I knew not to build on sand.

What was I supposed to be
supposed to do
to
transform
the world for you?

Miracles I thought
were pots full of hope.
So, with every meal I cooked
every plant I nurtured
every line I wrote
every book I read,
new tomorrows were evolving
around us
bright packages
at the back door
fair bargains
for my naive prayers.

I had no business
expecting more,
illiterate as I
was
in the ways of miracles.

I was the type of mother
who knew not which  roads
to travel
which story to weave
which mine to invest in
what silver spoons were or weren't
or what they would be used for.

I walked on sandy shores every day
looking to reach solid ground
so your first steps would be stable
your voice clearer
your talent
planted on fertile ground.

Who would have predicted
the seismic change
of fortune
that turned solid ground
to slippery sands in seconds.

I knew not to build on sand.
I didn't know not to build with miracles.

"Follow your heart...the universe knows."

Found poem on a red cup, in the Starbucks section
of Barnes and Noble,
in Eugene, Oregon. United States. North America.
The i in the word universe dotted with a star!



The world belongs to dreamers,
and marketers
and schemers
and those who position stores within stores
and painters
by numbers
and arrows
blurring lines along the way
moving you around and through a place
so you don't miss anything you might ever want
and didn't know that before you dropped in.

We've become a nation of
peddlers
tapping into others' dreams
for the moment it takes to
unload the truck of cheap imports.

Only,
your heart knows why you buy into this dream
why you buy into any dream
not your own.

The small things.

This is the door to my cottage in a small sea town in the Northwest of the United States.  To reach the door, you have to go over a bridge of sorts, as the house sits above street level. At night, the bridge is lighted from below! A grand entry for a modest cottage. Off this bridge, before you reach the street, you travel on pea gravel, watching your steps lest you'd step on deer poop.

Deer roam freely, and often stop by this camellia bush and chew up the lower branches.

This picture was taken a while back, around Halloween. The pumpkins didn't invite people up to the house; the footbridge did, and does, every single day. And this cranberry door.
Just a few years ago I wouldn't have picked this color for my front door. I wanted doors that didn't call attention; doors that remained closed to the world; doors that didn't invite people to circle around the neighborhood and case this joint.

There is a certain attitude about living in rural areas. Doors remain unlocked. Everyone has pets. Everyone's pet is known to everyone else.  We identify our houses by our doors, or some unusual tree that would cause a stranger to focus on as he wanders down the street.

Even though my front garden and driveway have been upgraded, this bridge and this door-now-more-than-ever-stand out from the street. When someone asks me where I live, I mention the cranberry door and the foot bridge.

Well, I can also mention the arbors across the front door!

The very sound of you.

So that you know: It took me years to find the right name for You.
You are bound to 
the bone
the marrow
the sinews
of every
thing I have named
to stand out in this soup
called universe
a chain  of
incidents
parts
movements
and objects
visible and invisible
loved
or feared
or wished for
marking
all the
connections
I  made so far.

I gave you a name I loved to hear out loud.
We were all named for the same reason.

When night comes...

When night comes on padded paws
settling in my curves, against my aching hips
purring
a familiar tune,
I surrender.

No use fighting the day's screeches
habitual gnats of discontent
that stick around all night
waiting for that glass of water that is never offered.

I'm
spent to the bone
I declare to no one in particular; I'm  just gonna put my head down
close my eyes
and remember what eyes and toes and fingers feel like.
Parts numbed by day's labor, great and small,
demand full attention.

Before night is over, it puts all parts back in the same whole.

I know why we left.

A lion surprised us one night
and wildly and madly we rushed after it
thrashing sons and cousins
fathers and uncles
men and women
of all sizes
eager to keep the ultimate prize for ourselves.

After the kill,
our hunger satiated,
we told the story
of that thrashing and maiming
through the dark night
the glory
the power
the heroic acts.

Nobody ever noticed how
the innocent killed on the way were never mentioned in our story.

Nobody carried their bodies back; gave them a proper burial;
praised their lives, their ultimate sacrifice.

When someone asked about the missing, we promptly dishonored all who died:
found faults in their steps
blamed them for their fall
reminded everyone how hunger for power kills those who think they can kill a lion.

Only the brave can have such dreams.

Foolish are those who live with illusions of grandeur.
They deserve what they get, we said, with conviction.

If we felt any shame, we drowned it with libations.
If anybody complained, they too became the power-hungry and the fools.

Per me si va...

You need passwords and case -sensitive- random letters -numbers?
I thought high-school lockers were hard to crack!
Are our secrets so important?

Is this our new hell?

Trading times.

On sad days, I trade sun for rain
to hide tears etching my face.
On hungry ones, bread for paper.
Music for dollars on busy days
And a steady husband over a quick lover any time.

On stormy nights when  houses turn into boats
I trade warm hugs for anything else I own.
On laundry days, the odd socks.
On fishing days, the tangled lines.

Trading is how time moves between days.
Except when it is all spent.