Wow, I’ve never played Scrabble with a sort of theme to it, but that’s just the way it worked out! Here’s a poem using all of the words Stephen and I made.

When the queen is done braiding her hair
with a zig and a zag
it is time to drop
the magic key down to her guru
who arrives on a mean donkey pulling a cart.
As she awaits, she wonders, is it a crime
to lust for her enlightened one?
Having failed to find the bottle
or the jug groovy enough, she has hired
this guru to stir up the rotten webs
that have clouded her heart.
Somehow, she fell in love with him
and as per their usual three o’clock tryst
he will catch the fallen object, but
before he reaches the window
(where a sumac fails to hide
the secret door to the tower completely)
the donkey is startled by a pair of oxen.
The guru is filled with ire
and flogs the poor animal, reeling him in
as if he were koi fish in a lake.
When this happens the queen, lusty
for her suitor, seals the impatient moment
by throwing herself from the window,
hoping to be neatly out on the cart.
Instead, she misses and kisses the street.

“This Little Light
of Mine”
“You are
My Sunshine”
and “Blue Moon”
in the afternoons
and she joins me
with her
aaahhhhs
as if
she knew
the words
or any,
as if
she were here
now, her soul purpose,
to be singing
about her
candle heart
shining
or her
smile or
my smile
or the blue moon
every so often
no longer alone
in the sky
hearing our prayers
for
love
love
and
more love
as it seems to
be turning
to gold
behind the cloud
of her tongue
just big enough
to stick
out
at me
and wriggle.

The mother picked her baby gently up from the bassinet and nursed her in bed. Baby spat the milk back into the breast. Mother got off the bed and took the dirty diaper from its bin and smothered it onto the baby’s bottom. Water sucked up the drain and filled the tub where the bodies were covered. The sun returned to its usual spot behind gray clouds. The man walked toe-heel, toe-heel down the sidewalk with the newspaper under his arm, turned around, and returned it to the machine that spat back two quarters into his palm. Back home in the kitchen, the tea spout sucked the Earl Gray into it’s belly and the yolks their shells. In bed, the couple rested in each other’s arms, their mouths turned to cotton, their heads too.

Happy Birthday here’s a primrose
Yellow raindrops in the grey light
Mother’s daughter scrubbing the clothes
Skin cracked all winter, no sleep at night

despite cloud changing light
from cell to cell, divide and multiply
plus me, plus him
numbers appear in her fingerprints

So deep in sleep, pink and turned
to the side    peaceful mouth
Say what you saw: salt   honey   sheep
Once upon a time,
the well was pumped to feed the garden
tomatoes   pole beans   carrots
There was a poem down there
at the bottom   which never dries
unless you ask it too
Tonight you have the well of sleep
thirsting through your body, gentle lamb
little lamp     moon beam
Once upon some day
lovingly rearrange the thoughts
that make you b l u e
Deep down     the sound of your own voice
will equal j o y
that belongs    to you
Share what lives at the bottom
and you will never be empty
you’ll find what you need

A much better surprise has come from this wind.
Though, no one slept well (my husband took to the couch like a nest).
I dressed the child in purple and called my job finished.
At least she didn’t weep. She was mysteriously alert.
I met an oboe player today and she described a hopeful new place
where flora and fauna return, along with cherry pie.
We played show and tell with new music. Her about her breakup,
me about the happy apple.

(((INfiiiniiiTY))

This one is inspired by the wonderful Ask the Ages concert I heard last night with harp and horns. I regret not bringing my camera. The Chapel space was so gorgeous with the juxtaposition of vibes, harp, drums and bass on stage. I was lured to the concert by my favorite Alice Coltrane piece, Journey to Satchidananda and the promise of a Pharoah Sanders feeling, which I heard and felt.

#2, We All Fall Down

I can’t nor do I want to imagine life without her,
this world of music and of grace
that plays on with or without me, sings
like a saxophone and a harp gliss mixed with chocolate covered
baby dreams sliding further away from me every day,
ask the ages how to get any work done with her around,
any dishes, any laundry, any paperwork or writing,
I wonder about a piece of toast, how much I take it for granted
or the sky with its metal plated blue, like a guitar player
always with so much to say — rain one minute, sunshine
the next, every day is one more ring around my bones
a pocket full of posies, ashes, ashes