In relationships, it is so hard not to keep SCORE – this thing that a therapist that I had once called “stamp collecting.” All the little bits and pieces of being with someone, added up in columns, pluses and minuses until you DROOP under the weight of it all. I want to sweep it all away, wipe it out with a BROAD brush. Start fresh, as tender and delicate as a new FROND, growing up from a fern on the mossy woodland floor. Loved and appreciated for simply being, a small magical bit of existence.

Georg’ann

Letting quiet GUIDE me
as the capricious ocean within
crashes and calms, moves
toward then recedes. Becomes
steady sea once again.

Crave to HOARD this stillness,
ensure there’s always a store available,
like Frederick the mouse collecting
color and sensations
to brighten the winter WORLD.

Here I remember.
Inside an ocean. Outside
on the path, a soft spiral uncoils.
It is spring.
The fern FROND unfurls.

Heather

I spy a little nest started in the strawberry bed. Some small creature, I assume, though not likely a MOUSE. I gently pull the dried grass away, laid carefully in a circle. It’s an action I take with some mixed feelings – who am I to be a THORN in the side of some small animal, forcing it to search for a new home? Does it really need to be TABOO to have a little nest under the sage, next to the strawberries? And then I think of those red berries, and imagine the little thieves. Ah, yes my little friend, go build your nest elsewhere: those berries are mine!

Georg’ann

Even as I try to EQUIP my heart
with all the promise of Easter season, 
the feeling is more suited to Good Friday. 
Slipping back into darkness, 
hard to keep a vigilant WATCH for light. 
Precarious, oh so tender. Everything. 
Dare not seek a TAROT reading. 
TABOO for this mood. 

Only trust divination read 
in woodland wildflowers. 
Dutchman’s breeches, trillium, violets,
celandine poppies are the light.
Suspended between crucifixion 
and resurrection, faith is carried
on the wings of Red Admiral butterflies.

Heather

GREAT wave approaches –
The SHORE, shimmering, yields in
Acceptance, FORCE brings change

Georg’ann

This wind, nature’s SHOUT.
MONEY spent and beauty gone.
FORCE blew it away.

Heather

We journey together:
Different cars, same TRAIN.
I wander the aisles looking for you,
Longing to connect.
You seem out of REACH:
Traveling in parallel
Lines never touch.

READY or not, we are moving forward –
When we get there,
Will we be in the same REALM?

Georg’ann

On cheek, TRACE of tears.
Sobs had been HEARD in next REALM.
Empty now, she slept.

Heather

On a bluff with a CLEAR view
I orient north, SOUTH, east, west
STUDY the hawk above
Focus on the STUMP below
On the breeze bits of fluff and STUFF float by
The woods are full of sensory delights
Things that have STUNK or STUNG,
Are equal invitations to experience wonder

Georg’ann

You take the same ROUTE each day,
yet are not STUCK in the same pattern.
Always finding something new to STUDY.
Or feeling comfort of the familiar,
even as you notice changes, oh so subtle.
Perhaps not even subtle,
like how buildings and trees come down.
While entire neighborhoods go up.
In the yard with toys strewn about,
a child was STUNG running
barefoot in the clover.
The next day he was there again,
laughing. His feet were bare.

Heather

I crave a walk along the SHORE
To see my footprints STAIN the sand
Startle gulls, splash in waves
Alas, we are SADLY land-locked
Hours from the coast
Ah, I would give anything to
SALLY forth along the beach today

Georg’ann

Sam was SWIFT in claiming her SPACE on the top bench of the SAUNA, where she could SAVOR the rosemary scented steam as it settled in droplets on her SAGGY skin. Eventually the heat would become too much and then she’d SALLY forth and plunge into the cool pool, awaking the sleepy senses with a shock.

Heather

What do you suppose is the ORGAN where DOUBT resides? The lungs, where we gasp or hold our breath? Perhaps it lives in a TOOTH – those front teeth where we take a first tentative bite of an apple. Or could an experience like uncertainty reside in a hand, where we struggle to grasp a TOPIC. If so, could we use a TOWEL to be decisive and wipe away any hesitations?

Georg’ann

Fingers stroke the pages
As a continuous CHAIN
of words hold me captive.
Both engaged in the story,
and enchanted with the poetry
of the PROSE. MODEL writing
too rare, precious when discovered.
Even the rendering of a TOWEL
makes my skin long to be wrapped
in such threads of cotton.

