But i need a day
To lay in bed
And twine toes with somebody
And stare at the ceiling

A day to talk
About nonsense
And be really heard

And laughter
I could use
Lots of that

I just need
A day

Or two or three

I was going to write
a poem today.

I've been reading
poets
every spare moment.

I've been sorting
through
the rubble
of the last six months.

Conversations
have worn me thin
just now

maybe I'll just
go home
and take a nap.

i've been wanting to say
i love you

all three words, one after another, each word pronounced distinctly
it's been so long unsaid
i might start to spill over a little

spewing i love you's

to the cat and the neighbor's dog and the little old lady behind me in the grocery store

folks might start to look at me strange

maybe i better save them all up
one heart's treasure trove
for brighter days

lay me down
the book you haven't
quite finished ******* through

run rough fingers
over bindings that cover
smiling secrets

whisper my name
to embracing darkness

wonder aloud
how the story ends

then wrap me in
strong arms
and hold me close

I try to learn one or two every year.
Plantain, mullein, chicory.
I try to learn some usefulness.
Some nice lady told me the other day
That she could never learn medicinal plants.
It seems she had never considered
Learning them one at a time.
I have to remember to learn the name
Of that **** that spits needles at me
When I get too close

Bob is seventy four
And fighting cancer
Every day.

He's had us plant seeds
For four o'clocks
Twice now.

He told me confidentially
That he knows the flowers
Weren't here
In Boone's time

But his mother always
Had them

And maybe they are his legacy.

I found one
Of his wandering
Flowers in the garden bed
Yesterday.

And four more
In between
My sage and horseradish
Today

I dug them up
And carried them
Home.

I don't think
We could forget
Bob
Anytime soon.

I wonder if I have invited the storm--
     Provoked passion--
Traces of sweat in swelling heat
      glisten
and I taunt dark clouds singing siren songs.
      The curves of my voice
thrill lonely spaces.

Flashes of light crease the sky --
      similar bursts echo
from your eyes.

Reaching around I tremble
as the heavens
      rumble loudly back.

I will meet you there
     inside the tempest.

Let it rain.

read all the ones who came before. From Sappho, to the King James Old Testament, to the graffiti artist who scratched that quip on the bathroom wall.

2. read your words, out loud, when no one listens. Make sure all the stops and starts fall in all the right places. Make sure the words all sound like they belong where you put them. Be honest with your ear.

3. be transparent. Remembering - it is easier to be straightforward with strangers than with the people in arms-reach. You have to start somewhere.

4. be modest. Merit will always outshine bravado.

5. be full of heart. There are no prizes for stringing fifty cent words together on a string. Clever and poetic are too entirely different animals.

6. not every thought deserves to be a poem. Learn to separate the chaff from the wheat. Be discerning and your readers will honor you.

a little poem came and perched
on my night stand
last night late
it sang the newest song
I've heard
in months and years

I thought it would wait
hang around
until I got ready to write it

but it flew far
away

do you know
how lonely it is
being a mountain
to yourself?

the sun rises
to melt the dew
off the wild roses

but there is no one
to see

the sun sets
and the darkness
covers
an ancient heart

-freezes-

and still your feet
are rooted
where they stand

     forever

          eternal

I have all these questions to ask her
but she flies away from the fence-line
and over the barns

I hear her calling in the early morning hours
but I get no answers
not to the questions my heart makes

and I feel the hot heavy breath
of the hunters
their foot treads sound ominous
on the forest floor

I have been caught too many times before
I have been folded up in heavy hands
until I couldn't even breathe
and I am reluctant to be lost again

I need that Muse-woman
to come back here
and tell me if I am really ready
to fly.

love isn't always
hearts and roses

sometimes
it's an ashtray
perched precariously
between us

sometimes it's a
purple crocus
blooming
in January

sometimes it's just
the smile
I see
in your eyes

when i get home this morning
i'm gonna throw a log
or two on the fire
and oil that wheel
and ply some yarn

maybe

if the bobbin
doesn't break
and i'm not too tired
and the fire's not already out
and the yarn doesn't knot up

maybe i will

Folks have been asking for years
About my meditation practices

I finally
Have an answer

Mammaw knew

Stirring milk gravy
In the cast iron skillet
Until it thickens
Just enough

There
is
Peace and understanding

i have about three
memories from my childhood
more or less

my brain vault
is a bottomless black hole
of good and bad
that never seems to yield
anything

but once in a while
i remember
a chubby boy in a brown coat
with beautiful blue eyes
on the second grade school bus

he moved away soon after

i met him again
as a teenager
and he was a thin
adonis model
with long blonde hair

so maybe i have
four memories
more or less

maybe i should
write it down
before i lose it

the first time i met him
after sixteen absent years
was at the Pinnacles.

