its not the weight but how you carry it

Its not the weight but how you carry it-
loaded onto your back
like a pack mule
or ahead of you
wheel barrowing down the lane.

No,
it’s more how you think and feel
and digest
all manner of thoughts and feelings-
how your tongue feels
as you voice
those longings and fears
or maybe how your lips part
when you sing
a love song.

Or maybe it’s just that everything we think is heavy
is just as light as a feather.
Rising balloons tied to a string
or tied to your heart
maybe you are light hearted
and drawn to whimsy and mirth
or maybe glum and in need of a digestif
or a good hearty pat on the back.

Maybe you are light on your feet,
dancing up a storm
or a jig or a pas de deux,
balancing between sky and earth.
Its all a balancing act, you know.

We are not merely players on a stage
but acrobats
and clowns
following the gypsy caravan
with all our worldly goods
tucked into our backpacks
or pushed along in our barrows-
light hearted
or not

its all in how you carry it.

(revised)

the gulf between us

May morning

The scent of river and green
fills the space in my mind
where once you were only
a memory of a dream.
Years and myths
of what we were
and will become
are written in the runes left
by crow and sycamore.
My heart wends its way
to the gulf between us.
The marsh and saw grass,
sweet in its dance with the wind,
chiming bells of lilies cascade
across the river bed
of green moss and milk weed,
tumbling together
in the singing water.

Gulls wheel overhead
calling your name
again and again and again.

(revised)

sturm and drang

How can stillness move so fast
or the speed of a thing
retain its calm center?
I stand,
still as a held breath,
my body flying at 800 miles per hour
and yet the surface of the coffee in my mug
shows not a ripple.

Shadows of your thoughts
darken the room even before you enter it-
pushing all light away from you
or possibly
the gravitational force of your temper
sucks it in like the black holes
created in the brilliant light of an exploding star.

All this sturm and drang.

Its just space and time,
the universal quandary of quantum physics
of how to get along.

seven times seven

They wish to take some time,
if the room is still available,
for words and thoughts
to congeal-
the way left fallow.

Fields undone as last night’s argument.

Each shall return to the place of their beginning.
Manumission of the indentured souls
shall be relieved of their suffering.
Sewing not the ruptured,
sowing not the fields, emptied.

Fields undone as last night’s wrath.

The decisions to be made
will make each aware
of the secrets and courage which
brings justice to the birds
on the verge of the turned earth.

Fields undone as last night’s tears.

Shout jubilee!
All debts are forgiven,
all fields left fallow,
in the year of seven times seven.

where, oh where, can they be

They are gone.
Just disappeared.
Not a hint of leaving or going or anything.
Just vanished like an alien abduction
Or the rapture
Or falling down a deep, dark well.

Seems like there should be footprints
Or a note in a bottle
Or a message from somebody
Saying they were going away
To Brussels
Or San Diego
Or their mothers.

But no, nothing,
Just gone.

And I didn’t know I would miss them.

But I do.

Nesting Material

January Bluebird

Bits of twine
and strands of dried grasses,
some smelling of autumn hay fields
and summer’s sweet grass meadows,
woven into a perfect nest
to fill the empty space
between my ribs,
left by my wandering
heart.

Flat footed, I stood
as my heart leapt from my chest,
flying to another spring
in another time,
leaving me
flat footed
and open to the birds
building their spring nests,
perfectly woven,
smelling of sweet grass
and hay fields.

that night

March evening storm

Is that the wind
or bird wings against the glass?

Inconstant wind,
like hands that never entwine,
just move lovingly through my hair.

The wind moved that night,
filled with righteous violence.
Cyclonic angels fierce in their mission,
swirling songs from their twisted throats
singing to souls of houses and trees,
lifted in rapture.

That night, I followed the wind
then it twisted and chased me
all the way to your door.
But you had gone-
all that was left
was that not-you,
windless.

Is that the wind
or bird wings against the glass?
Foolish bird.
Foolish wind.

*** For dVerse prompt tonight, we are chasing the wind. Hold onto your hats and join in!

signs and wonders

dove

An oddly auspicious confluence of events-
three padlocks on the road,
a black cat crossing my path,

three large black crows,
flying,
leading me all the way to our door,
an owl
peering from the ledge into the bedroom window,
backlit by the waning gibbous moon.

An intimate conversation
at the bar. She a sweet acquaintance,
shyly telling me of the healer
that drew the demon snake from her breast.
He held it out for her to see,
a glimpse of the shadow of a serpent,
drifting into dust motes swirling out the open window
into the moonless night.

The angel leaning on the lamppost
in a good friend’s poem
From writings of another poet,
a triad of angels watching from a hayloft.

Signs and wonders,
the rending of fabric,
the anticipation of a visit,
the expectation
of another
conversation with the angel,
the sound of wings,
an acclamation of doves,
a rapture.