Heather

A sailor under a CURSE
Travels far and wide
Finds himself SOBER
And TRIES once again
To resist the SIREN

A cloudless night
The moon has RISEN
The temptress sings
Beware the rocks
Or into the deep you go

Georg’ann

MAGIC wand in hand,
tiara settled askew over curls.
“The Queen of University Street”
one neighbor dubbed her.
She did have a certain POISE and charm,
our preschool royalty, as she sauntered
down the street, bestowing hellos.
I’d watch from the stoop,
ready to sound the SIREN
if she strayed too far.
No matter how early we’d RISEN,
she never seemed to tire,
always up
to meeting what the day had to offer.
“A puddle is a friend,
go out and greet it!”

Heather

The house is quiet. Reaching across the table, I turn on a table lamp. I watch as the circle of light turns AMBER as, first twilight, and then darkness begin to fall. A basket of STALE bread sits before me. The dregs of CHEAP red wine sit drying in a glass. Books, papers cover surfaces. There is a general sense of disarray about the space. I glance over at the door, my coat and bag slump against the wall. How long have I been sitting here? What time did I leave work? Was it yesterday? Today? My faltering sense of time, of reality — I feel lost, adrift. The smell of DECAY wafts in on a breeze. The smell stirs memories – ones that I know are recent, yet feel very far away. I close my eyes, and the images start to come back. I can hear the screams, the phone call to 911, noises of panic and chaos. I force myself to push them away. My mind demands that I sleep here — now, in this chair — for as long as it takes in the vain hope that when I awake it will not be true.

Georg’ann

Seeking to feel RIGHT,
wishing to balance the SCALE.
Each day called to perform
as if I were a magician
in a fancy CAPED costume.
Creating, sustaining illusion.
It’s hard work this magic making.
Effort destined to go unnoticed.
Like how a bulb becomes a bloom.
Our eyes drawn to its bright display
emerging
through the carpet of leaf DECAY.

Heather

A bonded pair for life
Or so they say
This lends caution to my steps
Lest I SCARE them as I approach
This woodland STAGE where
A dance of life is taking SHAPE
Here in the dappled SHADE
I watch in awe as
Mourning doves bob their heads
Rituals of billing and cooing

Georg’ann

The tongue craves for STONE fruit.
Ripe and messy. Flesh both firm
and yielding, juice dripping.
Flavor and scent fill SPACE,
mindfulness inescapable.

The heart laments, around here
good fruit is rare.
No matter the grocer or farm stand.
Piece after piece selected with anticipation.
And again comes some mealy, stringy, flavorless ball.
It’s not worth the pursuit.
An expense to SHAVE off the list.

This summer I’ll sit in the SHADE,
My mouth filling with saliva
dreaming of the perfect peach,
a cool plum, or smooth nectarine.
My hands will not reach for reality.

Heather

The tulips say MAYBE baby
The daffodils say hell yeah
The crocuses say bye bye
The squill say yippee ti yi yay
The LIGHT chuckles and then guffaws
As the wind tickles and chucks it under the chin

It’s a special LINGO
Heard only in the month of March

Georg’ann

It was no GREAT thing
yet to it oh did she CLING
In our LINGO? She a ding a ling!

Heather

The baby cuts a TOOTH —
The DRAWN butter threatens to burn —
A SALAD waits to be tossed —
Sundown brings all tensions to the fore —
Can I ABIDE the transition to night?

Georg’ann

WATER droplets fly
Creek play, dog gives hearty SHAKE.
ABIDE consequence.

Heather

Oh what a good SPORT you are:
Hours SPENT searching for SPELT
Just to make that recipe for me
True friendship, indeed

Georg’ann

Traveling Companion

She kept me company with poetic prose,
an Appalachian love story,
spoken in native dialect.
Her VOICE as comforting as warm BREAD
spread with butter and honey.

Miles pass quickly as I STEEP
in details of people and place.
It’s late when I arrive home,
but I sit in the parked car
too captivated to pause.

Finally the ache of travel,
and gnawing hunger pull me
out of the Kentucky mountains.

Inside, I’m welcomed back.
On the kitchen counter
sits a pound of SPELT flour
and a jar of homemade strawberry jam tucked into a cloth lined basket.

Heather

Have you ever witnessed a CHAIN reaction?
The kind that hits a NERVE,
Contagious as a cold,
In the WRONG place and time

A SNORT of laughter, a fit of giggles
Echoing louder than a sermon,
Disrupting a wedding,
Raising eyebrows,
Shushes rippling all around

Georg’ann

Soon family is coming to VISIT.
We have no GUEST room,
so it will be a cozy time.
Our own SLANT on togetherness
will bring many a SNORT.