it was a good place he said -
i walked into his arms
and time melted away.

maybe too much time

when we climbed to the top
he talked to a stranger
and i sat on a rock
soaking up the November sun.
i heard drums in the distance
they wrapped me up in a memory

the next time
i hiked with my daughters
i got dizzy
felt like i was falling
my heart in my throat.
when the feeling cleared
my daughters had hold of me
asking if i was okay.

a few years later
invited to a journey workshop
i fell off the cliff again
in my shower this time.
i held onto the wall
so i wouldn't be lost to gravity.

and later that day
in the workshop
i saw the whole grisly scene
my warrior husband
lying on the ground
broken baskets and busted pots
my tribe demolished
the enemy advancing

it all became clear
i felt the fear
of being taken
and i jumped

One of these days
When i clear myself
Of the wreckage
Heaped by my own personal
Hurricane
I will write some words
So pretty
That you won't notice
The devastation
All around me.

We'll light a candle
For peace on earth
Goodwill
Toward men.

Your truck isn't stolen.  
I got it stuck in the field.
Keys are in bowl.
We will unstick it tomorrow.  
I picked a quart of blackberries.
Had to walk back in the rain

P.s.
Tyson got a new toy.

Every time I set foot
Out back
That old hawk
Starts hollering

And then I get to work
And there's
Another old hawk
Hollering at me there

Just once
I wish that old bird
Would spit it out
In plain English

I don't speak
Not one word
Of hawk

Not even
When I dream

Poetry is a place
outside
under blue skies
breezes trickle by
clouds wink
hills look on

Poetry is a place
where I am more than the chains
that bind me to my desk
during lunch
I'll slip them off with my shoes
arrive barefoot
and free

People ask how I am
Almost every day.
And I smile
I say I have been
A pretty good hermit.
They don't see the hundred hurts
That color every current
Interaction.
I have felt disrespected
And I can't
Seem to shake the bitterness.
It hangs on my shoulders
Til I go to bed
Way too early.
It whispers
From under the mattress
That I am the only one
Waiting apology.
The hawk has something to say
About the whole gawdawfull mess
But he talks in riddles
Around me
To the monsters
Hiding under my bed.

I had a vision once

jeeps and dust
an apocalyptic America
and I was scared

this morning I stood in the shower
thinking
maybe I should tell my daughter
to let her hair grow
to pretend to have a boyfriend

our system of checks and balances
is being stomped on
civil liberties
and inalienable rights
are extinct

psychic vision
is poised to become reality
and I never imagined
it would be our own government
holding us hostage

I swear,
I was laying in bed this morning
minding my own business.
Letting the children get themselves
ready for school
and intent
on falling back asleep for a little while.
And in-between
the text messages
and the phone calls
came a hug
from someone I couldn't see.

I sent out a panicked message or two.
Tell me that you are okay
so I don't have to worry.

I swear,
it wouldn't be so bad
if the invisible
would just leave a calling card.

you are a mystery to me
nameless magician
invisible man
work of art that i can't see

intangible
yet so very, very real

i feel your thoughts
sometimes
like hot breath
on my neck

a tingle
along my thigh
when i lay down
to rest

and the only thing
i know
is your words

I tried, Lord,
I tried.

I protected him as often
and with what
little strength I had.

He punched me
in the stomach
when he thought
the neighbor wasn't watching.

And his eyes said
plain enough
that he could **** me
before mom got home
and I would barricade
myself in my room
til she pulled in the driveway
and act like every
thing was fine.

When dad died
he called the funeral home
and threatened
everybody.

I can't keep him anymore.
Even if
his blood cries to me
from the ground.

I keep my inner poet
Put away.
She is dangerous.
Doesn't understand her own power.
She thinks she can fly
And she'll make you believe
That you can, too.
But her wings are paper thin.
Too fragile for flight.

