Calendar Times

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.

One response to “Calendar Times”

  1. 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

    Like

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