Luci's Shawl

Prayers of thanks as I wrap

the wholly crocheted words

around me. 

It’s cool in this writer’s

cave under the stairs.

Your tight and lose knots

rest easy on my cold shoulders.

It was back on May twentieth,

early in the morning that I

was invited into moving

words with needle swords.

You wield the points together,

changing the colors as needed

until floats cascade down

in mischief on the underside.

Then flashing would rise like an

Easter morning as you knot and

untie the fibers of vocabulary.

Any time I can pull out a poem

of yours like a loose thread and

it unravels me. 

In Honor of one of my favorites

Luci Shaw 

 

Leaning toward an
outside line
outside time

a place where
wheels roll not
and white hair
stays fresh from
being done

and visitations
come as Alzheimer's
disconnections
grace her

memories shuffled
as she used to
down the corridor



Photo by Greg Laychak
Submitted for One Shoot Sunday

Life Interred

Before the inclusion wakes

I sit breathing,

ears open.

It is silent Saturday

when interred

life lies.

A cardinal speaks louder

than words outside

my window.

A blood breast is all

I look for,

for now.

Paddleboard

Every now and then
it's good to bend a knee
and point to the past.

Every now and then
a thin stone is all
that separates us.

Every now and then
a cement paddle board
is all that keeps us afloat.

For then as now
a life waked behind us
and we lean in.

For then as now
the surf's up and we
try to catch a current.

For then as now
a gift of flow has
offered us a ride.

Photo used with permission by James Rainsford
Poem submitted for Shoot Sunday

Family Fusion

a dozen divergent possibilities
descend upon me
even now

even now
they upend me
a dozen veins of vision


blessings in their own right
bring life in
a minute

a minute
passes wonder
around me pulses giving


family is it's own grace
God steps in time
to appear

to appear
in relational cues
a nuclear family fusion

Give Me A Bite Of That Apple

because I’m definitely outside the garden.

I’m out in the carb jungle and it shows.

Where can I buy fig leaves with spandex?

I know why A and E hid.

I know why I want to hide.

My pants don’t fit right, I mean,

I don’t mean to sag, that’s not how I

usually roll, but now I have a roll and

it sags and my buttocks are packing

their bags and heading northeast.

I used to have a button on my belly and

now there’s just a button hole.

I have to think about how I tie my shoes.

A short chair is best or

I come up with no air in my chest.

Hand me that apple so

I can bite it to the core.

I’ll have it bronzed and stick it

on my dash to remind me

of my core within.

Maybe an apple a day

will make my belly go away.

Maybe.

What Goes Up

hold on tight
to aire is human

a cliche' dropping
like a lead balloon

no sense in riding the
fence or being fenced in

can't step on the crack when
you rise above circumstance

you didn't click your heels thrice
shall I cut you loose to watch you

fly the friendly skies to infinity and
beyond what dreams may come in

different shapes and sizes you up
as head in the clouds oblivious

walking on air you step down
the stairway to heaven and

catch your breath waiting
to exhale a collapsed

iron lung contraction
if you only had a

heart of stone &
ruby slippers


Photo by Lauren Randolph
for One Shoot Sunday

Real Time

That afternoon there were moments

Time outs from speaking, breathing

All that surfaced was a ticking

A tocking like a heartbeat

Thump, thump, thump

Like a metronome keeping pace

And we submitted to it

for what else was there

There was no DVD

there was no DVR

There was only us and him

and thoughts and prayers floating

He once again suspended future

and past and invited  present

Oh what a gift it was

like eating breakfast on the beach

after a long arduous night

and light came softly

and spilled on us

through that window of

real time

For Dan Webb in the loss of his son.

Ventrical Lenses

Beauty is fleeting
a lens winks and
sucks in an image
and lays it down
like oil on canvas

and there you were
holding, leaning into
the future days where
your beauty is sucked
into your soul where
it is destined to rest

So the hours like
lens' opening and
blinking shut
do their time as
a heart's ventricular
cadence shutters


Photo by India Hobson, interviewed for One Shoot Sunday