My grandmother's wallpaper
  had patterns, like her pillows,
  scratchy and flowered, like
  a farm allergy.

 My grandmother's bookshelves
  had books by Ethel M. Dell, and
  E.M. Hull, along with 
  National Geographic
  Coffee table books,

 And I, at age five, wanted to
  read them all, under feeble
  table lamps by flowery wallpaper
  leaning on rough feeling pillows,
  because history should hurt
  a little bit to learn

  or we won't love it properly

 she sat in silence, staring at
  the walls of that small room

 how history unfolds, she thought,
  it's like a kind of puzzle

 an old clock ticking on the wall,
  a door into a hallway

 the future, once immense, become
  a focused bit of light among

  the dark

 looking for the answers
 trying to find the reasons
 honesty, security,
 danger and malfeasance
 
 each of these and all of it,
 ordered like a tile,
 trying to make this sprawling world
 line up

 single file

 wasn't it just yesterday
 our first self-cleaning oven,
 wasn't it the latest thing 
 to get a microwave,

 wasn't it this morning that
 our compact discs were filling
 up the shelves besides our
 dvd's beside our books?

 but change is what's in order, and
 new things comprise the pattern;
 life is always spinning
 even when the days are slow

 and all that was is gone, forever,
 eighty, sixty, forty --
 or even if you landed here on earth

 three years ago

 There’s nothing going on with me.
 I do not sleep that well, it’s true,
 But in today’s economy,
 There’s much to think about, and do:
   Societal inequities,
   And spiritual eschewing —
   There’s nothing much for me to do,
   Except, to just keep doing.

 Some ask me why I post so much:
 The words keep dancing in my head;
 They follow me into the streets,
 And haunt me while I lie in bed,
   Like circles made of rumination,
   Choices, always ruing —
   And how, now, do I handle this?
   Get up, and just keep doing.

   I’m hidden in plain sight, my diagram,
   And much more what I do than

   Who I am

 Much that’s going on
 Becomes, full stop,
 Much that never really went.

 We waste our worry
 As directed
 And never realize it.

 All of this togetherness...
 I'm here for it!
 
 But I'm here for everything.

 It's a kind of game, a dance:
 Giving space and making space
 When you're confined together in
 What's meant to be a loving place

 And so, to keep it loving, you
 Must make each move with special care,
 And be there for the ones you love,
 Although they are all here,

 Not there

 She said, "Come play a game with me."
 So down to play we sat,
 Absorbed in competition, like
 Two wrestlers on the mat.

 And love is rarely competition --
 More a relay race --
 But sometimes, what it needs is for
 Someone to lose

 With grace

 She shelters of an autumn evening,
 Bathing in the indigo;
 Blanketed by stars emerging
 To the night's adagio

 Sounds for hearing and for healing,
 She elates in all of this --
 Sheltered underneath November,
 Wrapped in wonder, sheathed

 In bliss

 Many hearts to her will come:
  She shelters,
  She shelters --
 Pained and aching, lost and numb:
  She knows,
  She knows --

  The arms she spreads are 
   for the world,
  And like a sky at night 
   unfurled,

 They come in wonder, seeking hope;
  She tries,
  She tries --
 They ask for solace, or a touch;
  She cries,
  She cries --

  And in presence of 
   each ghost
  Of those she's loved
   the best the most,
  She ties each lost heart
   to her post,
   and shelters,

   she shelters

 In a world without contact,
 Stories take on greater meaning,
 And images, even more.

 We write stories with our eyes,
 Changing what we see into
 Some familiar tale, because
 Familiarity is comfortable.

 You see me, yes, but
 Don't think you know
 How my story has gone, or
 Where it's going without
 Hearing it from me;
 My life, and it is
 My voice, and
 My agency
 That determines me.

 And I will pay you
 The same respect:
 No assumptions, 
 No need on my part to
 Fill in details for you.

 Let us know that we do not know,
 And do the work it takes
 To know.

 Then, despite of any lack of
 Physical proximity,
 We will have made

Contact

 assembly line of {categories}
 turning out our {theys} and {its}
 who's the {maid} and who's the {maven}
 dwelling here within {the ritz}?

 seeing means {interpretation}
 {lenses} that we bring with us
 but our {questions} dare not differ
 that is seen as

 {treasonous}

The man I am’s not set in stone,
Yet every day I stratify
These layers that have been my life
That hide beneath, and calcify

Into what only digging up
Could bring again into the light;
But no one needs to dig down there,
Yet, given the man I am,

I might

I always fell
For the girls who
Told good stories —
It’s quaint, I know.
I’m a throwback 
Through and through —

And when I found love,
It was just like
In the movies,
The one you know
Is just the one
For you —

But life is a 
Fragile thing, a
Paper airplane;
And love is those
Brief few moments
In the air —

It’s hard to believe
I’d ever view
This scenery,
For no one could
See me here who
Knew me

There

 As mornings cool, I think about your love.
 I didn't know it in your greenest days,
 When warm and young, the year awoke in you,
 A whole new life emerging from the dark,

 Into the spring -- discovery and growth --
 A verdure ready for the summer blaze,
 That brought with it a wilting of desire,
 Even as love began its slow retreat.

 And when I came, the summer still in view,
 The color shift began; the red, the gold, 
 A mist upon the lake of my regard,
 The gift of you, as you revealed yourself --

 And love like none I ever thought I'd know,
 Touched me with colors, setting us

 Aglow

She loves these mornings by the lake
Before the noisy day begins;
When every sip of tea,
And breath she takes,
And secret smile
Are precious

Wins