Three Stories ~ Because I Was Late For Dinner

Apparently                                          the unfolding is already happening
for you                                                 while I sit in a barber shop chair –
at home                                               you are waiting for me
the stories you have woven are          unraveling,
unfurling quietly                                   as the scissors fly and she tells me of her plunge
into truth                                              from pain,
into life                                                 from despair,
and you realize,                                   and I realize
that this has all happened                   for a reason, everything is
in perfect order,                                  inside this night,
a lifetime                                              and our coming together
over a glass of wine,                           and a new haircut,
sometimes all we need is                    a rainy night,
the gift of spaciousness                       and someone to listen.

Morning Porch

Springtime opens
on the morning porch.
The woodpecker rat-a-tats

on cottonwood as we talk
about evolution. This bird, you say,
watched too many feathered peers

die on the dirt
eating worms, so he took
to the trees,

where he rapped his beak
against brown bark
until he found

the first sweet bug.
And in the sunshine,
we are evolving too –

from something that was
into something that is.
I am startled

by how easy it feels
to fly away
from familiar ground,

into the green branches
with you,
your feet folded

like wings in my lap,
the morning smell of coffee
and unbrushed hair.

“When the Lover of Spring Betrays Me”

A collaborative text poem:  My good and lovely friend Melanie texted me today with this title.  She requested a poem to reflect the, ahem, general sentiment of the May weather we have been having.  The below was the resultant poem-in-text…


Our coats – they do not work
anymore, for our eager
blood has thinned
with springtime.

Like a cold joke, I am
scraping the window
to the tittering
of birdsong.

No sun, no warm shelter,
no splash of flower
nor scent of wet dark earth,
no walk with friend

or lover.
Fuck you, snowflake, I say.
And the car door