Blue Cats

Sometimes when a poet
writes about blue cats
wearing bow ties,
she is not writing
about blue cats
wearing bow ties.

Instead, she is really writing
about Love
and how he makes her laugh,
eyes turned to the heavens
and her soft belly relaxing
into a sigh.

Sometimes she wonders
how blue cats came
to symbolize Love
in her mind.
With that single thought
she rolls over
in her soft February sheets
and reaches to touch
warm skin, smiling.

Last time she remembers
walking up the stairs,
Love was waiting for her
with a surprise embrace
wanting to share
forgiving words with her,
wanting to place his hands
on her face,
gently looking her in the eyes
consumed with heat and time
passing too quickly.

A butterfly tempting the paws
of a blue cat.

It was not a lost opportunity.
Instead, Love took the poet
to pray under the moon.

Blue moon, like Picasso's brushes
painting confused shapes
with God-words
that no one else
could hear.
Blue paper saturated
with translation;
a key to all language.

Blue cats wearing bow ties,
making her laugh out loud.

Sometimes
joy

just happens.

Slowly Waking

Honey melts with lemon
and hot water in a cup
made by a local potter.

Start the day breathing,
writing.

The cleansing ritual
of words making their way
onto the blank space
erases the mind's holding,

opens up the universe
to liquid possibility
and forgiveness for clenching
the fingers of too much hope
around nothingness.

Instead, this morning,
open your aching hands,
unfold your arms like wings,
and fly off this page
into the sound
of the full moon.

Another day
waking slowly
from all dreaming.

Dreaming of Things Falling Apart

This time it is a surprise to you
that you remember the dream
of your white teeth
falling from your mouth,
past your lips and down
the drain that used to be
your body

or possibly this is the dream
where you have taken apart the machine
that mows the grass joyfully
in the heat of summer
and you carefully wrapped the pieces
in cloth
like the dead.

It might be that someday soon
sleep will find you at home
alone in your comfortable bed
when you will again dream
you have lost your way
in the pounding ache of darkness;
the haunting drumming of the punk
you may or may not have played
as a kid.

It doesn't matter. It is only a dream.

Night in this chapter is the shadow of the mind
that tries to control your breath with shackles,
racing ahead of you with the skeleton keys
jangling in the pockets of your head;
making your rush
where you would rather
crawl under the warmth
of the heavy cover
of morning
and into
all that
pink and yellow
light.

Let yourself
close your eyes and jolt;
jump out of the frame
of this scene--
an old film
crumbling,
falling apart
on the floor
of your expectations.

Falling Feather

The heart is tender,
broken in the sound it makes.
A feather falling.

A String of Beads

String each breath together
like a strand of beads;
prayers for the moment
in which we live.

I am silent
but for the mind
that must travel
to places I've never been
and into the future
where I might never
arrive.

Patient,
the cool, smoothness
of the body pauses
smiles between my thoughts
and my clumsy fingers
and narrowly
escapes--

the light of the half moon
laughs as she dances
in spite of the racing clouds
and abundant stars.

Morning, she realizes suddenly,
is just over
the next rise.

Crocus at Twilight

Reach over and turn out the light
on the day that is leaving us,
my Love,
blue twilight escaping
into the January snow.

We have worked hard
side by side
shoveling away the grief
of our lives,
and now we must rest
nuzzled against each other.

Kiss me sweetly, just like we did
in the spring--while we held the hand
of hope
with the wonder of the crocus
against the cold.

Oh the crocus: so much like our hearts
need to be;
beautiful, strong
ready to risk exposure, fragile.

Hoping, beyond hope, that the troublesome snow
will melt quickly
so that a new season can begin,

new and noticed
by those who are looking
carefully.

The Year the Bears Forgot to Sleep

The year the bears forgot to sleep
the insomniacs arrived
after dark on the deck
at the feeder
meant for creatures of flight
with feathers,
not fur—

for aviators
who sang to me
in the sunlight of morning,
not huffing like prowlers
or old men in heavy boots—

not this old sow
licking black seeds
from the wood outside the window,
pawing at the compost pile
hoping for a morsel
of moldy cheese.

But they came,
night after night,
zombies in the balmy Vermont moonlight
and air

wandering dangerously
near the house
on Sunset Lake Road
just around the corner
from the all-night glow
of the neon
Chelsea Royal Diner sign

drawn, like all poets
and things that go bump
in the night,
to Rumi
and Kenyon
and the lullaby
of Goodnight Moon.