Words, the blood of poets. Slick, wet, hot, pouring over the page in a curtain of sultry satin red.
My hand, a birdcage.
Inside, a wren.
I let her craft all of my best poetry.
(you know what they say: wren writing, wren done, wren laughing at a pun)
That first part is not true.
My hand isn’t really a birdcage: it’s a cave. Cozy, dark, closely fit to wren feathered wings.
She likes it there.
But it means I can never open my hand.
Not once.
yellow-pearled eyes, curled like a dark dandelion puff.
she sleeps
all the time
except when chasing her stuffed monkey
dropping it in my study
(she wouldn’t dare scare up a rat).
wants a place of warmth to rest (blanket, lap, expensive cashmere coat, my face)
hardly worth the trouble
except…
she always purrs when I touch her
doesn’t mind my cloves
sits quietly when I write
naps to the sound of rain with me
hardly ever makes a fuss
silly thing.
And the thunder comes. On its heels, an exhale that asks the next breath to wait. Because that pause is where the world submits.
a lion’s lost roar
a child’s forgotten sense of play
a surcease of dreams to cultivate,
and a laurel bed on which to lay
a lullaby, these words, to sleep and forget
that a lifetime of almosts is one of regret
the longer I live
the more that I find
the things I need most
are the dreams left behind
I don’t wish for peace or comfort.
complacent – too close to death
I crave the place I have to face
my desire to count each breath
not callous, not simple, not shallow or clothed
but bared and complex, deep and exposed
not careful, not quiet, not restrained or delayed
but reckless and furied, freed and remade
not counting the rings in the circles I’ve walked
but remembering the falls and the danger I’ve stalked
you can promise the solace of a path well traveled and tested
and I’ll show you my scars where the best have been bested
tell me what’s safe, what’s right and what’s true
and I’ll tell you my way is not the right way for you.
now tell me you’re listening
and I’ll tell you this:
a life that’s worth living
is too easily missed
what do you do with a crocodile’s hat?
you could stand it on end or you could lay it flat
you could circle it in dance or give it to your cat
you could forget where it was (in the last place you sat)
you could throw it at a copper, because you ain’t no rat
you could shrink it all up and strap it on a gnat
you could place it on the floor like a really small mat
you could give it super powers by dumping it in a vat
you could love it enough to get it as a tatt
you could comfort it with a kindly pit-pat
you could block out the sun when you’re up to bat
you could call it a friend, well how about that?
or you could just wear it on your head
what point
an egg tumbled
milk spilled.
what point
a dry lip
a sentence cracked
or a kiss dared
what point?
knuckling down the truth
remembering the trick to drowning
I know not all the stories end
the way that fairy tales are spinned
but in the story of the heart
there you played the prince’s part
the distance between two points.
is a fiddler’s tightrope, a poet’s game.
it is too far to jump (without closing your eyes)
if you fall, you won’t fall
there are too many ties.
it is too far to skip
and too far to walk,
but if you have heart, you can listen
and dance across.
hurry, kitten
down the slope
but slip and fall
without a rope
you’ll tumble free
into a lake
and wet you’ll be
for heaven’s sake
I give names that fit you the best.
Spring! for the Tigger (for so little rest)
Pooh for snacks, both honey and sweet
Eeyore’s the friend too grumpy to meet.
Some days you’re the Owl! Scattered, rambling and wise.
or Kanga, so patient when the best of us cries.
when shy, you are Piglet, ironically bold
for when the world needs a hand, it’s his hand to hold.