....the pedigree of honey

a good thief needs a good plan

especially
when 

thieving is the difference

between

food & clothing

or
hungry & cold

a good thief needs a good conscience
so utterly convinced of the justice
of
necessity
she can , without guile or shame, load a space - heater and a mini -fridge
into
a
shopping cart
and, with an industriousness bordering on sincerity,
push that cart
past the checkouts
through
silent
sliding
doors

a good thief needs a good memory
so she doesn't arrive at meetings, conversations
or
work
wearing clothes that other people don't realize they have
lost

a good thief needs a good story

because 

every day life 

is
often

not 

believable

Solstice

.... on the other side of longest night
I wish you all
the gift of deep intimacy
the contentment of a heart at peace with itself
the sweetness of one's own solitude
the joy of friends and colleagues, renegades and rogues, poets and story-tellers

all the best of whatever season you celebrate
thank you for the blessings of your creative energies

Is there anything more absurd.....

November ended with definite rain, heavy enough to sound like slap, feel like lash...
that was the morning of that day, slap & lash, wet, but still preferable to the human versions...
of slap and lash, that is

then, the day itself, beautiful work and raw hope, embarrassing in their earnest intensity
buttressed against bureaucracy & habit, desperate not to succumb
wondering if triumph is nothing but a carrot or maybe a lemon
make lemonade,
there's a noble venture
exhausted, treading water end of day, almost dark a red dusk sky stopped me in my tracks
in the middle of the parking lot, tranquil pink pouring stark and lovely over tree silhouettes
so calm, I am present for my breath
I see it become part of the twilight
remembering a saying about  red sky at night

November. The most bipolar month so far. Not its fault. Warm & cold;
wet & dry;
grass & gravel
wired & tired
cheerful & jaded
sick & tired
good intentions no excuses
nothing but excuses,  rationalizations, really... & deceit
supposedly all that distinguishes humans from animals
there's a noble venture
just admit being swamped even though there's no good reason
as if some awesome judge is taking account of the good reasons
oh, wait,  I guess I'm the judge, the committee in my head, whoa...
pride, my old nemesis, is that it?? But it's not
not the same as in the before time
I've got no trouble owning the darkness
saying I don't know how to do that, help me. My mistakes no longer make me small...
so, WTF with treading water, who's in charge of water, damn, it's me
overcommitted
again
haven't written from my heart in weeks for myself for others who care enough to read
haven't read from others' hearts in weeks for myself for others who care enough to write
yeah, yeah, I know, no sense of obligation, I get it...
but I want to be haunted by what matters
there's a noble venture

sickness asserts itself
something I cannot get over
days pass
puking, urging, shitting, groaning, staggering, stinking, shivering, sweating, pathetic
huddled, sipping screaming hot herbal tea,
savoring cold orange juice & water, as if I had never tasted it before...
soothed by time & gravity
I yield. There's a noble venture.
I move into December, feeling the pull of the long night, realizing that I'm longing for it...
longing for it

thanks to forethought, fore-ordained plans
I head North, where clean cold awaits. I know this cold
delightful
necessarily unhurried
waiting,  I notice simple, silly things
is there anything more absurd than a pigeon running away from a bus?
I feel something give inside
I yield.

Black Thumb

a lifeline

of 12 steps

advises: get a plant

or a pet

if it's alive in 6 months

move on to a person...

risky business, in this garden

weeds

are the only plants that grow around me

all the others die as soon as I bring them

inside

not a metaphor for anything

except dead plants

one has lasted for over

3 years it sits in my kitchen

drinking in water and stray strands 

of sunlight

I think it's waiting 

for 

the cat

this is a story about time when i was afraid in the dark

My spouse believes in being energy efficient. When we leave a room, we turn out the light. I frequently come home to a dark house, one brave light valiantly beckoning in the room at the end of the upstairs hallway. That would be my spouse’s study, and the only light on in the house.

