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

Fighting to FROWN,
Rather than giggle
So very serious
The little girl pokes and prods
The peas and carrots on her PLATE
With MISTY eyes and trembling lips
“But my horses need shoes”
That plaintive voice rises
As I try to explain
Plastic toy horses
Need not a SMITH

Georg’ann

In the dream I’m holding
the bread KNIFE, jagged
metal so sharp, long blade.
It feels foreign, dangerous.
A weapon to wield,
rather than a culinary tool

A towheaded CHILD comes in
to the kitchen from somewhere.
She is not mine, yet she is mine
to protect. From something.
We walk out the back door.

I HOIST her up onto the brick
garden wall, then myself.
I jump down to the street,
she jumps into my arms.
We walk down SMITH street.
Once again the bread knife
is in my hand like a sword.

The alarm jolts me awake.

Heather

To be a RULER, requires that you be a MOVER, a leader, an ASKER who can elicit the best of those around you. It is not enough to receive a CHEER for surface actions, things done just to please. Aspire to do things that will live beyond you – that no WIPER can clear away. Accountability is crucial, a good leader is not afraid to pay the PIPER.

Georg’ann

The newest fitness craze
A playful way to get in SHAPE:

Be lithe, strong at your core,
Slither and squirm like a VIPER,

Maintain range of motion,
Move parts as if they’re a WIPER

Create lung capacity and calm,
Breathe deep, long like a PIPER

Heather

I love a good browse in a bookstore. On the right day, in the right frame of mind, I can be interested in everything. From “How to AVOID Life Catastrophes” to “Learn to Fold Dollar Bills into Fun and Useful Toys starting with a Right ANGLE.” On those days, they all seem fun and interesting to me. On other days, the most ARTSY and compelling titles seem dull as dishwater. I can tell none of them APART. They are one giant blur, rows upon rows of indistinguishable titles and covers. Context, as they say, is everything.

Georg’ann

Slowly the GROUP forms
Thoughts shared SPARK new connections.
No one set APART

Heather

I have a bad HABIT
Saying I have HEARD
When, in fact, I have not
Having a physical loss
Like hearing
Can feel like having
To HEAVE
A very HEAVY
Rock
Multiple times
And sometimes
I am just too tired
To do it
One
More
Time

Georg’ann

The CHAIR, in plain view,
hides a STASH of love letters.
HEAVY heart holds on.

Heather

The SCENE, just like all the others in the play, was ABOUT an emotionally BUMPY ride that seemed to BUILD to a pointless end. Such was the challenge facing the cast.

Georg’ann

Dropping a HEAVY weight
onto one’s toes is apparently
a weight room right of passage.
That is what the kind spirited
trainer says
when I loose my grip
loading a 45 pound disc
onto my side of the iron bar.

After years of incident free lifting,
I’m now in the club with only a bit of STING.
My toes, and truthfully my pride.
It popped the way a balloon responds
to a pin PRICK. Only silently, inside.
Externally laughing, we continue
to BUILD muscle strength & endurance.

He doesn’t know how vulnerable
my body seems lately. My fear
in its ever increasing restrictions
and loss of grace.

Heather

He eyed the swirling colors, eddies of desire and possibilities. AMONG tonight’s jewels, there MAYBE is the MATCH of a lifetime.

Georg’ann

AMBER took one last glance into the stands, then turned all her focus to the field. This was the MATCH she most relished, the annual game against her biggest rival. Each spurring the other to their best play.

Heather

It feels like a CHEAT 
We had hoped for a MOVER, a dancer
A future BRIDE, 
Instead we can hear a DIRGE playing 
From up on the RIDGE
We are the cheated
The forlorn
The lost

Georg’ann

I don’t want to WASTE a moment,
yet sense that striving can
itself become a form of waste.
Lying on my back, eyes closed,
listening
to the CRONE weave her stories.
An afternoon passes.
Her voice fills the room
like warm cocoa scented air.
Here it’s easy to PURGE
my mind of intrusions,
her words lulling me
to a type of lucid dream.
Transported from the room,
I lie on a sunny RIDGE,
a large, smooth rock
gathering heat.

