At Shoreview's library listening on a headset,
"When the Last Morning Glory Blooms,"
next to a happy, laughing fellow
watching a movie on the computer.

Windows in front of us along the wall,
an open curtain to cloudy skies and
tall, still green oaks, a glorious panoramic view,
I peruse between songs, sending out resumes.

I love Peter Ostroushko's violin,
imagine I'm standing under the oaks,
twirling now and then,
my hair in the wind's wake.  Oh, a piano enters...

I hear nothing else closing my eyes,
minor key, violin and piano,
and laughter next to me
in the Shoreview Library.

For days I paddled my canoe!
an unrelenting pace,
never stopping long enough
to be aware of space,

not dangling my feet
in cooling moving water,
throwing out a fishing line,
letting go of matter.

Tomorrow in current, morning
to night, I'll float on reverie.
Oh, what a productive, peaceful
poetic journey that will be!

Sold for fourty dollars!
her impressionist painting
of trellised, willow wisteria.
Sold on the first frost, fall day,
for fourty dollars, surreal
springs blossums of violet-blue,
violet-blue heaven.
I jump out of my chair,
"Oh my gosh, Suzanne!
Oh my gosh, congratulations!"
"I am full fledged" she says,
"my first sold painting. 
I am an artist." 

I forget who I am.
She smiles through the phone.
We've discussed her painting before,
bipolar born out of a five months
hospitalization.

"I wanted $100, but let it go
for fourty." she muses.
"Well, you can sell the next
painting for $100!" I see
the money in her hand,
hear, sold for $100!
sense abundance there all along.
"Are you working next Tuesday?"
she asks.
"You bet I am." I sit back in my chair,
realizing I was standing, applauding,
suddenly remembering who I am.

He turns my pages,
reading me,
every day.
He's my 
greatest fan!

I turn his pages too,
reading him,
almost every day.
The days I can't,
he's the protagonist,
the inspiration
of my dreaming.

This evening I visioned
our books shelved
in a library,
side by side,
spine to spine,
cover to cover -
often removed, 
pages turning,
traveling to interesting 
places and returning.

It is one piece, one of many.

Dare we examine it,

every angle, ingredient, 

microscoped in every light and shade,

even in the dark, without

the whole, without the rest?

We do. Unbalanced, tired,

I do, and am sorry for it.

Take all of me or none.

I have been crying.

There is a piece lived with my head

afraid under my pillow. 

I hold it out with all the rest.

You do not need to accept it.

And I?  Your hands hold out

your entirety.  Take all of me,

or none. Sweet Sir, you do not say.

Yet, you are willing, longing.

I am a tired hipocrite.

Please, patience.
Give me the morrow.

Give me the morrow to accept,
cherish all of you.

I gift you the same of me.

You place your hand in mine,
lead me to the salt-wind cliff,
a glistening, deep, turquoise sea.
I desire to leap with you!

Fear has kept me from this edge,
fear of loving.  Now I know,
in jumping whole-heartedly,
we passionately live...

Your beautiful friend Maighread,
  time and timeless cast -
  There is you and memories.
The day is not her last.

I will listen to each one,
  make them mine, bring them home,
  extend them out in remembering,
your loyal friend Maighread.

I am for you, whatever you need -
  a quiet cup of camomile tea,
  arms to hold you comfortingly
company throughout your mourning.

Your sweet, dear friend Maighread,
  this day is not her last.
  There is her pristine energy,
time and timeless cast -

 

The sun this morning, a headlight
in the side mirror of my car,
tailgated me and everyone -
down on earth, checking out it's planetary
domain, it's summer home of living things.
Like God.
The sun drove close enough to tap
the bumper, like God taps my shoulder
every morning -
sun, so warm, like God's embrace throughout the day -
sun, curious and loving, like God through Michael,
gazing at me from across the table, smiling.
I think the sun must be God's younger sibling,
not asking for us to bow down, only asking us
to love.

Writing laying down
half in a dream.
Horizontal lines,
pull the blanket up,
hear wind from the open window
and a lullaby -
Winkin, Blinkin, and Nod singing
in their boat a lovely, lilting harmony.
Michael stands at the bow accompanying on his clarinet.
The song done, he disembarks,
climbing through my window.
Lines lift up the blanket.  
He lies next to me.
Sweetly, slowly 
kissing him,
words fall asleep.

Writing seven hours,

I still have no flowers

no painting to frame,

no story to name.

I am in a tower,

wrestling power,

facing stone and mortar.

