Our Lady of Perpetual House for Sale

Our Lady of Perpetual House for Sale

For months I have been in Downward Facing Dog
I'm not even sure if I'll be able to stand again
when that time finally arrives.
But I have done everything I was supposed to:
~knees gently bent, elbows firm but not locked
~Achilles tendons stretched taut, bottom in the air
~cleaned the house from floor to ceiling
~found a real estate agent, listed the house, packed boxes
while my daughter was in school
~gave away the ballast that collects between moves...
...and still my face is to the hardwood floor
my hair framing the view in limp coils collecting dust.
Is there anything missing?
Then why am I still here?
My teacher says we must breathe slowly into
that which feels uncomfortable.
Not as an act of resignation,
but as an act of acceptance of the way things are NOW,
this moment.
I breathe slowly:
each breath a full moon cycle,
each breath drawing me closer to the reality of living in a model home.
I accept that I may never find my extra spool of black thread,
the spare Scotch tape, that piece of jewelry.
I accept that I have no response for every person who asks,
"So, when ya leaving?"
I accept. Palms to the floor.

Madeline Moss, August 2008

Food Chain is the Status Quo

Kingfisher, with his swoop-glide stride
like his woodpecker brother,
with his paralyzing call,
he rules.

From the azure necklace
to the regal crest
he holds court at the pond
and the frogs freeze at his command
while he picks them off
one at a time
like barnyard chickens
waiting for their audience
with the Farmer.
Frogs living their lives the way serfs do:
keeping a low profile, eyes on the road,
blending in with the surrounding,
hiding dreams in a haystack,
or under a dusty old hempen hat.
Ready to die with those dreams never spoken
for better bodies than dreams be broken.

Mighty King, we are awed by your beauty
stunned by your song,
may you in your infinite mercy and wisdom
live long.

Anarchy

The dog barks at people we know
and I cannot get him to back down.
We have a tense stand-off
until my husband arrives.
The dog obeys him
and I can walk away.

My hand will no longer
hold the pencil when I ask it to
hold the paintbrush
hold the dish sponge
it simply goes numb in protest.

My 6 year old too is unruly.
Not a shock so much as a given.

What happens to the weak-willed?
We have our sense of humor,
our moments of begging and pleading;
patience and humiliation
our daily compadres.

My helplessness is so complete
it comes with its' own accessories
and reusable decorative box.

Gra(ce)zing

Gra(ce)zing

I slip my index finger gently
around the neck of Queen Anne's Lace
or Dandelion
where stalk meets soil;
my other fingers
support the coil,
twist and pull.
The weed slides out easily
and if I was an elephant
harvesting roots
with the finger at the end of my trunk
my next step would be
to feed it into my mouth and chew
while methodically reaching out
for the next weedy neck.
Wind the Finger.
Gently Pull.
Raise to Mouth....

The sun beats down upon my back.
I am hot;
covered in dust.
I am surrounded by
people I love
who work nearby
and smell of heat and soil.

I hold the moment firmly,
give it a gently twist
and savor the juiciness.
My mouth waters
and then my eyes.

Sunstar on the Prowl

Words elude me.

Like a sunstar on the move
I will find those words if it's the last thing I --
I feel around the sandy bottom
identifying everything as I go
reading with every hungry tentacle:
anemone, coral, kelp, seastar flying away, clam too,
rock, more rock, a hiding fish in the crevice and no time to trap it.
Where are the Words?!
Geez, I hope they're not with my missing sock that disappeared from the laundry.
Although wet wrinkled words are better than none at all.
Words! Words! How I yearn for you!
Consumed with the hunt
I spread my sensitive tendril-fingers in all directions
searching....
Are there enough bon mots in the ocean? Never!
Insatiable Word Predator.

Being Cedar

Being Cedar

I want you to understand
that I am cedar:
sweet-scented, standing tall,
gentle fingers dance with breezes.
I breathe in what you exhale.

I am the smell of wool sock drawers,
my heart lies open on your hard-wood floors.

Evergreen Celebrate Spring

Sometimes it seems like only the deciduous trees really get to party when spring arrives, so I thought the Doug Firs and their ilk deserved a poem for Most Overlooked Spring Celebrants.


Evergreens Celebrate Spring

Wind stirs in the firs
convincing them
to let go the husks they wear
into the air - .
Released
the brown wrappers twirl away
unveiling
fir tree tips
like fingernails
painted punk green
and dangling casually
for everyone to admire.

(A contrast to the stately green
conservative color,
worn for everyday,
year-round display.)

Seized with fellowship
I lacquer my nails:
Extreme Green.