Heather

Abigail walked slowly. It was time to CLEAN up, and she wanted to AVAIL herself of every second of peace before the drudgery began. She could hear from above the sounds of the other children going to bed – routines of washing bodies and brushing hair, soon to be murmurs of prayers and the rustling of dozens of sheets as they settled for the night. She knew that she had stacks of dishes and LOADS of laundry to sort before she could begin her own nightly rituals. At least she would not be alone; Ginny was also on night cleaning duty. Ginny was slender like a plant STALK and for all that surprisingly strong. Abigail was glad for Ginny’s company – Ginny was cheerful. The last time Abigail had to fetch flour for Sister, she was terrified. The pantry had felt huge, she had felt small, there were weird noises, and despite frantic reciting of PSALM 91 over and over, she had been very afraid. She hadn’t believed Sister when she said that the sound coming up from the cellar was mice. Mice don’t moan and bang. Abigail decided then and there that she would ask Ginny to go to the pantry if needed. Heck, she would even offer Ginny her best buttons from her collection.

Georg’ann

Light EXTRA candles
Make care PLAIN in all you do
A PSALM in motion

Heather

It is unpleasant to be uprooted. So much nicer when we can PLANT and be grounded. But life is unpredictable, and, here I am. I wonder if I can turn this unsettled moment, where I am in danger of sliding, into a graceful swoop, an opportunity to SKATE rather than slip or trip. I can feel that fear or a stiff and STAID demeanor will make this harder. Can I find something to assist me, like a STAFF or cane? Something in my STASH of tools that can generate a temporary anchor. I love the irony – that the more I am rooted, the freer I am to fly.

Georg’ann

A surprise snow, heavy and wet.
School takes an early BREAK,
extra hours added
to an already long weekend.
Parents, sitters, neighbors rally
to coordinate coverage.
After snowy play comes snacks.
Hot cocoa STAIN above
your little lip, a STAMP
of approval for your devoted
STAFF of one, as she reaches
into the STASH of animal crackers.
This afternoon winter wonderland
settles, slows, softens.

Heather

You have set great STORE by me,
Let me return the favor
And raise a glass,
A TOAST – to you:
Your wit, your sense of style –
From bon mot to ASCOT,
You are the top

Georg’ann

The familiar ROUTE , no longer secure.
Taken for granted, it’s oddly easy
to trip on the path of least resistance.
Time to take STOCK, look at the road.
Don’t want to COAST or drift any farther.
Where are we going?
Why are we going?

Are we going?

Those carefree days of flowered dresses,
broad rimmed sun hats, linen suits
with a pocket scarf and matching ASCOT
strolling arm in arm?
Those carefree days took a strange turn.

Heather

I FROWN. If anyone had been around to observe me, they would surely have thought I was frowning at the BACON. That was not, thankfully, the case (I do love an occasional bit of crispy, yet fatty meat). Rather, I was pondering how best to proceed. But I should back up; you are no doubt wondering how I ended up in this particular country estate in a remote part of Scotland, staring, if not at pork products, then at the thought that I am sitting at this table by invitation of the Baron. He has asked me to locate the source for the story of the MASON, related in an obscure bit of poetry, a PAEON, published sometime before 1740. There is an important clue in the part of the poem that relates to the riddle of the falcon’s TALON, supposedly hidden in a part of the stonework. If we can solve the riddle then maybe – just maybe – we figure out what happened to the jewels.

Georg’ann

FRESH out of assurances
COUNT on me no longer
Time to pass the BATON
Release the TALON, fly.

Heather

We really have no idea what to do with this. We have been given a set of clues, and they make no sense. This is the hardest scavenger hunt we have ever done! First, we have to find a BEAST to avoid, then an aroma to SAVOR, followed by the need to find a SPRAY of flowers! Well if we don’t want to get left behind, we had better SCRAM! I think the other teams have already headed out!

