happy belated birthday, baby blog <3

one year old

I’m going to keep this one short and sweet.

 

Yesterday was one year since I began blogging here in this little corner of the world. It has been quite an adventure, and I have crossed paths with some wonderful people.

 

Mostly I have continued to learn and grow and make mistakes and feel joy and pain and hear my own voice and put myself out there and pick myself back up after falling. Yep, sounds like a full first year.

 

This card from my mother seems to sum it all up well, this thing we call life:

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Happy belated birthday, baby blog. <3 Thanks to all who stop by, read, comment, and toddle along with me.

 

 

in this room for the living

in this room for the living,

this calico chirping

 

in the window, thinking

she is a red, red robin;

 

this lantern singing,

this green brush growing

 

her lush periwinkle comb,

grooming me into the next

 

branching under which i am

disarmed by the charms

 

of soft pine stories, gently

pressing their charges

 

against me as i walk,

walk, walk into dissolve.

 

new territory

from this

window well

gridded cell

 

i suddenly see the silver-fish-peacock

streaming and sparking in the peripheral;

 

our giant glass eye with kaleidoscope lashes

meets in the middle

 

–blue-green-red-white waves and flashes–

 

behind which the great

wheel cogitates:

 

the quiet cut of

terror.

 

it would have been beautiful,

this alien trope of light,

 

had it not been lodged deep

inside my eye,

my brain –

 

stealing my vision, my clarity,

my ability to see, read, be, sustain.

 

after it passed, and the brief relief set in,

the cat and i exchanged knowing looks across

the old-new scent-filled floorings:

 

this was new territory.

 

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stretch the spirit-head high

i wake each morning

to a sun-filled kitchen,

familiar cup of coffee;

 

i feel new.

 

but by night-fall i am

in mourning for

the old.

 

i know, this too shall pass;

which is its own

 

kind of sadness.

 

i slowly ease in and dig my

shell into this fresh sand:

 

letting the tiny grains

patiently move me along –

 

millions of time-wise

crystalline hands.

 

i keep one eye on the tide,

stretch the spirit-head high

 

to the deep-wide horizon.

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how we die

carrying a pizza box up-hill,

balancing two cold cylinders atop a softening square;

 

listening to the klee-klee-klee of the kestrel,

calling and climbing and diving for food;

 

building a race-car without brake clips,

forging full-speed-ahead;

 

stealing a few  lone  hours at midnight,

catching ghost moments in the quieting hum;

 

kicking off slippers bed-side,

leaving for morning should you wake;

 

every month is a miracle under-girded thirty-some times by the words:

this is the day.

turret syndrome

in concentric circles

these sun-saturated planks

 

constrict the heart

of the house,

 

make it feel — over

and over again.

 

in slippery socks

you walk the ranks

 

you know so well,

eyes shut.

 

floating far above in a spiral-pocket

of deadening air, a hair of respite

 

plucked from the hard

wick of existence.

circles

 

like a sweet-sharp hammer against the throat: for maya

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that sunday,

three days before maya’s passing,

we had planned to wake and make bacon

and don our ironed church dresses and ribbons

and drive to holy communion where our secret shame

would be washed clean as fresh snow, and we would know

we were safe and loved and sacred and full of dove-tailing freedoms.

 

and then our parakeet died.

 

she had been singing and flitting

and pecking and strutting in her upright

cage for days; calling out to us and

to the wild birds at the window:

 

hello! hello!

 

chirping out her notes

like a sweet-sharp

hammer

against the throat:

 

i’m here! i’m here!

 

we had not planned to have any more caged animals;

the thought of being trapped in a cage is agony.

our rat, lizard, even chinchilla had not seemed to mind –

perhaps because their desperation was quiet and wide-eyed;

 

but the un-clipped yellow, white, and blue birthday parakeet

chiming out her presence like a continual clock

was too much – too much holy happiness

for such a confined space; too much awareness, sadness.

 

we could not forget her.

 

we could not forget ourselves:

breeding her in a cage, perching her on a stage.

 

and now, in a little shoe box, taped up tight and still,

her brittle body rests: quiet, empty, de-willed.

 

her spirit has flown up and away where her body could not;

her song has gone before her, trilling into the clouds.

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