Her eyes shine too much
When the poetry is flowing.
I've seen the devastation
That can follow in her wake.

Grown men don't believe
In poetry.
Get lured in by siren songs.
Feel cheated
when the music ends.

I keep her put away
And hold my gaze on my hands
In the dirt.

We are safer that way.

Your icy breath brushes my neck
on summer days when no one sees.

I doubt that you ever

belonged to me.
I don't recognize your spirit.

Tell me
what it is you want
and maybe I can set you free.

fort manager brought me a plant
this morning
he called it pennycress
but I couldn't find it in my books

he said try
shepherd's purse
and that was there

but the seed pods
are not heart-shaped
and the seeds are green

field pennycress
I know your name
and I hope you aren't
semi-carnivorous
like the other one

I wonder
what are you good for?

somebody's in my head again
stretched out between those two earholes
they've done been in there for two days
maybe more
don't know what they're lookin for

i keep all the shiny stuff put away
with the butterflies
and the spiders webs

and my thoughts
they all wear different languages
the kind i talk in my sleep
and you won't know them anyhow
you haven't met them too close before

somebody's in my head again
pushing,pushing
straining, yearning

and i wish i knew who it could be

When I was young
My mother used to offer to end her life
And take me with her

But I have noticed
That I walk away from tragedy
Without a scratch

Last week I found myself praying . . .
God, you take this pain
Or end me

And there was no answer

But the next day
When the storm rolled in
And my coworkers scurried away
And I prepared to meet the fate I prayed for
My car key flew off the key ring
And under my car
On my knees
Searching for the only thing that could get me going again
I realized the irony of my situation

Ten-4 dear Creator
I hear you
Loud and clear

The thing is -
everytime that window opens
I still see the possibility
and I want to fly away
to happily ever after.
I think sometimes
that if I learn to do enough things.
Learn the names of all the plants.
Then maybe I can get your approval.  
And there's always a moment
when it all comes crashing down again. Every time.  
Is it any wonder
that I both love you and hate you?

North Carolina poet, Jim Wayne Miller, on his goal in writing poetry. "Growing up in North Carolina, I was often amused, along with other natives, at tourists who fished the trout streams. The pools, so perfectly clear, had a deceptive depth. Fishermen unacquainted with them were forever stepping into what they thought was knee-deep water and going in up to their waists or even their armpits, sometimes being floated right off their feet. I try to make poems like those pools, so simple and clear their depth is deceiving. I want the writing to be so transparent that the reader forgets he is reading and is aware only that he is having an experience. He is suddenly plunged deeper than he expected and comes up shivering."

my locker is cleaned out
i have
deleted the documents
on my desktop
my uniforms are washed
and waiting for
the next new employee
tomorrow will be another day
and i won't be here

it turns out
i am leaving
as noteless
as i came

in your poetic journey
you may meet poets
who are taller
and seem mysterious
and you may not understand
their magic.

their words
may be taller
than you can reach.

go back to them.

if they are worth
their salt,
they will take your hand
and walk you through
their lines.

you will grow.

the best poetry
carries our essence
out to greet the world.

the best poems
are conversation.

he says he can't talk to me
the reason doesn't really
matter

my son won't talk to me
I can't pretend it is a phase
anymore

the nice man at work
who said
he would help me build the fire
didn't hear me
even the third time
I asked.

really starting to think
there is something wrong
with my voice

i used to dress my words up in all their sunday glory
before i sent them out into the world
squeaky clean and sunday morning i was determined
to let my little light shine

forget a blue period
my next phase was all about
boiled down to the bare bones honest
pretty didn't have any consideration
or private
but my words met metal

then the weather turned wet
and i sobbed along
wringing my grief out of loose pages
and you still stopped by
and sometimes you'd even sing along

then i prayed to be taller
to stand straighter
to be more of what i am

i got lazy and lined literal words up
all in a row
lauded for creative
cause everybody knows things like that
can't literally happen

he comes out of the woodwork
every five to seven years
(maybe he's a locust)

usually when he's lonely
or *****
or wants to blow his brains out

he kicked the drug *****
out of his trailer
(he overheard
her cheating thoughts)
and so
she went back to his brother

it was a nice visit
he complimented me maybe,
he said i'm not man crazy anymore

I think maybe
he's made his last appearance
in my story

if he doesn't know me
in twenty two years
well, I don't have
the experience to compete
with his latest conquests

I never pitied Ophelia
enough.
Never understood her
grief-

to lose and be lost.

