Waking to Summer

The Mermaid Swims... Strait Way to New

sleeping in

You left your paintbrush

on the hillside vibrant orange

paint running

for not-so-subltly finding

what might be sooner wished forgotten

Love

I could not speak the heart words….No

more kindly trying to distance

to own a different view

a compass shaky kneed and needled new

an eisel pointing eastward, skyward blue

into tomorrow

until

Morning

breaks soft, hard boiled eggs

to giving not to taking

to waking warm in beautiful embracing

the broken runny sunnyside

to serve my eyes in indoor outdoor

breakfast in bed….

break slow and savory

the glide of new washed sheets

the maple syrup  slab of bacon is this…..

my immoveable

Yet fog hangs hashbrown low to stratus clouds

depression

just not the usual coffee drive from Starbucks

but one I’d give and take most gratefully

in navigating this vessel toward the sun

with you

I commandeer some days

more cautiously in better seeing

Inside my pearl

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Lost and Found

Wide awake and not by choice

Lost and Found

will soon  find voice

Tomorrow morning

In dialing KPCW

barking high pitched peppermint

Girradelli

and dogs gone missing

to  July 4th

In spite of State and County firework bans

America will have had her way

Going one way and then another

fightened dogs at large

Rammed fences

dispersed by yappy rapid fire

Come canines chased by Black Cats

Escape like bottlerockets

I rub my eyes of crusty double cherry

piecrust

Red glare and hedonistic nationalism

No chance they’re blasting avalanches?

No.  It’s 90 degrees, baby

I’m wringing bed sheets with

discursive mind and bleeding empathy

for me and Fido.

The howling will certainly keep us up all night

There’s no refrain

the sullen moan drones on

like dial tone twisted in tangled phone cord

It’s the neighbor’s hound dog,

Loose and chasing shadows

Bombs bursting like Roman candles

and tomatoes

an extra excited Bruiser dog

at the farm

tention testing a steel towchain

The hound is in the haybarn

Then back to our place

My puppy’s in the backyard’s going wild

The hound is back and forth

like an inkjet printer

Under the coveted  cover of night games

No use for such abuse under my bedroom window

He must be caught and taken home

Just don’t know the neighbor’s name

Or number to complain

My Kelpie’s going nuts

He needs a class in mindfulness for canines

Or chewy sweet mesquite treats to get attention

I’d settle for him coming to his name

I’d love  a cup of calm and chamomile

The structured bed routine is ruined

For puppy’s fused mindset

He’s running circles in his head

and in his doggy bed

And cutting claws and teeth

on all the round abouts he’s making

of the kennel

Cutting calves and herding sheep

he might have dreamt about

any other night

I sigh and long to REM in soft coo bed sheets

But through the steel wool screen

I hear the shape of things devolving

a  pink shag pillow strewn in putrid pieces

with just cut clippings

a dirty dew sets in

What will I tell my  college daughter?

I took the pillow from her empty bedroom

she never seemed to like or use it.

I think…I’m Sorry, but

In half an hour none of this will matter

I drive and find the house

Lit up like fireworks

A guy comes out and I inquire

Appologies

The neighbor follows close behind

in his old truck

The garage door rolls a sleepy smile

and in the time it takes to set the brake

and get out

The hound has reappeared and jumped into

the truck bedn and they’re gone

to after glow and tail lights

giving proof to the night

of things lost and found

 

 

 

 

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Pausing in Nature on a Mothers Day

(Photo found on Google Images.  Swaner Nature Preserve, Summit County, Utah)

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Thank you

for sky

for cloud

for current bush

for buzzing bee

for hiving systems recipe for happy

yellow energy

 

Thank you

for sun

for trees

for redwing black bird’s

call for keeping

me at bay

in perimeters of color

 

Thank you

for boardwalks slow walk

living waters

nipping toe-dip footbridge

for pussy willows gesture

for stalwart cattails

fluffy grassy pillows

for bedding mule deer

 

May all the two-legs and large ears

Hear well these prayers

for you and you and you

and may we ably pay to keep these spaces

open, safe, and more than simply on display

but cherished

wrapping all our children in wisdom and beauty

 

for grazing sand hill cranes

for fox and timid cottontails

and keep away the strange and wild

 

motorists

 

who come in tarry clouds of never ending

climbs and S- curves

slave ways East to West, a hundred yards abreast,

a million miles in all directions

 

ghastly assailants raging on

racing

and trying to pass even their own reflections on the window panes

 

Ha! Ha!

But I am quite content

to pause here in the stillness

for fixing and holding gaze across the great unknown

somehow I know I’ve chosen wisely

in gracing sane and sacred space

a world away and closer to divinity

Praise God!

for wise and fertile Earth

and all Her loving

Mothers

 

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Present Company Included, Maybe… No, Mayflies

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It’s raining everlasting

mayflies on the windshield

on my skin and in my eyes

 

flies May

 

no disguising

the swarm of napalm grey poupon

clockworks Springing

 

I raise my hands to a rite of passage

a prayer to God

I am, they are, thy will, thank you

a million minute whispers

soft and silent,  falling kisses

on a child’s sticky milkweed fingers

 

they linger in kinetic stillness

 

remain or step aside?

wonder wanders on to what, when, why

the what:  I’ve yet to find in walking on

the when:  I’m told will blush to pink in timing

the why:  lies deeper in the now

and…..

