Take off your shoes

Come in, relax, take off your shoes!

Would you like something? A drink?

Sure, take a look around—don't mind the mess…

The driveway is shaped like a tape measure,

      and pulls you in as it rolls up to the front door.

The street is gone from this world.

By the time you’ve walked up the concrete steps to the veranda

      (we just call it "the front porch") 

      the house has welcomed you,

opening itself to you before you even step in the wide open front door

      with its huge glass, and glass all around the whole first floor.

If you're shy, you can walk around 'most the whole house

      on that veranda (to the "back terrace")

      where the rest of the view will welcome you, too,

as if you own all the land and houses

      down to the arroyo, north to Suicide Bridge

      and south to Camel's Hump.

What a great place you have, you’ll say.

Yes, we say (though we belong to it more than it to us)

The terrace doors will be open, too,

      and the ones from the music room,

      but you don't have to go inside yet

      if you don't want to—the drinks and the sunset

      are out here anyway.

Just take off your shoes and lean back.

Hoot for the owl and click your fingernails to confuse the bats;

      it's nice to watch them black against the dusk.

Gatherings of any size (even two or three) are rare here, but last long.

Whatever time it is now, it seems like it’s always that time.

A few minutes and days later we'll find you in the kitchen, debating,

      or picking a TV show in the living room

      or lost in the hallway that elbows twice on the way to the bathroom

      or plucking plums and apricots and avocados to keep them from the squirrels

      or down the hill, getting lemons,

      or 'round the back for lavender and rosemary

      or pouring yourself a drink and looking in the fridge.

Where's the cork-puller? you’ll ask as you dry dishes in your bare feet.

Check the drawers, comes the answer, and you do.

How long have I lived here? you’ll think.

We don’t question it.

According to this place, everyone is a relative, belongs here.

Whatever goes in the ground takes root:

it's a wild natural riot of bermuda, camphor, myrtle, roses, geraniums,

      Mexican elder, bougainvillea, creeping fig and periwinkle

      with eucalyptus, pepper, vinca, cactus, oak and pomegranate in the back.

Every now and then somebody waters or prunes,

      but mostly everyone's on his own,

from the skunks in the basement to the occasional raccoon in the attic,

      or coyote on the drive:

We're all welcome here.

Here, the earth, the house, the wild creatures

      work a strange imperceptible spell.

We all grow wild, go barefoot;

Take off your shoes!

—you're standing on holy ground.

Because of my experience of a childhood home, I have believed that each of us has at least one place which becomes a part of our DNA. Maybe not—many of us move house so often. Is there a place for you that is an important part of your identity?

Occupational Therapy

It was in the time when the rains began

I awakened from my coma

            Weak and twitchy.

I don’t know what had roused me to consciousness—

            Was it you?

I remembered more than I thought I would,

            But with less interest, having now rested so near death.

Your shoulders are very broad, and you are strong,

            So I think that you hardly notice how I am leaning on you

            As I exercise the tightness out of my mind,

            Stretch the sinews of my heart

            And restore circulation to my limbs.

And I am fairly certain you are unaware

            How precious your small remarks are, which you take for granted as courtesy,

            Because they confirm my small successes,

            Incremental restoration.

You surely have seen, though,

            That I brighten as you walk through the door.

My feeling of gratitude remains undimmed for small gestures in a time of weakness.

 Go ahead and be kind to someone today. You just never know.

Family Man

He’s gotten a child on her—

She’s been earth to his seed.

Pleased with the idea of it,

He hesitated at its quickening,

Doubted this not-undoable deed.

With nowhere to go but forward,

She’s grown this small creation 

Limb by determined limb,

Cell by quivering cell,

Thought by whisper of thought,

Until it found its own life,

Breathed in hot summer air.

Glad to be delivered of her pregnant burden,

Relieved it birthed whole and sound,

Hopeful, she’s held it, damp and mewling, 

Up to his trepidations.

He’s taken it to himself with delicate caution,

Surprising at his own attraction.

And with this little thing 

Gathered close in his arms,

He’s begun his fathering.

She’s seen him drift a short way off from her,

Absorbed and wondering, 

And heard him murmur into his shoulder—

“I will call you Rose.

Everyone will love you,

And you will grow beautiful and strong.”

Would it surprise you to learn it's about something else entirely?

Watch For Falling Girls (a triple Brian—almost.)

Misapprehension
upon mischance
upon mistake
upon misunderstanding
were all piled on top of high hope
and higher wish,
then sandwiched with ballbearing layers
of worry
and weary.
Girl, forgetting she was no acrobat,
clambered up the teetering stack
and, naturally, lost her balance,
landing quite hard on Boy
without even saying excuse me
(though grateful he had broken her fall.)
Briefly, as she tumbled down,
it seemed to Girl the sky was falling
or the earth was rising
awfully fast.
They picked themselves up
and dusted one another off a bit,
checking for bruises
(no broken bones, thankfully.)
Too tall a stack, thought Girl,
Must remember to practice closer to the ground.
For his part, Boy
felt a sign should have been posted,
and decided to watch where he was walking
and glance upward more often,
just in case.

A "Brian" is a short-form story of exactly 50 words, with a title up to 15 words, which occasionally requires some acrobatic wordplay. Also called a mini-saga, the Brian is named for British author Brian Aldiss and is popularized in competitions held by The Daily Telegraph newspaper of London. This one aims for a triple, but only manages 
slightly more than a two-and-a-half gainer.

You can write your own mini-saga and post it to the Comments!

