Garden of Eden Poetry

Let us write with lips

what lips could never touch; why not

let us scribble and imagine marvelous fiction.

These dreams are warmth enough.

Windchimes of Wishbones, and Handfuls of Confetti

Suspended from the ends of emotion

you and I are wind chimes made of wishbones

lost halves spinning universal one,

tangling time like bungee cords we double knot

to keep from falling

when all we want is to swing wind under wings

propelling us forward onward farther into

this dream realm we’re trinket collecting, picking

up the pieces like handfuls of confetti.

When the Rain Ends

We are shut up people

in houses same

not touching rain

since the day we saw it dropping dollars down the drain,

ruining another dry-cleaned blouse,

stripping the car polish off,

frizzing the flat-ironed do the humidity curled up.

We don’t want the heels of our pumps to be sticks in the mud,

or to be a sore thumb at the party

skin like dried out raisins.

-

When the rain ends

will we fashion friends to go out,

to question why the hobo has

trash bags over shopping cart belongings?

Why the cyclist doesn’t have

an overhang connected to their helmet?

Why someone doesn’t sweep the streets of leaves

before someone has an accident?

-

Will we walk by wild blooms

bursting at the seams to be sniffed,

step on weeds, the rising resistance

pushing through sidewalk cracks

with “I Have A Dream” speeches?

When we return home will we wonder why

we have so few windows to press our nose against?

-

Remember when we were children and we couldn’t contain ourselves

in board games and card games knowing the world’s not flat,

and that it has so many perfect puddles to splash in?

-

Ever miss baking mud cakes after the rain came

with all the wiggly worm toppings?

Ever miss how dusk ‘til dawn would be filled with creating

something from nothing

and the kids on the block were a ragged pack

of paper stuck together like paper mache?

Then water was our glue,

was what our bones were composed of.

When we ran inside it was because we had to

quench our thirst from running circles,

never able to soak it all in

laughing and lapping from rose-colored glasses.

-

When did we decide to close blinds and fill buckets

as if we’d rather hit the floors than potentially catch a cold

traipsing around out of line and out of doors?

-

The rain is what will keep us

from feeding ourselves out of boxes,

remind us who we are,

not afraid to tell us the truth of our youth

or who we’ve become thus far.

The Keeper

Who is the keeper of secrets

the person who packs padded envelopes

buzzing with bees, carefully who

licks the seals not to get stung?

Who is the recipient with

blossom bosom, long stems

the one

who’ll carry pollinated flowers

behind ears bare fruit

when season comes who will bite

the apple god knows when.