I might somersault down,

not my regular routine,

but there's a trampoline 

on grassy green ground
and you with a kiss

and wise encouragement.
"Let go. You can be confident."
Time was practicing spent.
Tomorrow I'll write in a tent.

The bumble bee and I
sing a duet
to the marigold.

My dog,
Little Running Horse,
does not need a sweater
this morning like I do. 
I'll see my breath soon.

She does not need running shoes either
or words to tell me how much she loves.

We race-walk through the meadow,
glowing pink, orange and brown,
streaked with gray clouds laying down,
waking before our eyes.

She is black lightening against the light of dawn.
Her head and tail high; I hate to remind her
I am in charge, but I do, pulling her back
from exuberance.

She smells snow in September.
No one, canine or human,
dead or alive, adores nature
more than she.

This morning I wished for a caribou coffee,
and a marzipan danish for company -
a simple diversion to this morning's newspaper.
My direction turned towards the newspaper's wind,
whirling into the street, like a frail, fall leaf.

Never read the front page my neighbor warned me
many times.  It sucks away breath from you sensitive types -
cementing, sealing, seasoning bad news,
bad news delivered to your home, your brain,
for a day or two or more, depending
on your history and which country you live in.

And news and reality are beyond comprehension -
to read the news and be news,
life and death,
dreaming of scaling the mountain
and scaling it -
I hear Atticus Finch speaking to Scout
about understanding someone else. *

My fourteen year old opined one morning
over cinnamon french toast, Michigan maple syrup,
and orange juice, that religion is the reason for war,
all war, for why people kill each other.
I told him religion, sometimes a contagious paradigm,
aflicts or gives radiance depending who is practicing.

This morning I read the front page plague,
my extremities turning cold...
"news of the deaths of J. Christopher Stevens,
 the ambassador to Libya, and three other
 Americans emerged Wednesday..."
reminding me why I hate the news.


*If you have not already, please read Harper Lee's incredible book, "To Kill a Mockingbird".  Atticus Finch says "You never really understand a person until you consider things from his point of view - until you climb into his skin and walk around in it."

A conscious
tree hugger knows,
trees hug back.

The plate winks, waiting for me to step up, 
  hit a home run into afternoon sun.
I am ready too, willing to swing the bat
  with my entire self, every cell in agreement.
The ground breathes. Trees wave in the wind.
  The crowd is silent and raucous. I know nothing
at the winking plate.  I am the bat.
  I am the ball.  I am the body.  
And I am going to hit a home run
  into afternoon sun.


  
 

The Holy Spirit, my sister,
whispered to me today,
"I love your poetry.
Keep writing every day.
Keep writing every day!
You are blessed with perceiving."

Orion in the sky,
on the saxophone,
on fire.

Hey you -
true blue sky,
blue ribbon true,
like my favorite blueberry pie,
I am in love with you.

I, am blue vanda blue,
happy to be growing.
You shine on me
even through the suburb dark night.
I am in love with you.

Orion is playing his saxophone,
blues and hip hop, contented too.
My house is filled with hues,
dreams, melody lines and
I am in love with you.

I touch my palm to the side of my face,
my hand on my cheek, my cheek on my hand.
My hand feels life with tender grace,
my cheek, my hand, it's own embrace.

Your face moves smiling close to mine.
We kiss slowly again.  I comprehend
we kiss like a poet's joy, making time,
lips to words in revising rhyme.

I play to heaven - to heaven I play,
devoted member of this earthly band,
remembering gratitude every day -
a prayer of applause, the clapping of hands.

I touch my palm to the side of my face,
my hand on my cheek, my cheek on my hand.
My hand feels life with tender grace,
my cheek, my hand, it's own embrace.

He left to drive home.
I stand inside, my hand
lays softly upon the door,
my body against it
as if part of him
remains inside the wood.

I tried last night, but could not write,
and the night before,
slanted differently in the kitchen,  
the great room, where my family congregates.
My children flocked for one day and away.

I want the day back to live though again
to love and laugh and smile through
sanguine with all I have learned.

The tulip tree says with yellow and gold
 Leaves midst the green, like jewelweed flowers,
that fall nears.  Musical Orion is taller than me,
kind Sara Eve studies to teach abroad and
turquoise Zoli and Amanda
remind me of beautiful Zoli and Anda.
Michael asks if he passed, as if he could ever fail
in my eyes.

It is I who fail in feeling moments lost.
Nothing is lost and all is yellow,
golden and green from melted snow.
My children flocked through for one day and away.
They will many times in seasons antecedent.