poem for a free monday

Whatever happens. Whatever
what is is is what 
I want. Only that. But that. 


Prayer by Galway Kinnell

ballads

'I'm yours and that's it, whatever.'

while the snow falls

Today I need a vista, loose wild air, a little bit of freedom, hope. I need to learn the words to new songs, put on a swirly dress and dance and watch the snow fall through the window. I need to find a little spark to get me through next week. I may have to make my own sunshine. 

photo by Mitchell Davis

1-15-12

for A

I was cutting up a pomegranate yesterday, thinking about you, and thinking about how strange it is that we could be friends. We have so little in common, besides our desires to be loved and to do the right thing. I wondered why you chose me. Why you continue to choose me.

You introduced me to your grandmother last night. "This is the girl I told you about," you said. "Remember last year, when I was going through that rough time, and I told you I was praying for a friend? This is her."
I never knew. I was kind of floored, to be honest with you.

Maybe you have something I need, A. Maybe I need more of your wide-eyed, big-hearted, openly loving approach to life and people. Maybe among and between the discussions of boys and beauty and God, you could help me become a better person.

poem for a sodden wednesday

Chunky and noisy,
but with stars in their black feathers,
they spring from the telephone wire
and instantly

they are acrobats
in the freezing wind.
And now, in the theater of air,
they swing over buildings,

dipping and rising;
they float like one stippled star
that opens,
becomes for a moment fragmented,

then closes again;
and you watch
and you try
but you simply can't imagine

how they do it
with no articulated instruction, no pause,
only the silent confirmation
that they are this notable thing,

this wheel of many parts, that can rise and spin
over and over again,
full of gorgeous life.
Ah, world, what lessons you prepare for us,

even in the leafless winter,
even in the ashy city.
I am thinking now
of grief, and of getting past it;

I feel my boots
trying to leave the ground,
I feel my heart
pumping hard, I want

to think again of dangerous and noble things.
I want to be light and frolicsome.
I want to be improbable beautiful and afraid of nothing,
as though I had wings.


~ Starlings in Winter by Mary Oliver