Sinking irrevocably

There were a few hours
a few days ago
that felt green
and slight and light-
I think my feet unsubmerged
just enough from spring mud to kick a cloud
before descending.

I knew even as moments ticked by
and I could barely swallow my verve,
it would not last
just as I knew
there is no such thing as always,
no matter what men say
with their mustachioed appeal.

I miss the green
and wonder
if I’ll ever be smart enough
not to be fooled by silly sweet words-
I think one of these days,
I will sink irrevocably
and won’t even know it.


Devil’s Fiddle

The chemicals are back,
dancing, rising, playing devil’s fiddle
all over my tender psyche.

I waved them away last week.
But they’re like fruit flies,
feeding on sweet decay.

I tried immersing myself
in copious amounts of cheese and flowers
to ignore the alone- but the alone
wouldn’t leave me be.
Somehow, I tell myself
‘keep moving…’ but there’s a simultaneous
message coming from where the bile rests
telling me to crawl into a hole
and stay there.

It’s not an easy choice.
The voices are fighting,
summer grows near,
and my eyelids hurt.


Golden promises
slipped from broken lockets
but hung on morning mist
and we swore, “always”

which meant as little
as the ant’s picnic,
filling up on summer green
deliciousness lasting into winter,
a memory of hillsides
and windy music
carried for decades.

Climbing out of a dream

For all pure morning intent,
there’s so much untruth
floating on sleepy dust.

Lilting, lazy music
of island rhythm and warm breezes
fool the dreamer into deeper sleep
with no end; a cozy chasm
that doesn’t translate
when one awakes in the mountains.

Emerging over and over,
limbs are whipped into a gallop
and spread open to climb.

No end in sight

I’ve not been to a desert except
for some parking lots
and family reunions.
I know emptiness.
Over the years, I have been filled
with books and music and drawings
from passersby heading
somewhere else.
I know transient satisfaction.
I railed secretly
(and then not so secretly)
at never being anyone’s destination.
But that’s not my gift.
I am no goddess of remorse or recompense
but a humanist committed to renewal.
I know metamorphosis.
I’ve not found any endings
except in sentences
and they don’t count for much.
I know so little.