My Name Is Not Mavis

I’m Not Gone; I’m Here

The year slips by me
In the shadow of days;
Impossible to wind
The string of my thoughts
Into a neat ball.
To keep the tangles
Small and manageable.
Nothing feels quite even keel,
But the edge of uncertainty and aging.
Never mind.
No longer am I bothered
As the veil drops;
The slow dissolve into wildness
That disregards consequence.
A judgement of delight
With a reckoning of freedom.

Planned All Along

When insecurity shows
Like a slip beneath the hem of your skirt,
Tug at your waist to straighten
Your backbone of confidence
And jauntily kick out your foot
As you stride down the street
As if it was planned all along.

Wayward

I don’t need one definition
Of who I am.
A category. A slot to fit.
Do you?
Like a letter that is lost,
I might stay in a place
Where no one can find me.
Or be delivered to the wrong address
Only to be opened by mistake.
What wayward pleasure comes
From reading someone else’s secrets
And making them your own.

I don’t believe in getting it right,
That detours are bad, in mistakes that are fatal.
I don’t believe in owning clothes I don’t wear,
Not singing along, or keeping treasures
Locked in the garage for later.
I believe that we should buy flowers as if
Every day is a celebration,
And clear our shelves now and then
To make room for surprises that still await us.
I believe in strangers I haven’t met yet,
Tossing words to the sky, and the slow hope of change.
Mostly, I believe that everything ordinary is a miracle
If we adjust our glasses and look each other in the eye.

P.S. (I know I told you.
I would keep my mouth shut.
From now on.
But I need to confess.
I lied. That is never.
Going to happen.)