Much loved in a different land
Where the magic wand is
In a different hand.
Every woman is sometimes Cinderella
And people forget that the savior
Is not really the Charming fella
But the older woman who appears
Miraculously, amidst despair
Creating wonders
Out of thin air.

Dawn, like a wolf, emerges from its lair
With eyes like stars set in its grey white hair
Sentinel to the morning that threatens to fall.

Where will you go, lover of my night
When day pierces the shadows of your flight
Devourer, fighter, keeper of the wall?

Who will keep my wolverine dreams
From the touch of these corroding beams
Leader of the pack, one for all?

Light approaches the hills in a slow prowl
Glancing, peak to peak, in a silvery howl
The early morning sentinel’s call.

 

(An Aubade is a poem written for the dawn, traditionally when lovers part.
Art work by ka-kind)

Jane Austen once said
(She’s a rock star too)
That mostly you’re in love with the fact
That someone’s in love with you.

Narcissism.
It seems an ugly thing.
But isn’t it true that when The Boss cancels his North Carolina concert and refuses to sing,
And I post his note on Facebook because my heart has taken wing,
That I’m convinced that like that other frikkin rockstar Sting,
He sees everything I do?

I read the notes left in the margins
Of books left on tables next to mine.
I hold mugs of tea long after the owners
Have drunk them, looking for the heat
Of their hands. I often barge in
To rooms when singers have just left
And breathe the note, the beat.
I park in spots that shoppers vacate
And wonder what they bought, what
They saw, what they ate. I sometimes
Stand in line where children stood
Scuffing their feet, itching, pulling
At hands that rein them in, and wonder
Who are the wonderers who inhabit
My skin.

Purple Ladybugs, they said
Found only in Hawaii
Perfect for those of us, I thought
Looking for stimuli.
When all the world seems
Flattened and hard, and
Facebook posts seem dreary,
Purple ladybugs pop up:
Soul food for the weary.

Details, I thought, and pictures
To show that there is hope
And joy and miracles of nature:
And then I looked at Snope.
Apparently its all a hoax
-Move along, nothing to see here, folks!-
And I do move on, faith renewed,
In pursuit of illusion, Purple-Ladybug-imbued.

 

On some forgotten mile of regret
Pebbled with smoothened tears
I shall seek out a rock of bitter rest
And solace my weary feet of fears.

If the ocean froths before me
Alive with my leaping crimes,
If the trees roar above me
And deny me comforting rhymes;

If no walker passes by my seat
No glance with which to save me;
If no guilty eye will my eye greet
Or no passing breeze will brave me;

I shall make of my sieved soul
A covering for my head
And bind these blistered feet I stole
With pity stripped from bark and bole
To sing me that I once was whole
And measure each mile I tread.

 

Too late to be fooled
Too early to learn from Spring
Snow burnt grass, ice shy fish
Hard black earth, wind cooled
I have been a fool for lesser things.

Too old to be wooed
Too young to shed these wings
Age crimped eyes, silver hair
Morning tea fresh brewed
I have been a fool for lesser things.

Too tame to be ruled
Too rowdy to be held by rings
Latch held windows, gentle walks
Still not ready to be schooled
To be a fool for lesser things.

The greyness of skies doesn’t bother me much
I feel less pressure to be joyful.
The bluer it is, the fairer the day
As clear as justice, so they say.
For myself, a hidden sun is such
An undeserved, blessed trifle.
A little rain is better yet, it drops
Like mercy, I’ve heard it said.