Not only our own laughter,
but also a visit to the neighborhood
urban pigs. Snoopy and Piggy
love to grunt and SNORT
while being scratched.

A small rake hangs on the fence.
Time visible a few blocks away
on the courthouse dome.

Heather

Tale told on a spring night 

In the neighborhood of the MANOR, there by the STONY lane, near the  NOTCH in the wall, there is a TOKEN hidden. If you find it, take it, but don’t bite it. It’s laced with a TOXIN. But you can safely hold it and hoard it until the day you need it. Hand it to the ogre, should he come to call, and you’ll be safe forever.

Georg’ann

EXTRA antidote!
Resuming TOXIC patterns.
Your touch a TOXIN.

Heather

GREAT shame can destroy
Like a CRUET overturned
Vinegar and oil ERUPT
Onto the tablecloth

Georg’ann

Give SPACE, be patient.
Fruit will RIPEN, become sweet.
Blossoms will ERUPT.

Heather

Twixt and between
Twist and turn
We TWINE together
As we have
SINCE the day we met

Georg’ann

Spring earth is MOIST, fresh.
The scent awakens my senses.
Having RISEN early for a walk,
there’s time before work
to move the misplaced clematis.
She grows rapidly.
Soon to be unwieldily,
tangled in various electrical LINES.

A few quick prods of the shovel,
and up comes the clump.
Deep rusty red-brown roots below
the flaking, woody growth.
Tender pink and green tendrils
emerging.
I place her next to the elderly honeysuckle,
imagining the pliable new vines
weaving through brittle old growth.

An intergenerational display,
each lending graceful blooms.
Clematis comes on quick, flashy.
Then leaves a purple mess, and gone.
Each year this maiden begins anew.
While the honeysuckle gives understated delight all summer,
bird shelter year round.

Caught in the tangle
is a tiny bit of cloth,
with a SINGE along the edge.
It’s been there SINCE before Eva left for college.
Standing here I wonder, am I
more trellis or aging vine.

Heather

A STORY held so closely
Rings a CHIME across time
Told again and again
Echos, ghosts define the present
(must be karma, fate)
Assigns the roles
(ah, yes, so familiar)
Yet weighs heavily on one
Am I at the bottom –
Or is it the top?
Either way, this burden needs to
HEAVE off
Shove off, be destroyed —
Crack open the compulsion
Reframe the dilemma —
Freedom

Georg’ann

She FOUND herself surrounded
by figments of something.
Calls. Frightened.
“I Can’t find the TRAIL.”
Attempting to piece fragments into a path.
Moving toward and also away.
Is the SHAPE solid matter,
memory, vision, or imagination.
Her dog finds her hiding in the closet.
Door ajar. Nudges it open.
Crouched woman tentatively unfurls.
Low to the floor, both HEAVE,
chests rising and falling
He is the trail back.

Heather

It had been a dark night, too cold and too lonely for anyone except those called to investigate a murder. Now sitting at her desk, hands wrapped around a cup of tea, Detective Sarah Jane Smythe was reviewing some of what they had found: a subway TOKEN clutched in the victim’s hand; a note in the victim’s pocket with an email address; and a crushed bouquet of flowers next to the body. And then there were the SPIKE heels — there was something odd about them, something that Sarah Jane could not let go of. Was it the way they broke? The angle? How they seemed wrong with the rest of the victim’s clothes? It was buzzing around her head like a PESKY insect. She sighed. Perhaps 4 am was not the best time to expect results from herself. Best to go to bed for a couple of hours and then bring it up with her team. She pushed away from the desk, and in her haste, the tea cup fell to the floor. Looking at the shattered pieces, it hit her. “Of course! What an idiot I am!!”

Georg’ann

SHARE this QUEST to find
who fills my boots with bird seed.
Culprit, PESKY mouse!

Heather

A RURAL hideaway,
A FAVOR to my soul
TRADE my easy urban walking
For paths through GRAIN
Waving tall GRASS
A chance to GRASP
And savor the Earth

Georg’ann

She opened the blinds,
I moved my chair.
Together we watched the sun
limn a grey CLOUD with golden neon light.
How quickly the sky changes.
The TIMER went off, soup was served.
Like the sun, this soup infused
my grey spirit with bright light.

