Sedimentary Rock

Ground up experiences,
suspended as long as the water
is moving, disturbing its longing
to rest, to settle,
grain into grain,
carrying but an echo
of the sense the old rock
used to make,
before it gave in
to the water.
Layer upon layer
of matter and time.
Sedimentary Rock

Either way

A day,
a day,
a day,
and a day.
Piling up
like empty cicada shells.

Do I sweep them
into a big black trash bag?
Or do I mix them
into the soil
and let time
do it’s thing?

Full house

I hug the warm clothes
from the dryer
to my heart
like a friend.
Why does it ache so?

The pace of standing

Feet in quiet conversation,
toes gently
pushing into the soft carpet,
the weight of the hips
suspended like a bell
swaying in the morning wind
waking up the family
of bones.
Here.
Moving.
Not moving.
Still here.

First sense

Where does
my skin end,
do my barnacles start?
I feel their weight, their
drag, as they go about
their barnacle business,
while I go about mine.
Do they thicken my skin
or smother it,
until there is nothing left
to the touch?

Run

Take duty
for meaning.
Schedule it tightly
and,
to remember your weight,
hold any chaos
thrown at you.
Fill the cracks
by making yourself useful.
Who would question that?
Don’t pause.
Don’t let the sediment settle,
you won’t know
what will be
waiting for you
in the clear.

7:21 a.m.

When you don’t feel inspired,
practice.
Set a timer,
run up and down 
the scales or stairs,
listen to build your ears
like muscles.
Punch your indifference 
into blues chords to
get them under your fingers,
that may wake up again
one day, furless blind
animals with a
tactile mind of their own.
Ready.

Living

If I was dying,
which I am,
how would I spend
my days?
Would I write like my pen
was on fire? Would I
bake our daily bread?
Burn my diaries, curate
my belongings for you
like my mother?
Would I confess no sins
like hers?
Would I expand one last time,
touch my furthest reaches
with my finger tips,
or would I fold in and
tend to my loves?
If you were dying,
which you are,
would you?

Escape

My arms
slipped away from me.
I can’t find
my legs.
The sharp pain in
my thumb
pierces like an alarm,
calls me to catch that missing
arm,
with what?
I wonder, as
my hands
lead the escape
like flesh colored spiders.
I bought a book
about the body
maybe that will help me trace
my shins.

My neighborhood in and out

(Guest poem by David K., 9 years old)

My neighborhood in and out
is a wonderful place there’s no doubt.
My neighborhood in and out
will let the cool crisp air show you about.
My neighborhood in and out
has construction wherever you poke your snout.
When you go on the street
you hear many feet stomping on the ground
When you go out to eat
you fly off your feet because of how many selections we have.
We have Italian, Indian, and even Ethiopian.
But most of all Mexican food, no doubt.
It feels like we will never run out.
We have stacks on stacks of it, oh yes.
We have Mexican food we must we confess.
Now that’s not all, that’s not all.
We have a lot more to go on.
For example out plants and trees and how they sway.
One look and it will make your day.
Like the tulips, sun flowers and grand oak trees
I told you there is a lot to see.
In conclusion that is why
my neighborhood in and out
will never die out
technically, not literally.