Bonus Poem: This Poetry is Not for Everyone

These words aren't for everyone.
They aren't your standard party platter fair,
But the acquired taste developed over time by feeding a love and a hunger for rich, dig-in deep sounds and meaning.
I can't feed the masses, dear.
But I can try to feed the broken, the people who feel like they deserve a second bite at life but can't grasp it in their cavities. I can hold out my hand
And the few who haven't eaten of that juicy, dripping-down-your-face purpose today,
They will come pecking.
And that is why this meal is served.

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Yins and Yangs

Just this minute, the white-tailed Magpies are finding themselves In the verdant glades of the Rockies, As the aspens, fresh green, quake in the wind. They know nothing of Jon Snow, Or the window on the second floor Where I look out, remembering, Longing for apricity, the sun on my face. But the gloam is settling in, And the magpies will soon be seeking Windows of their own To look out of. And I think the shadows on my page Are cast like dark rainbows - made of light And things in the way. Awe-inspiring shapes I couldn't see in the dark. Is it best to be inside or Outside? Or can I be moved To appreciate this Pedulumic cycle - To be tossed, fro and to, Between creation and decay, Between sunrise and Sunset? Do you feel the loam in your hands, How rich it is when you dig deeper? Do you admire how perfectly The lilac blossom, with its powerful redolence, Seeks your attention as if to say, "Stay outside for a while." As my colleague yamm...

Bonus Poem: Look Up!

Looking down, I read the priceless pages, Someone else, sweetly, precisely, Had written their drinkable life on. And I drank in the appreciation Of her words, one sentence at a time, A good, fresh white. Sensational, the clouds were Pouring in, filling my cup, Easing in, with a soft voice that said, "Look up!" My eyes glanced, only peeking At first, toward the sky. Those rain-bringers harnessing My irises with glee. And as if it had been there All along, the whole long while, A sparrow drifted into the Watercolor before me, soaring. It glided on the currents That were my own world, too. And we shared the view, Him up there, I, eyes lifting further now. And then the wind found itself Playing in the cottonwood's hair. And I smiled, thinking About how good it probably felt, Those wind-fingers, sifting through.

Wisteria Vines

Sometimes I have to remember How gently the wisteria trees Sway in a sunshower. How the gossamers built with patience Must sometimes be built again, And again, and again without complaint. I have to listen for the laughter The one you'd almost miss if you were Too worried about the symmetry of the seams On the dress your mother sewed And you re-sowed. “Be at ease.” That lithe voice whispered, smiling. I imagine there on the front porch A child with golden hair and Sapphire eyes, planting a huge basium On the family pup’s nose, and they both Turn shyly and grin at my future. “Mommy, let's play,” she says, and I know it's everything. Everything I ever wanted. To play. To delight In words dancing on pages and Make the dirt at my feet into ballrooms. “It's not a tempest, my dear, only A little rain, swaying the wisteria Blooms.” My mother again holds my hand. The hand that would one day Write about what howl...

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