Unlocked.
I sat just long enough
in one spot
to know the message of leaves
as they sang in the wind:
nothing is certain
but Change will come.
I forgot how old I was
as the breeze brushed my skin
and my Faith pushed forward,
making the steps smoother.
The light flickered
and years flew back and forth,
a timeless search
abandoned, let go
for a contented Chaos.
Kicking a bottle cap
accidentally
an echo in the alley an aural portal
to a dusty and hot place
somewhere in antiquity, somewhere desert
where women’s bowls, cracked,
left deeply embedded beneath
many feet walking miles and miles
to and fro, like we do now, for nothing
than a few coins, a few grains, some fish
Men molded dream women
even then, now we find them buried
missing a limb or a digit, like now,
we’re all missing something
though we think it’s heavy and important -like time-
but how much time does it take to laugh
or sniffle at a flower?
Horace would laugh at our tweets,
earnest influencers’ odes to prosceniums
full of silicone and chrome
we compare mud and silver
and kick a pebble down the dusty road
like we do, like we did, like we will.
…
(City Poems prompt, @UutPoetry. “Artifacts” published on Substack. Check out the relaunch of UutPoetry at Substack, with poetry, process, and prompts to peruse.)
I’ve mostly been comfortable in my skin,
sure of what my body could do
even when I felt like an emotional hurricane.
Mostly the damage stayed inside.
I’ve wondered over my mental state,
the numbness that comes with surviving,
the ever-present swirl of thoughts;
I am my own worst distraction
and best source of entertainment.
It’s been that way since I could first daydream.
I’ve felt a shift with aging,
less sure of my body, more sure
of my thoughts. An adept changeling
-but with emotions still all over the place.
Mostly the damage stays inside.
Maybe I’m not meant for balance in this life,
which is terrifying and exciting
but still wildly entertaining.
The daydreams are more fantastic
and age is a figure shaped like me.
Measured movement, feeling every step
(heel-toe, heel-toe)
the locomotion a means to no end
losing count, trying again,
tripping up… again (heel-toe)
willing the chin away from the chest
to look up as curiosity holds sway
the sway of a clock’s hands
the sway of hips propelling forward
a body too tired to think on its own,
following a bird’s flight
as a guide upward into light
or at least less darkness where we are.
We planted marigolds today.
They have done well in our rocky soil,
withstood the heavy winds
that buffet our valley,
and they looks like sunrise
in the middle of the grass.
We’ve tried other flowers
but they seem either dull or bland
and by end of summer, look tired
unlike the marigolds which persist.
It’s dusk now
with a lot of green covering the hills
as they roll out of sight.
The sky is a darkening purple
with a moon fat and full and waiting
like the barn cats down the road,
itching for action by night.
I can still make out the colors
of flame that herald summer
as the marigolds and I settle in.
The Word Rummager 