snow tree under light

Night has returned
to comfort me
after a decidedly
uncomfortable day

Sweet winter night
offering darkness
for a cloak
and shadow confidants

At my window

I am waiting for the sun to come up
impatient–loving my night–but
also missing the sun–
(don’t tell the other mushrooms)
the memory of that warmth
on my skin on my body on my face
shining and new–every morning
a new start–to bulldoze
the old foul-ups

A car goes by and I wonder
where he is going
if the scent of my coffee
wafts into his window
and he wishes he were still
breakfasting reading plotting–
still–I’ll be busy soon–after
this moment
when the sun first burns
the surface of the lake

The nightwatchman

the nightwatchman holds steady while
everyone sleeps
stalwart through the hours
the dogs in the neighborhood
dreaming of chasing tails, cats, and squirrels
and guards the night’s secrets
all the pleasures of a night barely touched
by drowsy inhabitants
he roams freely and finds the remains of his soul
the particulates drifting off and away
during sunshine-filled days
with an aptitude for finding autumn sprites
that linger in the cool and damp
where the sultry fog meets mid-October
counting stars and watching the hours turn
always startled by first light
when it hits the windows across the street
and turns them to gold

Monday Random: just random

  • I was awake in the sweet spot of night, from 3-5
  • Both before and after this interlude, I dreamt such weird things, not all bad but all over the place. Third night in a row dreaming of my kids as small children instead of grown
  • Highlight was looking out an east window in my delirium and seeing two planets rising. Checking here I think I was seeing Venus and Mars. So cool and so bright
  • Last night I was talking to the delightful Entirety In Bits.  We nudged each other about handwritten poems like we used to submit on Twitter at #justwrite
  • Still hazy with the dreams even after 2 cups of coffee. Off to find a pen

Here’s a little something from 1957, which was always my mother’s favourite music year. I hope your Monday is outrageously good


open (wound)

writing here
is like writing in an open
volcano crater

the night was easy, now
the morning
much like a razor

held gently (my eyes on Mars)
it won’t cut me
if I don’t squeeze too hard

still I’m bleeding (words)
for days
and this can’t be covered
with your Band-aid

sorry it got on your shoes
are they last year’s Prada
bought yesterday?

tell me what you see
(after short-sheeting me)
in the folds of the bed

through your filters
I only see red