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Late Afternoon In Early March

I sometimes forget to be fascinated

by the slanting glance of the late afternoon sun

whispering into my cramped backyard.

The jays and robins are discussing something

with great deliberation while the leaves shiver

in the tentative mid-March breeze.

They flutter, fly and flee with such

confidence, such grace, without effort

or trepidation, without grasping at the sky,

knowing it will hold and carry them.

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inconsequential snow, calloused hands

I would wash my hands
but I worked too hard

you make no record
of the consequential

we witness events angled
in rear view mirrors

my opus is played
on the docks
of industrial harbours

each snowflake
melts slowly on these hands
in deluded blizzard

I would wash my hands
if I could feel them

see the cranes lie idle.

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row, row, row your boat

There is still time and while there is
I will do this oddsome thing. I think,
between the tick, before the tock
are tiny hidden secret ports
and tiny secret little boats
and I will voyage far from now
traverse space time continuum
and search the secret galaxies
of this manifold universe
for a secret little trope -
a comprehensive comprehension.
There may be much that`s overlooked
between the tick, before the tock
when anything might happen
To embark on a dimensional sea
of wondrous possibility,
I row secretly, a tiny boat 

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This house is not a safety net

waiting for your tumble.  It does


not love you the way it should

like beams in the foundation.


It leaves you dangling from the

skybox heart.  You have no one


to blame but yourself, remember

how you walked to the edge


on your own.  Remember the cars

looked like ants, furiously building


tunnels, to build more tunnels,

to build more tunnels for even more


tunnels.  Go back, where the

sky divers parachute was caught,


hanging effortlessly in the power

lines, carrying messages for


people who live too far away

to connect in person.  This house


did not raise you, it pushed

you through the door, like an


angry violinist’s broken strings.

There is nothing to repair you.


You must learn how to live

with the bleeding, how to make


music with a shattered instrument,

how to love with no foundation.

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Everything we wanted is out there still

Waiting to surprise us and undermine us and hide from us

disguised as a curse disguised as a blessing disguised

as decisions

The trees are wrapped in lights and the air is frigid

We wear coats and I drive from house to house cheeks red from the heat

The bed is stripped clean to the mattress and the house is colder without you

I can’t sleep without my mother in the next room and I spend my free time

folding clothes mindlessly following the creases

pouring coffee for strangers who clutch books like newborn babies to their chests

And all I want is to bare the awful stuff inside my chest like a prize

Here, here is the sloppy throbbing mess you wanted to see,

here, it is bleeding and raw and sensitive and if you touch it too quickly

it will cause a collapse 

but here, this is it, you can have it

or your share of it,

this is where my father put his words

and my mother put her wine

and they both left it there in the house where I grew up 

and out of.

Do you still want it? this miserable beating heart jumping beneath 

sallow skin 

It is bone and breath and blood

It is mind and matter and mayhem

It is what you wanted the clean wrapped package of it

the light and bright above the heaving dark disaster

Laughter canceling out thought.

I am crying into my mother’s arms but really I want

to be in bed watching mindless television

Or escaping into words being sung

Or asleep and unaware 

Of how a throat feels when it is raw and thick and desperate to stay

happy or indifferent or dispassionate 

or whatever

but it is crying 

it is bleeding

it is pulsing

it is passing

it is passing

it is flying

maybe it never needs 

to land.

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The Summons

The summons came long after we’d 
retired for the night.
We weren’t ready, 
but we followed anyway,
with time enough for parting glance 
toward the ones we loved, 
off’ring smiles of reassurance 
pasted over hopeless eyes. 

Matched pace with cosmic guilt, we walked
through streets, where wind blew hot,
and stole the breath 
right from our quivering lungs.
We licked our lips, stood straight, matched pace 
with sin, and stumbled on, 
inhaling tastes of what 
was never to come.  

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The bee

Once again I pound the air
wings aloft, no breeze to bare
Zip zip zip I go
Buzz a flower, chair, her toe.
Free I roam no worries in tow
Sweet nectar is what I must know
Bang, oops, not that, which way to go?
I bounce and fly legs full like snow
I must but onward bumbling go
The task, the honey, must make it now
Bumble, zip, zip and then just down
Oh wow,  a pink one there below
Ploop, oops too hard I thought but no
I'm on it now to gather go.
Then up away the hive I seek
'Orr fence and dog and roof top's peaks.
The hive I must now make it fast
For young must have their sweet repast
And others now I must inform
This patio its mildly warm
But full of lush and nectar's swarm
My job's not done
I'm homeward torn.

- Trish 2013

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What's a dream like you doing in a place like this?

The sunrise I take in through the tongue,
clouds tasting like distant mountains,
looms over flat daily expectations-
I want to climb through to distant adventures:

the mornings there will each taste new;
I’ll wake up, greeting the sun as it learns again how to stroke the world;
it’s always so gentle at first;

fog will swirl in valleys below me,
and birds will break through it, traveling in shapes, marking the wind with their journey;

I will jump over logs and boulders, 
as I did in my dreams,
and in youthful games;

I’ll run into the fog,
catching paintings in the movement
of the air and its water around me,

and I will find a quiet place to sit,
where I will wait for the fog to clear,
and the trees and everything with them will dance so slowly into sight;

the world, then, will be mine,
though I could never own it,
and I will be conquered by travels
into its most graceful refuges.

But now, I take in the sunrise far away from there;
there are no mountains here,
save the clouds which leave me dreaming.
A dog barks;
the houses are close together;
the land is flat, and the sun will soon bake the air into stale humidity;
there are wars far away;
there are televisions on everywhere, and cell-phones to fill the gap;
there are lies abroad and lies at home- I know-
but I take in the sunrise,
it speaks of dreams,
speaks of home.

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In the hourglass
curve of my waste-
line time is falling
faster than
I want to let 
it go.
One grain at a time
builds a mountain
slipping thought
the crack between
the glass
the weight of years
in sand falls
to my hips
as the world spins
around me my
hour-glass is melting
pulled down
by increased gravity and
"the wisdom of age"