Depicting this week on a GRAPH
would have the wild, irregular spikes
of an A-fib EKG. Heart fluctuates.
Everything a metaphor to GRASP.
Into the stillness of our supper,
a mouse darted across the floor.

Heather

From a different PLANE of existence
I offer you a little CHEER
Pressing
“Send”

Georg’ann

From sorrow, we took a PAUSE.
A surprise party for a friend.
Though TIRED, we agreed to go.
Hiding in the FOYER, waiting.
Finally a LEVER is pulled,
exploding confetti and CHEER.
Exuberant celebration of life
more somber ones soon to come.

Studies in contrast, like this
strange house with its opulent
displays of humble virtues.
Plush fabrics in muted jewel tones
cover cold stone, everywhere
here what’s hard is shrouded
in softness.

Heather

She eased into counting SHEEP, allowing the day to drop away. Her body relished the chance to fall asleep EXTRA EARLY, satisfying a deep need for rest.

Georg’ann

The TOUCH of hands together,
holding for strength, comfort.
Fingers tenderly stroking hair or cheek.
An embrace, now unfamiliar.
Grief. So much grief.
Talk of the body as an empty shell.
Evacuated in trauma, reentered when safe.
Touch the vessel when life has left, a final goodbye.
Love PLAIN in such simple gestures.
Nothing FALSE when skin to skin.
No LABEL for the touches this week,
these raw moments branded upon me.
Waking EARLY, too seared to sleep.

Heather

A PIANO plays in the bar
The conversations DRONE on
For me, and me alone,
Your entrance drops into the room
Like a STONE into water
Rippling out, my senses on alert
You are – and we are –
Utterly unique, impossible to CLONE
We make each other more
May I never lose this feeling

Georg’ann

This POINT too much grief.
Mother holds BLOND girl, they weep.
Father gone, No CLONE.

Heather

At the end, we CLOSE
The book and DREAM, TEARY eyes
Open to spring breeze

Georg’ann

GAUNT woman pulls weeds
We TRADE perennials, talk
turns TEARY. Owl hoots.

Heather

We each take our PLACE, settling in to watch whatever is on: a WITCH, a hero, a demon, a heroine. From the COUCH, I grab a handful of popcorn and MUNCH, passing the bowl to you. We speculate and make a case for the next plot twist. You, so certain that you have the right HUNCH, debate with the rest of us. Family night at the movies – a treat and delight.

Georg’ann

White blouse, yellow STAIN
LUNCH? Curried chickpea salad
At least that’s my HUNCH.

Heather

An ACORN seems such a proper nut, positively STAID in its respectability. The peanut on the other hand seems like more like a playful nut, one that would be a goof or perhaps the FLAKE of the nut world. Pecans, on the other hand, seem to me to be kind of exotic, their rich burnished brown color hinting at a FLAME red energy. What a silly sort of taxonomy: the personalities of nuts!!

Georg’ann

“Oh HONEY, that sounds so frightening.”
I’m frightened too, though I don’t think they pick up a TRACE of anything other than
calm, compassionate composure. We’ve come together to check if the medications are in order. Sometimes they aren’t and that sets off a cascade of concerns, the kind which I’ve just been witnessing.

There is a SPADE by the walk and little clumps of freshly turned dirt. Preparation for pansy season, I imagine. Last year the walkway was lined with a succession of colorful blooms from earliest spring until well past the first FLAKE of snow.

On the window is a firefighter pet alert sticker. I remember the FLAME outlined in silver from my childhood. Every year we got them at school as part of fire safety training.

Heather

My life was once marked by the rhythm of childbirth classes. I measured time through the lens of due dates, following cohorts of round bellies that gave way to parents in love with dewy fresh babies. We would gather these babies in a DAISY formation, heads in the center and bodies curled like pastel petals. We would gaze in amazement at this preciousness, trying to STAMP the moment in our minds. I was so aware of the fleeting nature of it all, feeling that perhaps if I could STARE hard enough time could be still, just a little. It never grew STALE, this STATE of wonder, this cracking open of the world to celebrate hope and possibilities.

Georg’ann

Early Spring Evening.

Walking my neighborhood
is like a scene from a MOVIE,
the feel good slice of life kind.
The former hospital property
is taking SHAPE. Grassy knolls
and such. Historic sidewalks
flaking like SLATE.

In the park some teens SKATE.
On the basketball court, alone,
a famous poet & essayist shoots
baskets. He bounces and twists
to Erykah Badu soulfully singing.