I think I must be crazy now.
My mind wandered off
when you did
and I don't know
how to fetch it back.

He loves me
He loves me not
rue and remembrance
and something forgotten too

the river sometimes
calls my name
there are flowers
there

I may be
Losing my mind.

The secret of it
Is
I don't mind
As much
As I thought I would.

Every body
Wonders
What is wrong
With that girl

And I sit
Still singing
Snatches of songs
Out of tune

my mother
always went to psychics
and palm readers
there were things
she wanted to know

lately
i've been looking
at the lines on my hand
and they
never seem to be
in the same place

i wonder
what a palm reader
might have to say
about that

i haven't seen
one of those neon signs
in years and years
i doubt that i could
in all good conscience
push aside the curtain
of curiosity
to ask the question

i am half tempted
to trace all the lines
in permanent black marker
to see
if i can see
how far they wander

You come around
and smell so much like freedom
and my heart thinks
maybe this time
Paradise has stopped for me
too

But then your best compliment
missed its mark by two miles
which might be a little funny
if you consider all the hours spent
studying trajectory and aim
of bullets

Your words fail you.

We were never meant
to be complete in this lifetime.

My anger is showing.

The capitol is full
Of treason and misogyny.

Pressure is building.
Boiling hot lava
Could erupt.

And I'm just over here
Making lard and yarn.
Not necessarily in that order.

I guess it is a good thing
That i wasn't made
winged and fire-breathing.

Just trying really hard
Not to destroy
Anything
In my path.

I was sitting
smack dab in the middle
of the herb garden
earlier today.
All of a sudden
I heard a voice say,
Well, there sits
a pretty flower
in the middle
of all those weeds.

I'm thinking
of changing my name
now.

When I was young, my grandmother would tell me stories
about her grandparents.
There were stories about the origins of the universe.
Legends that connected me to my world.
Embedded in the stories were admonitions to live a worthy life.
Sometimes, when I walk out with my daughter to pick berries,
I think about those lessons . . .

Mama, we have to pick all the blackberries so the bugs don't get any . . .

There's plenty of berries for you, me, and the beetles, baby girl.

I don't like the beetles. See that one?

Where? Oh, look how beautiful and shiny his wings are. . . the beetle respects us. We should respect the beetle.

What about the birds? Do we have to share with them?

Plenty of berries for them, too.

But, why, mama?

Because we are supposed to share with others. Don't eat so many, there won't be any left in the bucket.

I only eat the ones I pick . . .

Alright, girl.

Mama. . . ?

Yes?

Do you want to pick blackberries by yourself now?

Are you wanting to go and play? Go on, then, baby girl.

i remember playing red rover
and ghosts in the graveyard

monopoly and chinese checkers
and yahtzee and spades

i remember playing wife
and mother

and employee of the month

i walk dangerously close
to the edges of my life
sometimes

but i never play there

I just got
A friend request
From Tom Petty
Over on facebook.

I noticed
He didn't
Have any friends
Or photos.

He's on my playlist
If not
My friend list.

It is a pity.
Music has charms

Or so I've heard

I can't sleep.  
I can't remember.  
There are so many moments lost.
And I understand
that a lot of those memories
were blocked to protect me.

But I can't remember
the first time you kissed me.
Where was it?
What were we doing?  

I remember the day
that you thought about it but waited.

It couldn't hurt to give
that memory back
if you have it.

*and of course
there was no answer

I have a hard time
Being literal

Explanations travel
In fits and spurts
With sometimes
No suitable
answer at all

And maybe
The truth is slanted
And you will
Divine it
On some cloudy day.

We will get there,

they fly in
and sit on my shoulder
even when
i don't want them to

old Bob's ex-wife
had his sofa covered
in some horribly ugly
historic print

(i thought it was
kinda pretty)

i saw a haversack
made out of that
self-same fabric
in my possession

today, Bob handed me
a leather bag
he had sewed with
that fabric as the lining

i hope i smiled

because the other vision
was of his family
clearing his possessions
out of his cabin
after he passed

i'm afraid it isn't
long now