Blue

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inside a box

wrapped in a bow

under wrinkled paper

(contained)

blue roses

at my door

 

I am a wildflower

I am a meadow

I am a wide open space

 

you can’t sit me on a shelf

you can’t put me in a vase

 

(i’m withering here)

 

blue roses don’t exist

blue roses can’t grow

 

I am a wildflower

I am a meadow

I am a wide open space

 

(you don’t know)

 

grow

wild

blue

The Star Watcher

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She crawled inside the night to wait

as the sun sunk low, all of her warm

colors followed her down to the sea.

Like music, she heard them go – sun

and her bright yellows and reds – drums,

full orchestra as she bowed her head.

The oranges, peaches, and pinks

danced across the stage, violins echoed

their softer song, and then dropped

with the wind. Only piano remained,

clear and blue, and indigo inked the sky

as day let go – and silence.

 

And, for so many nights, this is when

the stars would come. The keeper would

release them, one by one. He’d watch her eyes

as stars transformed the blue, and the blue

of her eyes drew the stars inside. And in her sky

he’d draw magical things, and that is what

her heart was made of. But one night, the keeper

never came, and stars began to disappear.

Others claimed to see them still, but her sky was dark.

Deep inside her the magic never returned –

a heart without a keeper, a sky without the stars

Piece of Sky

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The piece of me that is the sky

flies within the blue, hopes with

the sun, believes the clouds.

Above, the piece watches me,

sends me to the sea to breathe,

scatters green, gifts wildflowers

like smiles.  In the sky, a piece of me

flies, and within me lies ~

a perfect piece of sky.

New Years Eve, 2012

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I’m starting this year in a black dress and combat boots.

Gone are the wasted minutes of waiting,

replaying reflections to find reasons, seeking reassurance;

that’s all behind me, flattened by boot prints.

But look up, and you’ll still see the sweet I hold on to,

I cherish, like the quietest cloud at sunset,

or the taste of music, or the feel of blue.

I’m still here this year, with boots to carry me through.

 

Longing for Lost

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Among the bare trees and ridges
in the last days of the year, 
I tried to get lost. It was nearly dark, 
evening clouds covered the mountain, 
covered me, pulling deeper down 
past mossy fallen oaks and the stream 
that sang of never returning. 
I followed as each path faded, 
until there was none, and no me, 
just blueness and quiet, and I secretly 
hoped no voices would find me to call 
me back.  Late, in the dark and cold, 
there were voices that haunted me 
back, and I shuffled return steps 
with my head down, through the darkness. 
I still long for lost. 

Self-Portrait, Words

blue, and always searching,

looking for where the sun shines

down, so I can turn toward it and grow

like the peaceful sunflower.  always

feeling darkening clouds gathering

behind me, threatening me, chasing me,

that I may go from sun on my face

to a cold, shaking ball on muddy ground,

driving rain, lightning strikes and fear

things change so fast.  i can’t keep up.

alone, but searching for like hearts,

holding light, pulling it in, spreading it out

blue and light, reaching alwaysImage