Men chatting, carrying styrofoam
boxes, move in a meandering line,
reminiscent of ants.
Going from one building to another
at the Center for Recovery. Dinner.

Sitting on our front wall,
taking in the settling of dusk,
my eye is caught by something
shiny hanging on the handrail.
Guess I’ve been in a distracted STATE
for months, not having noticed this
black cat Christmas ornament.

Heather

So many stop by for a DRINK
My garden appears to have GROWN
Bright blooms of cardinals and blue jays
They PREEN and chatter
The URBAN space turned wild

Georg’ann

In the WORLD of GRIEF
everything goes off TRACK.
Yet still these URBAN streets
are full of life, pages worth.

Heather

Time and SPACE
To feel beautiful
BLOND and thin
Ready for anything
Still ROUGH around the edges
Behaving as if there is nary a WORRY
Oh, the follies of life before FORTY

Georg’ann

Tonight I rest in your SPACE,
while you work in mine. Trading.
Your children tucked in, sleeping
already. Your dog breathing heavy.
He also sleeps, against my leg.

I BLINK back tears knowing
our proximity is soon to shift.
It will be ROUGH when the distance
between us will require more than our feet.

No more will I see your silhouette
coming over the Howe street crest
as I move uphill toward you
for our WORDY walks at dawn.
Sixty minutes might now become FORTY,
on account of travel.

My shirt is the same color sage
as your living room walls. My feet rest
on a chair that once belonged to me.
So it is with friends, lives interwoven
with myriad threads.
The weaving continues tonight.

Heather

We discuss, but it feels like we ARGUE
We forget who we are to each other
We each wear our hurt
Like a BADGE of honor
Ending like a bad STAGE play
With one stomping away
The emotions linger
An after-IMAGE of pain
A restless energy
That shakes
the wine glasses in the cabinet

Georg’ann

The argument goes in circles.
Stuck on the roundabout,
No road taken in any direction.

From outside myself,
I COUNT the exits not taken.
Each curve a possibility.
Ooops, missed the turn again,
we’re going around a bit longer.

Out of nowhere, like fruit flies,
these exchanges ARISE.
Neither of us AGILE enough
to deflect.
And just as suddenly we’re on
a straight away.

I have an IMAGE of a large hand
taking the wheel, easing us
into new territory.
Talking of birds, our children, warm cake.

Heather

Many years ago, an unusual print laid CLAIM to my attention, leading us to buy it. It is from the 1700s, showing St. Lawrence set to BROIL upon his grill. We were in some curio shop, the kind that produces the feeling of puttering around in someone else’s attic. We have had it for years. Truly, his role as patron saint of cooks and chefs, appears a bit ironic. He is also the patron saint of students. I confess that I fail to see how the roasted saint protects a PUPIL from the DEVIL. But such are the mysterious ways of the holy.

Georg’ann

Through the night, fierce winds,
lightening. Rain pelted the window.
Then settled into a more delicate
ice crystal melody, in UNION
with the wind chime.
40 degree drop by dawn.

Labile weather for the world.
Scrolling the news quickly.
Numbness, despair, outrage,
brief reprieve then more.
DIRTY business.
Someone searching for DEXIE
made a pact with the DEVIL.
Endless these pacts.

Crash in the closet, door widens.
Out comes the cat, nonchalant.

Heather

I consider myself SMART enough
But, the SLOPE of a graph can be tough
I try and SHINE a light,
Keep a reference book in sight
Yet no SENSE can I make
The answer I will just have to fake!

Georg’ann

I didn’t TEACH her to love
the textures of tree bark,
only set her on the path.

She knew by instinct
how to SEIZE the earth
through her feet and fingers.

We SEGUE from concrete
and cluttered containment,
SENSE the expanse in tiny details.

Heather

Relishing the POWER of the camera,
I turn the lens 
Frame myself in the shadows
The effect is almost a CAMEO
I see the ONSET of age
I try not to flinch 
As I OFTEN do
Instead to embrace and claim:
Click.

Georg’ann

Many voices today,
all speaking truths.
The SOUND of vulnerability
reverberates in the chambers.
Mouths no longer wishing
to speak topics like the weather.
Wearing no CROWN,
yet each a queen.
The BATON passes into every hand,
as each story is shared.
Eyes, like mirrors, are met
with knowing kindness.
Too OFTEN we close
when we ought to open.

Heather