TGIF

I have given up on the saccharin treasures of my optimism today.
There is no angelic voice calling me "Honey" at the drive-thru with my morning coffee,
no toothless grin of a child on the bus making me late,
nor the calming taste of left over licorice to heal me.

My mind is a rabble of noisy, angry thoughts
left over from a work-week full of unnecessary toil.

My colleagues and I depart the place
where we make sweaty wages,
defeated and lifeless,
as if we were the putrid remains of some poor animal
run over and left to rot on the side of the road.

I wipe the mucous from the pinched corner of my mouth
and spit the poison onto the ground.

On days like these, let the rain fall down in all her misery
and give me hope that tomorrow
can't get any worse.

The paper cuts will fade in no time.
The psychological games and irrational gems
will be there, festering,
when we get back on Monday.

For now, we give knowing looks to each other as we pass out the door saying,
"Thank God it is Friday."

Where Witches Take Tea

At the vegetarian cafe in Burlington
where nothing happens, my mouth is sluggish
with wine
and sweet
vanilla beans
in cream,

yet the words in my mind blister with witchcraft
I would unleash if I had a wand full of magic
and the will to burn the smoking truth into timbers
of the raging false structure surrounding us all.

It would not take a detective long to consider the wind speed
and elevation in calculating the fool.

The smile on the face of the innocent pinches
and converges at the touching of hands

and the imagination of so many sun-drenched days.

Make Way for More

These days I would settle for a treaty.
Where gossip plunders the truth.
let the voice of wisdom bring focus.

Where a gallant idea surfaces,
let us coax creativity like a breezeway to the heart.

Where a carbuncle of hate swells and festers
under the surface near the source,
let the foolish klutz laugh
and release love onto the path
between heart and denial.

Collect respect.
Loiter in love.
Make way for more.

In the Delicate Hours

In the delicate hours after sleep is upon the body
like a mistral at midnight

let the night tell her stories
coaxing love from the belly of the constant darkness.

I have placated sadness for so long
I had forgotten what gratitude does for the white snows,
brilliant cardinals in pairs at the feeder,
and warm coffee in a single press.

Each word of comfort,
verbatim from the deepest winter heart,
whispering a secret code at the doorway
to a society that forgives everything.

That Open Place

I am losing my balance like I always do at the end of a long and tired year.
I stumble from the fatigue of it all and long for the hand extended
like a fulcrum to shoulder the path with another seeker.

I sit with a noose in my mind full of thoughts,
toxic tumbling might be over soon
if only this abundant heart
can send a richochet of a stone
into the barbaric battles
of endless garbled words.

My hands wrap a gentle chokehold around the neck of nothingness,
fingers are purple from the tight tension that are applied to the job
that must be done.

There is so much more to be done.
There is so much that is to be left undone.

I must walk with my hand on the wall of truth's home,
cool and sure of herself,
like the hum of the apiary in a June field of flowers.

Let me find the way to that open place of sweet enlightenment
with each step toward love's constant companionship.

Water Hitting Sand and Stone

The sound of the ocean feeds me
as I walk, again, at the edge of the world.
This water is like a Minnesota pasture at twilight,

illuminating my wrath
and then washing all anger
out to sea.

I become a ghost in the mist of of all I am
walking over the sand and discerning the mysterious tides.

It is sometimes enough to steal words from the mouths of others
and realize what is lost in that theft,

but to watch others profit from my interruptions,
to enslave poets,
and destroy the science of all learning
is more
than anyone can stand by
and silently witness
the erosion of the seaweed garments
left out to dry.

I gently place my list of hurts into a small bottle tonight
and carefully let the glass float away into the moonlight
and the waves.

I place the damaged hope into that tiny vessel
and let her drift away with all the disappointment
for some new land that can heal us.

The crashing sound of water hitting the sand and stone
will be enough for this day
and keep me praying for the wisdom
to stay with tiny particles of the elements
stuck to the bottoms of my salty feet.

Drifting

The unlikely treasure
of nostrils burdened with open earth and rain,
is shrouded in December's curtain of bland and plundered days.

The steaming kettle of the melting skies boils until we can't resist
and must draw the curtains of clouds on these fading Vermont hills.

I will not be swindled into thinking snow won't arrive angrily,
exacting payment for this balmy change of season's mind.

My intention is a magnet setting the compass
to point directly at the schism between what I know
and what the world will become.

Until the icy winds cut into my cheeks,
let my smile exhaust the foggy moon
while she makes her journey to the fiery line
at the drifted, western fences.