Fireside

Warm heat pulls my brow
down for a relaxed
state of not
moving.

Thoughts free streaming
as I ease my soul
beside yours
and let it rock,
creak-thump.

Snow may pad
against pane
wrapping away our
freedom
we stay, letting
the fire burn low,
easing closer.

In the darkening
room
flames calm
to quiet smoldering
flowing embers
warming our faces
as our backs
chill.

We push
together.

Wordsmithing

I am the people’s poet;
I write rhymes.
I am the people’s poet;
I sing songs.
They sit around me and look
into my eyes and
they want to know
if I have the words that will serve up
salve for their souls.

Their souls…
that they would let me even begin
to touch the essence of spirit
that makes them divine and beyond
this world is mindboggling,
is pure power and joy that
could lift me higher to a new level of
glorious wordsmithing.
Yet without recognizing the
crookedness of my spine and
the weakness of my breath,
I can do nothing.
The magic lies in
the not noticing.
It is spun when the words
Flow
And I look at them later
And…find they move me
And weave back into my own experience.

Cradled

one or two
notes
is all that it takes
to slip, slide
ease me
into
this day

words unimportant
crooning alone
takes my soul
outward and onto
the floor
a lonely stringed
angel
reminds me to sing

and sinew and marrow
react, contract, give back
to my pain
release every bubble
caught in the cracks
snapping
popping
whopping
whooping, tapping
rapping

free as wood
strikes
and pulls me back in
to my being
my self
take my skin

off that shelf...
leave regret in its place
wrap it 'round where
the cold has seeped
and let it keep
me in

cradled
smooth cheek
rough feet
lined brow
held now
whirling
free in
me

Hand over Hand

Despite the best of intentions and efforts, hierarchies and pecking orders can invade the consciousness of even the most fair-minded love slingers. When caught up in the rungs of this type of ladder it is easy to lose sight of the hands that grasp tightly to the rungs in order to both keep the body steady and pull it up to the next level, but they are there. They grip tightly and beg to be attended to with healing salves and comforting massage therapy. They scream out with the effort of the climb and the simple steady leveling that defines their existence.
Though some proclaim their arrival at the highest rung and look upon the view in wonder, those beneath continue to climb. Though the soles of those allowed to pass while hands paused to soak and soften, warm and wash… though those souls may rest upon the rung beside delicate fingers, they haven’t the power to destroy. One cannot crush another. The rung furthest down is just as round and smooth, and the cedar smell of the wood from which it was carved fills the nostrils of all poised upon the ladder. In the light of the day, after the briefest of nights, the ladder becomes a wheel and the soul atop soon climbs again at the turn of the corner. Turning corners is hard work. It requires a loosened grip and a moment of unbalanced dangling, as bare feet find their way amidst many seeking fingers.

New Year's Day

In planning for just past today
the now, the this,
the games to play.

I look upon my velvet box a
dream of more of
something lost...
of sitting still
of being me
of understanding
who I'll be.

Taking hold and singing songs
matching wits
with butterflies
and catching dreams
just flitting by.

Holding back to meet
the sky
making sundaes,
drinking wine.

And I'll resolve for
something new
to clasp my hand
and pull me through
the roughness that might overpower
and knock me down hour
by hour
Rushing on to meet the day
when dust to dust
I've gone away.