Cardinal Sign

the fallen feather
silent riot of color
on tender spring grass

Foreign Tongue

Your common name, fire pink

misleading

as to your true color

Like many labels

put upon,

one size does not fit all

There is comfort

in category, in recall,

but surely there is room

for the heart

to name

what the body sees and feels,

without benefit

of language,

foreign to your tongue.

Cooking

I stew about the “rules” of poetry,
wondering if my pot of words
is sustenance
or merely palatable.

This whirl of letters
and punctuation,
metaphor and imagery;
a rolling boil of expression

that if tended
with a patient and loving hand
will simmer
to a fine consommé.

Enough?
Or would you care
for a second helping?

Song of Morning

I raise the window in haste
so as not to shut out
the song of morning

the ebb and flow
of wind through the leaves
easily mistaken for rain

messages tapped out
by the chickadee,
releasing a kernel
from a safflower seed

bees bobbing curiously
at the window screen,
the drone of their buzzing
a sedative

the faint chirps
of newly hatched bluebirds
safe in the nest

all commanding my attention,
demanding nothing of me
except to sit and listen

and appreciate their voices
as they waft through an open window
washing me clean

with the song of morning

Taste

Words, breath, emotions
catapulting across airwaves,
teeth, tongue, lips, mouth
so close to the microphone
you can taste plastic

There's a staircase
I walk in my sleep
shadow and light play
make every other step
a guess

or an act of faith
that when you put
the full force of your weight
on the foot
something solid
will hold you up

like words, breath, emotions
spoken in truth
in a small room

the taste of plastic
still on my tongue

La Luna

La Luna, La Luna

a lyrical moth

in form and color

a surprise

as I stumbled out

in the deep of night

with no reason

to look up, except

the whisper of your wings

broke the silence

as they unfurled,

as they unfurled

in this protected place

Hungry

To awake hungry,
you must lie down
with the memory of
a feast

a handful of warm berries
who leave their mark on your fingers
a handful of air
grasped in a moment of ecstasy

reaching for the pinnacle cloud
with the tip of your toes
as the arc of the swing
takes you higher

until you come full circle
to the familiar,
the starting place
it all began...

the memory
of being born

hungry

Yellow Throated Warbler - II

Warbler's yellow throat
surprising burst of sunshine
gales of birdsong, Spring

Yellow Throated Warbler

a yellow throated warbler
passes through

impressive markings
around the eye and cheek,
a masked bandit
in search of food
and fodder for the nest

he chittles,
he chortles happily

looking up to see me peering
through the window
he flashes his sunny throat
my way and adds a wink
just for good measure

this is spring at its finest

Honey

a raindrop glides
down the windowpane
so too a tear
down my cheek

collecting in the hollow
of my throat
that burns from
holding back the pain

of bone against bone
where once there was cushion
now nerves tap urgent
messages to the brain

cries for relief
no longer stifled
by the small oval pill
once sweet honey,
coating the senses

My Big Sister

This is my big sister and me looking cute. We're all grown up now, but when I visit her, we sit side-by-side on her front porch talking, drinking something cool and sometimes holding hands.

She had surgery today and is in recovery. The doctor said everything went well and she's going to be fine. It's a long way from Texas to Tennessee and it feels ever longer today. I hope she knows I'm sitting on the porch, waiting for her to come home.

You Are Appreciated

Yes, today is your day.

A day for me to say 'thank you' to those who have stopped by, left your thumbprint on a page or two of these musings and when so inclined, a comment.

For nearly 4 years, I've littered the Blogosphere with poetry, rants, wonders, photos, joys and heartbreaks. Put another way, what it means to be human.

I often wonder who you are. That's why I put a little widgit on the bottom right hand corner of my Blog. It shows your journey to and your journey away from this spot. Well, that and it helps me feel not so alone when this life begins to feel very alone.

So, here's a Haiku dedicted just to you, dear Blog Readers. Print it out, put it on your fridge, pin it to the wall of your cubicle, know that your are appreciated:

Deep in the dense woods

a solitary poet

thinks of you and smiles

Quiver

Quiver,
the tender leaves
on a morning breeze
no longer winter
not quite spring

Quiver,
the yellow violas
whose faces
crowd cheek-to-cheek
forming a new sun

Quiver,
the weathered bark
slapped
by wind and rain
ice and snow

Quiver,
a clutch of bluebird eggs
under a brood patch
tapping their way
to life and flight

Quiver,
the tender places
touched
in the early morning hours

asleep, awake, alive

How Deep the Pool?

Into the looking glass
water tumbles.
How deep the pool?

A hungry lap never says no

to
the
fall

or what may manifest

from
the
fall

like a whirlpool,
or a trapped pod
too delicious to release
spinning round and round
until all that’s left
is right for the feast

that falls from the sky
again and again
singing a raucous melody,
seducing the onlooker

until they cease to care,
how deep is the pool
that holds them
and the trapped pod

enraptured

And Now, Back to our Regular Programming

Excuse me for stubbing my toe on the doorstep of National Poetry Month. Yes, I committed to write a poem a day for all in the Blogosphere to enjoy. Little did I realize the pressure, THE PRESSURE that commitment would place on this particular poet. I seized up and sat staring at a blank piece of paper, then a blank screen, then a blank piece of paper. It wasn't pretty folks.

...but I'm back from a wonderful weekend with the Lovely Linda and the sun is shining, the birds are singing and words are flowing. Check back tomorrow for the latest installment AND Thursday is Blog Readers Appreciation Day so you'll want to see the special way I say 'thank you.'

Dogwood Winter

creamy petals pause
their ritual unfurling

hail, dogwood winter

Ghost Heron

i welcome the greening
except
i’ll miss
the fishermen,
their knee to chest gait
through the muck

they don’t mind the intrusion
except
they’re pulling the curtain
inch-by-inch
across the stage
of my gaze

until the eye rests here,
at the edge of a thicket
instead of there,
along the shallows
of a meandering creek
where fishermen
dine in private

except,
here i sit
on the other side of waiting
for the fall,
wanting memory’s apparition
to emerge

when the greening
will retreat again
from sight

Mosaic

Bending but not breaking
breaking but not shattering
shattering but not clattering
as I hit the ground

Gathering but not mending
mending but not tending
tending but not nurturing
fragments found

Weathered hands swirl the pan
In sunlight
hungry eyes search murky soup
for glints of gold

Reflecting but not shining
shining but not glowing
glowing but not radiating
from within

Stepping but not dancing
dancing but not laughing
laughing but not crying
where do I begin?

Every Drop a Jewel

dew carpets the lawn

every drop a jewel
suspending from the tip
of Spring’s tender shoots

every drop a tear
cleansing the film of winter
from my eyes

every drop a prism
bending morning’s light
into a halo

I raise the window
inviting colors to drift in
on a gentle breeze

every breath a feast
offering sustenance
to the hollow places

every breath a step
ascending from night
onto the plane of a new day

every breath a peal
ringing the spirit awake
from a long slumber

Dream Poem

the best ones
write themselves
in my sleep
whispers of words
growing louder
until their voices
shake me,
wake me
into a kind of
conscious stupor,
groping for pen and paper
gasping for air
they come tumbling out
onto the page

how the hand moves
from left to right
leaving words in its wake
is not a small thing

Do I Dare?

Or challenge myself to write a poem a day?

The pen has been less prolific of late. By pen, I mean me. It's time to face the blank page (a writer's worst fear or greatest joy) and begin again.

Do you have a favorite poet or poem? Has poetry shaped your life view in any way?

Talk to me. I want hear your story.

Check back each day for a new poem.

See you tomorrow.