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Perfectly Imperfect

No more darkness will be wasted on trying
to catch dandelions..I can't control the wind or find the pieces
but I do know we are all pieces
waiting to fill a picture,
.......perfectly imperfect.




Remembering Summer Wind

That first kiss of warmth cradling arms,
whispering coolness to dry the beads of sweat on my skin,
traveling miles from the spot under that magnolia tree,
blowing dandelions, watching them spread through sky
then settle to other places.

The stem itself looked like an empty beehive,
tiny holes where once held cottony softness
and dreams of make believe knights in shining
or maybe tarnished armor.

Deeply embedded in the mind of a girl about 5, maybe 6,
trying to hold onto the people who scattered through wind
much like dandelions. She was blinded by light of sun
most days, her lashes sensitive to falling rain.
Her voice was silent, would be for years.

She would listen for the far off call
of a muse that taught her
how the curve of her mouth and the glimmers
in her self made her special regardless
of blown dandelions that gathered beneath her feet.

Lost she would be for an eternity, till the one
who came to her in dreams finally let her face be seen.
Still hiding in trees, looking
out over fields for stray wild flowers
to put in her hair when it begins to thunder,
finding shelter in thoughts only share with a whisper,
redefining daily the way the stars are aligned,
creating, tearing down, recreating,

digging deeply inside to embrace that wild child
who chased tornadoes till once
one nearly swept her up in its mistaken embrace
and tossed her two life times back
away from home.



Redefining
fully lined with satin and lace,
soft but textured,
tearing down leather trampolines
replacing with feather beds
and dandelion wine
beating still beneath my skin,
softly listening
for the whisper of thunder
as it approaches summer wind
against my face.
Rain cleanse my lashes
as I grasp at stars
with the tips of my fingers.






Thinking sometimes creates a wild notion that the sun can't be seen from certain parts of a house, or that windows need to be covered in white nurse's shoe polish to avoid the glare. Something other than sun and moon...the glare from spring dirt giving way to flowers, weeds, wild daring creatures chasing to find an extension to life....the hum of violins heard in ears deafened by cold weather...fingers floating from frostbit notions, tokens left over from the previous year..or was it the year before...time never changes it moves...onward in the same direction never faltering for the child perhaps in the way of its fury..vodka can make perfume and an intoxicating high from the same bottle of oil...connected, not really.

Separated...more like the tearing of velcro on a cheap suit....it doesn't really matter that the world spins faster than can be seen....still can't make a difference in dishes needing to be cleaned and jeans having holes in the knees....god is immense or as tiny as the smallest speck of dust...angels exist or they don't it will still rain a lot in the spring....waters will rise over toes and cleanse away dust...mix it into mud then solidify in the heat of another sun....looking back on writing i have done in the past...years ago..nothing has really changed but that maybe I have a few more lines on my face that no one can see...just lying underneath the skin...waiting to make me old again.



Struggling to find that part of me that made me young...I was born ancient and with each year died a little more...then found spring....each year it moves my spirit like magick whispers fills me completely till the first fall of snow...then I lay dying until it comes again each time wondering how to get it back...my blood flows cooler, my eyes dimmer, my tongue tasteless...until something....sweeps over hope and makes reality more like fantasy but its touchable...and more real than the coldness of reality more fantastic than life, then it goes....to the place where musicians die in peace...yet their music lives in others for different reasons than what were intended...much like my words float in a fish bowl for someone to take and shape into something comprehensible.

But what does that even show if it isn't for its meaning....easter for some is resurrection, for some mourning...for some..nothing...another time to paint the sky in pastel...no particular day can describe perfect rainbows....no light can be respected for what it was until darkness is that of a deep cave with only a flickering match to see....reality is blown out matches and misplaced light....reflected sighs of summer the year before...or two summers before....and capturing the essence of green grass underneath heavy feet lifting the spirit like wings of pigeons....doves can't carry hope for long.....each year wonders about the next....but holds the one before until it is replaced..with new memories and new reasons to linger in this time and space longer than before....earth, sky, time, space....once in one for a short season.



Remaking a thought

listen to me when I tell you this one thing,
ignore me when I say it twice
remember if I forget I said it before,
never let me say it again.
If I tend to regret
relive a dream once flown
towards the wind against odd
times. Never recall
I twirled my hair
when I was nervous
my lips closed tightly
avoid biting my thoughts
nothing I think reminds me of
any one thing
just the way the wind
carries me into spring.



Finding your way when the air is thick can mistake wonder for fog and grace for sleet and snow sometimes its better to rely that someone has a light to lead you out of the water till you can learn to swim.





Listening to silent thoughts drifting in and out of my fingers,
through my eyes seeing nothing but what I choose or want,
not what is needed, not chosen. Whispers silent.
Caressing moon light shadows, creating new beings
within reflections, a wave pool of pond scummed water.
Scraping memory from sight, increasing desire
from nothing, or something that will,
or won't increase the rate of breath entering lungs.

I dreamed the other night

a cursed dream in daylight
I swore never to let the chance of thought
enter my mind, never cross my roads again.
But lazy eyelids closed, seems to be the way
my logic applies. There through tossed sheets
and uncovered veins till the morning light
clearly met your eyes, stabbing me from inside
to outside fingers easily forgotten.
Today or yesterday, only then was what I knew
or know till somewhere smiling
I'll hope.


 All writing original by Kim Mayhall. copyright@1999
Please do not use without my permission.


Sticks and Stones and other things that break


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