Touch the Looking Glass

Life feels sometimes like a mirror
Cold hard and empty
of the image it reflects

Touch me, let me touch you

I am lost in my reflections
like my mirror turned cold and hard
but I am not empty

Touch me, let me touch you

You’ve formed yourself whole in my heart
break it with your songs
with your dancing

Touch me, let me touch you

I will not cut you with my mirror’s sharp edge
cold and hard sometimes
but I am never empty

You touch me, let me touch you

Fine Line

On one side, eggshells,
on the other, slick ice.
The line between fear and arrogance
is so slender a division,
that balancing upon it slices the soles.
One is always tempted to step one way or the other.

Miracle #32

What did Lazarus feel,

waking in the dark

shrouded and shriven?

Did he rise

cursing the contagion

that killed him

and stop open-mouthed,

mind agape at his living self?

Is there surprise

to find life again,

having once lost it?

Did he grumble

at the lot he drew,

his turn to be the one who dies

to prove that life

is sleight of mind?

And the rumble 

of the stone

as they levered it aside, 

was it welcome?

Won't You Join Me...

...in a sociable experiment? In honor of a local dining institution, I've cooked up a middle stanza based upon a [Poe]tically perennial favorite; but it's missing a little something—salt, maybe. 

You, add a few words, or a line, or more, and let's make "stone soup" poetry together, eh? 

As contributions come in, I'll come back and add them to the poem.

It may take us a while, but there's really no rush, after all. 

Post some "ingredients" below in the comment box,

and let's see how many cooks it really takes to spoil a broth!

(I'll even do the dishes...)

Twohey’s
.
.
. (YOU MIGHT HAVE SOMETHING TO ADD HERE!)
.
.
.
I dare open that gossip, so spry. A bottomless pit reveals my inner eye
One that takes and wants and needs and never fills, but so hard I try
I hear the buzzards blustery approach, cawing, cackling. Is it at me?
It's my soul they peck on with beaks, like yellowing leaves on a tree.
Food my comfort, my friend, my blanket of soft buttered rye,
Won't you fill me and cause their taunts to flap and fly?

(Thanks, Connor! aged 17)

. (OR HERE!!)

Then at length I finally ordered sides which on the greasy bordered
And their platters many fat grams - many calories did store.
Fried in such deep fat this snack’ll work like an arterial spackle.
Hark! e’en now, hear vultures cackle from their perches, “Have some more!”
Laughing while their great wings flap and croaking loudly "Have some more
Onion rings, and even more!"



.
.
. (OR HERE!!)
.I cry out, "But my stomach is sore!" yet still they screech their gleeful cry, 
"Have some more, have some more!"

(Thanks to Iain, aged 14!)

. (OR HERE!!)

Burning Butterflies

These butterflies glow with a cold blue heat
that sets all the bones afire.
They rise from behind the solar plexus
and from the space just between the hip bones
spreading outward upward downward inward again.
Feel them alight in the knuckles of the hands;
the roof of the mouth
the knees, the soles of the feet,
everything burning airlessly.
Eyes may well up water
enough to drown Vesuvius, rescue Pompeii
and avail nothing
to quench the flutter of glowing tissue wings
confusing the heart’s steady rhythm
and suspending breath in the throat.

Well, happy Valentine's Day, everyone—

Today's all about The Romance, isn't it? Depth can wait until tomorrow morning.

 It can be a lot of pressure, trying to affix feelings to a single day. For me, this is my grandmother's 

birthday. But I wouldn't refuse any honest gestures, would you?

If you've had butterflies over someone, you know how this feels. 

If you haven't, I hope this one helps you understand someone who has.

Love, always,

Kathryn M.

74. "Parsque est meminisse doloris."

I cannot side with our friend Will in this:

That lively form of life is but the dross.
In memory’s cup’s a sweet, and anguished kiss—
Alas, your Love remembered, so your Loss.

Over the last two days, there's been a good deal of conversation

following the death of a well-known singer, with whom I happened to share a birthday.

I'd like to offer this response to Sonnet 74 of W. Shakespeare, to honor the memory of that voice.

The Flowering Desert

When, after a long dry spell,
a cloudburst breaks over the Mojave,
for days afterward
the sand is dotted with color,
tingles with tiny exquisite blossoms,
and desert insects move busily among them.
Two weeks hence,
the memory of that precious downpour
stirs in the dreams of seeds
resting beneath the shifting grains
as they parch,
awaiting another distant, drenching dew
and barren to a casual eye.

The Girl in the Closet

He kept a girl in his closet for a while,

Warned her it would be dangerous to come out.

“Things might happen,” he said.

“One day it will be safe, but not yet.

I must seek out the dragon and slay it.”

It was fine for a while:

He would visit and talk about life after dragons,

But soon he forgot about her;

She starved and stank.

“Get out of there, will you?” he said.

“You’re smelling up the whole house!”

She had grown so weak by then

She had to be carted out in a wheelbarrow.

blessing: love for a friend

may it be to us each
not shallow, but light
not heavy, but strong
not dark, but deep
not divine, but mystic
not flawless, but true

and may it be to us both
not cautious, but respectful
not silent, but quiet
not solitary, but unique
not eternal, but timeless
not painless, but compassionate

and may it be to us together
not suffocating, but warm
not giddy, but electric
not easy, but free
not chance, but opportune
not costly, but dear
and may it be to us all.

PROLOGUE

I wish you happiness
blazing, radiant, liquid joy
so much that you can't contain it all
so much that it just overflows
in great, deep puddles
all over the universe
and people can't help but slip and fall in
and splash around in it
and get it all over themselves