My friend gave me Seven Calendars
Added to the four from her last month,
Gives me 12 years to live – a life a month
Both a cram & a vivid adventure
January sees me as The Beginner
A six energy after the tests of the five,
Building the stability of four
February will see me shucking shackles
Finding my Fearless Suit, amen.
Taking it out to check it over.
March will find me serving the wind
Standing, as webs are wick’d away
Arms up, as in a test pattern for flight.
April puts me on the chocks
Feet already poised to run downhill
Arms braced to push forth into speed.
May is Permission Month, I face the mirrors
Checking each reflection for any flinch
Seeing none, I shall start divesting.
June sets the flight pattern
Ablaze across a hemisphere
My breath exhales to explore it.
July sets a backpack of heat
Across my cool plans, these meld
Like good peppermint bark with red sprinkles.
August shares me with the moon
Introductions all around
Handshakes, offers of maps.
September sets an 11 upon me:
I’ve lived thru the ten: rebirth permits
Starting over in Spirit Time as a One.
October farewells all that went before
“Sayonara,” she calls
Syllables on the wind.
November flexes haunches to spring
To leap the now-familiar moon
To launch beyond it to the stars.
December sips wassail in the sleigh
Where overhead beams Heaven
Our sole road Home.
The Next World
In the last 30 seconds of the bifurcated moment,
the ones ticking down as I exhale
I forget there may be meaning in this life
I float to the rafters where ever-afters
Have lodged themselves as breathed-out dreams.
I realize the mine of my life is up to me:
I built this pier I stand upon
Plank by plank.
I watch the night
Where darkness never happens
For starbursts pulsing over
I sent my mind in questing
But my heart leaped free instead.
Riding the Light 
When I hold a calender for the next year I flip through the pages and wonder what it will bring. Sometimes I write in all of the birthdays but those aren’t even written in ink are they? I remember holding the calender for 2010. I was at work. I was scribbling in ” my weekends”. Weekends were written in stone and shall never be changed. Ah but that year even the weekends blew off the page and the numbers laughed as they jumped from the crisp new edges of 2010. That year was a year of great change. Everything changed. Fractured shoulder. Foreclosured home. Mom left. I no longer write in anything. I no longer pretend I have control. Form. Not now. No. Not now. Lovely words. I like the second poem a lot. I like the image of a leaping heart. XoxGSent from Yahoo Mail on Android
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