 

I think Eckhart Tolle should know

the meaning rests on wings of mayflies

here,

and here,

and here, and now

 

I envy what the mayflies are and have or haven’t got

hovering weightless in a reckless loose-looped knot

side winding wind

Poof!

no thought for thoughts

unbound by words

a swarm of ever-present metaphors

then gone

punctuated yellow

on the windshield

 

 

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Divining Rod

1200-61208368-divining-rod-dowsing

 

The well went dry on Earth Day

What more can I say?

which might be better served and saved

in swilling swell a wishing well into existence

oh, savory sweet imagination bring living water

to doubtful divining rods

 

and yet I know, the light of the Lord is my strength

I will not thirst.

 

He fills my cup to overflowing, like Grandma did

a cherished vessel, tireless in giving

much like a special tin cup meant just for me

perched on the top shelf, worn and waiting

high on the shelf of best-loved memories

The kind of love that filled a well to never failing

in the early years

 

 

 

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If a poem

 

if a poem       by Heidi Robertson

 

if a poem were a puppy, I’d never let go.

if a poem were a teacher, would she bravely say, “NO!?”

 

if a poem were a person would she friend or foe?

would she tug-o’-war words? would she leave or stay on?

in the end:  only change

stirs

 

on for hours, adds more cream for reduction

keeps just the right temp

stepping, lining, swirling, lofting

bringing her to a bowling royal softball stage

revision upon revision

 

until a slab of buttery sweetness

rests

wrapped in sweet caaaaaaarahhhhhhhhmehhhhhhllllllll

 

if a poem were a tenant would he pay for brain space?

would he fire up the grill, down a cold one,

or in case, the long sprawl balls up, six hundred bucks short

will he hold up close-blinded with convention’s cohorts

 

Try to grasp the problem with diction and rhyme. No use.

It bleeds truth where high tech suture glue won’t hold.

In the end you’re on your head, butt up in a parking lot

and all the reusable grocery bags in Park City and Colorado

won’t deliver what you want or need.

 

poems in your head get away

 

blow willy nilly to the landfill

while one is lodged between car seats,

up-dog with receipts, paying transient tax

 

if a poem were a bouncing child would she ask you to play?

cry jubilation or fall rainy day to dodgeball

Would she stay on the fence, rather than risk rejection?

 

for a month some worship all things poetry

glorying Oliver, Strand, Neruda’s socks, Keats

you track in, week two, in sweat shorts and muddy cleats on a sunny day

no problem

the contest said a poem a day, you paid the money

after thirty years, does any of this matter? maybe

 

you listen

knowing poems are indifferent to catch and release

but you are moved to write anyway

 

in the end all anyone wants to hear, to read, to write is…

you are beautiful, needed, useful, loved

and heard

 

still you wonder

can a wild thing be loved beyond catching, touching, naming?

there is no taming it

“Try as you may,” the wise say,

“There is no holding on, so do it for the joy.”

 

If a poem were a critic

could it bring itself to say, shoe on the other foot,

“Clean it up!”

or would it hang the UDOT placard more softly

Surveying with binoculars

Sizing up a safe scene, the rolled semi drooling a puddle?

What would a poem see in authenticity and form beyond a ton of kitty litter?

 

okay….

hazmat day was yesterday

today all things are new!  Woot Woot!

 

we read, we write, we smile, we sigh,

go home with hand-outs

realizing we’ve left a space we’ll likely never occupy again

like yellow legal note pads waiting a second read

let it go

 

then off to a second and third job

bussing tables, pushing a yellow cart

partner with mop, and broom while streaming bag liners keep time

 

She hangs the sign like tomorrow’s school schedule

“Closed For Cleaning”

which makes passer and poet panic cuz we need to go even more now

from drinking too much coffee and thinking poetry

 

she holds her tongue

graciously waits the flush and hand wash

the passing feet

the door swing

then she cleans up as if we were some of her own kids at home

 

so we can play

with wonderful

if-y

poems

 

 

 

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On the Patio at Library Square

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On the Patio at Library Square, by Heidi Robertson, 4-15-2018

Where in the world have all the homeless come from?

Patrons more genuine in presentation than somber friends of libraries

How came these soiled squatters to our fine city, dust jackets reveling in the sun?

What can their clothes confess that pressed and proper only beg to say?

 

That homeless are authentically preserved in ways affluence can’t procure

The humble do not moan the open sunny spaces; don’t wrongly take what privilege

fails to say in eye contact, in shuffling leather attaches, in cutting decks,

in tossing hair and cash, in loading apps for sweets and coffee, unacknowledged perks

 

Yet from a thickset sunny space, a tree-ringed face raised up, appealing not her plight,

But barefoot, with a single shoe and wallet, fraternal twins in wear and masculinity

Advanced tentatively, a hopeful conversationalist before a gawking judge and galley.

Then, with a dark-roast, toothless smile brewing, she whispered,

 

“I’ll come back when it’s not so busy,” and went outside to pray for the entitled.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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