The laundry room is in the basement, at the bottom and to the right of a long, wooden stairway. There is a light switch at the top of the stairs, said switch being a key feature in my decision to buy the house.

On a typical weekend, I get myself pumped to do a round of laundry. It’s immensely satisfying to begin a task that has a finite and achievable end.  This particular weekend, I am home alone, a somewhat unusual Saturday afternoon with spouse out on an errand. I take the two storey trek with my piled high blue hip-hugger laundry basket, down the stairs from upstairs, round the corner, down the stairs to the basement, flicking on lights as I go. I slide the basket onto the top of the dryer, and am happily humming and sorting. Colours, bright colours, whites….colours first, detergent, dials and then the sweet sound of water surging and squishing into the washer… and then….. for no reason that I can fathom, I am plunged into a blackness so sudden and complete that I gasp; I actually put my hand on my chest and reach frantically for a surface….

…. And then I hear these….sounds….the door clicking shut at the top of the stairs, and, unthinkably, FOOTSTEPS, on the ceiling above my head. I’m talking to myself as I gaze about looking for some landmark amidst the hovering looming shapes and then there is a huge CLUNK that literally propels me towards what has to be the door, and away from those awful chugging breathing sounds….

I scrabble my way to what I pray fervently is the bottom of the stairs and, stealthily, I crawl up, one stair at a time, ears attuned to every squeak from the upstairs intruder. I turn on the light switch… softly, slow motion, silently turn the knob and open the door a crack. I peer into my darkened downstairs and see…nothing. I run wildly about the space and turn on every light. Breathlessly, I look around. The next move is mine. 

Re-solution

it was one of those 

moments

so cruel that I was too

shocked

to be angry

I feel the unguarded gasp in my chest

the terrible oh

of more terrible

knowing

this is one of those

lines

I will remember

what I need to do

to keep myself 

safe

from now on

perhaps

I keep that 

readiness

ready

sweet dreams are made of this*

* with apologies to Eurythmics

The dream feels real. Dropped into a corridor teeming with people, scattered carelessly all over the floor, I pick my way through the vastness of strewn bodies, some awake, some asleep,  some stoned, some moaning, some  staring, laying in various positions of twist and turn. I recognize no one, yet I know that  I need to be afraid. I make my way as best as I can, and, as is typical in many of my dreams, I am carrying too much, a purse over my shoulder, a larger satchel,  my coat over my arm, since it has gotten unexpectedly unbearably warm in the moments since I have arrived. Suddenly one of the quiet staring men grabs my ankle. I startle and gasp, and in that moment I drop my coat. He holds on tightly. I pull against his grasp, I wrench myself free, and I reach down to get my coat and get the hell out of there..... and then I am running for my car, and I reach into the coat pocket for the keys... no one is following me, but it's only a matter of moments until something awful happens, I can feel it.... and that's  when it hits me..... I have his coat... and all I can do is sob....I halt and turn and look at the door  and  shudder at what awaits me on the other side even though I know I have to go back and get my own coat and in order to do that I have to find ...him.. And not get caught again. ..... my despair and resignation and fear are humming .... and then I wake up.  I think two things: time to move  my keys to my purse, and, at least my dreams are not subtle.

My Dreams are Not Subtle

My dreams are not subtle
they boil and they bubble
the tower I'm climbing  is turning to rubble
with each step I'm trying to outrun the trouble
that's chasing my heart
can't stop racing
the clock winding down
all the windows have lights facing east

My dreams are not subtle
confusion and muddle
dilemmas around every turn there's a puddle
and when I splash through
winter winds make me huddle
I'm placing my hands
begin lacing
my snowshoes leave tracks
misdirection
 is facing the beast

My dreams are not subtle
all crush and no cuddle
my dreams are not subtle
silk smooth feels like stubble
I look at one face
and can only see double
dreams bracing
against time erasing
the stars falling into
an ocean of sorrow at least
my dreams are not subtle