt to be perfect, rather rests in the divine.

She is the divine mother.

When people meet her they feel safe, they love her.

The divine mother prospers from her craft.

Honing her spirituality with nature.

She contrives to drive forward through the dark, icy storms.

And her leverage is her proof.

She won't back down.

And neither will I.

If she ever needs me to have her back, it's usually once every few years.

And I'm there on the days when the wind pummels us.

I count on her.

The same face, a different space.

I want her to know I colored my face red myself.

I made myself into an angry adolescent.

The truth is her memory is great.

She remembers details I might gloss over.

Years bound, silk cords of you and me.

I wanted the power of raw love to imbibe her.

This isn't about me, it's about her.

A tribute to all the silent mothers seeking calm, steadfast waters.

If the boat tips let me be the rider.

Leave her alone, she's not the culprit.

My mother would take my place on a day my head ached to high hell.

My mother would get up early to make plans for a better life for me.

My mother raised me single-handedly, she's strong.

Trustworthy and fair, she is beautiful like the red and white flowers wrapped in the sage wreath she made.

If you stopped at nothing, maybe you should have looked around.

If you went back to pick up your child from the floor, no one would complain.

She picked me up and gave me back my toy.

This is for my mother.

A Storm Coming or Smells Like Snow

A storm is coming upon us, yes, I read the signs.

I dreamt about drugs and addiction.

I pulled a nano bug out of my cheek and a long sinew came out.

I trusted in the decision that I was to be kicked out.

The girl came to tell me.

My green-eyed friend was there of course.

He changes colors every night.

Do you know the people you are relating to?

Or are you impressed by nothing but yourself?

I am all the girls in the world rolled into one.

Lost in characters, you play your charade.

I grow calmly into a tall flower.

My stalk no longer has thorns.

Pick me if you please, my roots are strong, but don't pull them up.

I am a perennial.

I remember when I read a play about me and I balked.

I am all the definitions for crazy in the encyclopedia, but only when I need to be.

I don't need to be anymore.

Sanity is undervalued.

I hope my sanity infects you with the desire to hire four more Indigo Children for the march.

We will march into the storm and cry, icicle tears.

We are in a permanent state of freeze.

The gale is warmer than we are.

When the truth comes out you won't come running.

You are already breathing very hard, over my shoulder.

So roll the dice and take a stand.

If it's double sixes we can be together.

"If it's snake eyes you're in for a treat," said with an ominous undertone.

If you actually roll dice because of me…you're hopelessly devoted.

Any other number and I was wrong the whole time.

What is that you say? This poem isn't about storms.

I said there was a storm coming and I meant it.

Batten down the hatches and shut your doors.

Paint symbols somewhere, even if they are only small.

And remember the tiki God who flies with you as you go into the Bermuda Triangle.

Now go before you lose your nerve.

I am already on my way despite my lack of perspective in your eyes.

I am simply better at acting my part.

I am always prepared for storms whether or not I look it.

Tread lightly on rotten boards, they will fly far in the hurricane.

Grow into a kite painted purple and blue with red stars and white stripes.

Think about freedom and height.

Let the wind take you higher.

Calmly assess your direction.

And become a storm rider, rider of the storm!

When You Came

Got no money

Got no tie

Got no consequence

Got no responsibility

Taken by harlots

Lost in the rain

Bored of time

Hate the train

Gone are the memories

Gone are the beers

Broken wine glass

Sullen fears

Grown cold and icy

By the winter window pane

Gone by the time

You finally came