Georg’ann

A series of medical tests, resulting
in discoveries unexpected, unrelated.
EARLY detection of a faulty AORTA.
SCRAP the knee, the back, the nerves.
Immediate attention required,
lest this passageway SCRAM
the lifeline irreparably. Blow out.
And in this, this we know
life plays like a game of chance.
We won this round.

Heather

Normally, your return would be a treat, but on this occasion, it is PLAIN and simple that we are not to have a PARTY. You came in holding grief, needing silence as you sit with the current rupture in your world. We hold that space together, as if in meditation. Of course, we cannot stay there. And so we try to cut and PASTE together a reason for some joy. In the true traditions of our family, you look me straight in the eye, hints of a smile flickering across your face, saying “I would like to have pesto PASTA while I am here.” I nod, grateful to be able to offer memories and summer and reminders of the inevitable passage of time, captured in basil, garlic, pine nuts, cheese, and olive oil.

Georg’ann

Recipe calls for CREAM,
of which there is none.
Keep drawing a BLANK.
An AUDIT of the kitchen
reveals nothing appealing,
not even any of the basics
to whip up a HASTY PASTA,
starting with the pasta itself.
Maybe a lone egg, scrambled
and some stale Triscuits
will stave off the pangs.
I shall relish the combination
of warm and soft with crunchy.
Perhaps a sprinkle of paprika-
that deep rusty red gracing
the small, pale gold mound
will make all the difference.

Heather

The TRUTH, written
on the BOARD:
A SIREN NEVER bodes well

Georg’ann

Running up, or down, the trail
she stops OFTEN to pet moss,
tosses rocks and acorns, yelling “Be free”.
Shakes small trees, listening to the rustling.
Pretends small branches are hands,
reaches out to shake them,
“Nice to meet you” as she makes up a name.
The hollowed out, rotting trunks
pocked with holes are assessed
to be a bug and bird DINER.
A pair of slender, smooth, middle aged trunks
curve together, small space between them,
draws her attention.
While alone a few months ago,
I had photographed them.
“It’s a couple leaning on each other.”
For me they were in a sensual dance.
We talk about the birch leaves,
how they stay through winter.
NEVER a hesitation, this young poet states,
“They hold their leaves like memories”

Heather

It was a slow BLINK, and definitely something more than just an acknowledgement that I EXIST. As I DRIVE away from the party, I keep going over and over the moments of interaction: on the dance floor, at the bar, that long languorous look as we exchanged numbers. My heart — okay, let’s be honest — my PRIDE had been so bruised when Sam had left. I had CRIED for days, gorged on FRIED food until I was sick of it and myself. This party had been a much needed step back into the world. Heading into the valley, towards the lights, I alternated between fantasies of a future with the glamorous Barbara and considering my next move.

Georg’ann

Not ready to TEACH
SPINE of textbook still uncracked,
Prof is beyond FRIED

Heather

Will you ADMIT, let me in to the secret places?
Can we, will we TWINE around each other?
Come, take a chance with me:
Let’s bend, sway, stretch together –
Find the STIFF and stuck places –
Dancing, improvising, discovering
Each other

Georg’ann

Many a red construction paper HEART
A single glue STICK, white doilies,
abundant glitter. What a mess!
And STILL those tender days I miss
as my STIFF hand writes you a love note.

Heather

Another PIECE fell into PLACE, once she arrived at the farm where her mother had been born.

Georg’ann

There is nothing GRAND
about the cup I use each morning.
It’s not arty or sentimental.
Or at least it wasn’t.
It has a pleasing SHAPE,
comfortable in my hand
while holding an ample amount
of warm, foamy milk of some variety
mixed with lots of strong coffee.
This cup, and a single silver PLATE spoon,
have a particular PLACE
in the order of my morning.
Funny how objects can become companions.

Heather