The coordinates of my gratitude
are inestimable.
Somewhere on an earth of regret,
a small point of velour gratefulness.
The small seal
of my face
with the veritable scent
of a name
the size of a fall from grace.
Living at the bottom,
the detritus falls like
snow on the blanket
I never bought.
At the right latitude,
where it glides into
an unresponsive longitude,
the gifts given by the one
who burns my name as incense,
his arms draped in velour.
The clouds drag over
the prairie to work
in the horse fields.
Rain—an instant sister.
Outside the barn,
the Mandarin language
in a raincoat.
Always the words
wonder where they
will fall when they
drip off the tongue.
My sister floods the plains
as a gift to our ancestors
who wove bicycles on looms.
Instant sister never arising
from good faith,
but falling from certainty,
a meteorological right
I’ll fight for.
In the wind,
Mandarin chatters.
My story is the decor
in a vault robbed of my
birth certificate.
Painted chapters—
good information about the
berries who influenced me
and the flowers I changed.
Chapter by chapter,
my flag unfurls,
a rainbow stiff in the breeze
on a line that could snap
and cut the sweet planet in half.
The juice will drip into
the hungry mouth
of directionless space.
The epilogue is encased
in purple plastic,
a report with glittering graphs,
sobering statistics.
You must read this book! It is unique and filled with great imagery and sylph like ideas.
The forest clutches
stolen fire
while lightning loses her identity.
We hold onto bad things
and are leveled like
post-tsunami water.
In the forest,
trees in pain –
the communication between
leaf and air severed.
When the grasses and branches
have burned,
the forest repents.
And then the falling
of fallen water.
This book of poetry is breathtaking. It drew me in, entered me, expanded my thoughts.
On the shore the tree leaves whisper
Heavy.
They will fall at the loving
touch of cold.
Cold is compassionate
stilling the river to keep
families of silt together.
I’ll probably fossilize under
the pressure of glamor,
among layers of lipstick,
bleach in the sun on the shore.
My days on the glowing shore
are limited edition.
I collect them.
The autumnal lake
licks the shore like a kitten
behind the mountain,
cold waiting to love us,
our lives.
The leaves chitter nervously.
I feel age, volume
pulling me down.
Youth no longer fits me,
I shed it like a skin.
I bleach,
sanitized.
The pressure of cosmopolitan glitz
is entirely too much for my brain.
Cautiously, the cold spills over
mountain peaks,
desiccates me.
The lake freezes,
kitten asleep in a box.
rough draft
For me, being a mother makes me a better poet – and being a poet makes me a better mother. I am fortunate to be writing with the support of my husband, but were I to be a single mother I think the effect would be the same. Motherhood greatly enriches my life and adds depth to it. Anytime you’re deep in your soul it will show up in your writing.
Writing fashions me into a better mother because I notice things. I stay in touch with the shifting loveliness of the world, and try to keep my daughter attuned to it also.
The creative outlet I get through writing poetry keeps me focused on Angelica when I am with her. I am refreshed from my time creating, and when Angelica and I play or do lessons I can really throw myself into it. I am not drawing from a dry well.
Miniature Moon 