Someone found my blog today by googling "sock puppet poem." I hope this isn't a direct reflection on my work.
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Foot of Glass, Crescent Moon--
On Saturday inspired by the good weather I went to put our sun umbrella into our patio set as it had been blown out of it on Friday. When I went to put it in, there must have been a crack in the glass as the entire table shattered and shards of glass rained down below on the deck.
I was of course dressed in my summer shoes--flip flops--and one piece of glass pierced the top of my foot. Blood, pain, and thankfulness that it was only one piece. A quick clean up by EMT/firefighter husband determined stitches were not needed. Once the blood was wiped away, I realized I know have a pretty cool crescent moon/boomerang shape to scar on the top of my foot. Better and quicker than a tattoo, I carry the moon and a remind of luck and to pay attention to the details.
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Women Poets, Remembering
We gathered in a lovely bungalow in West Seattle to celebrate the life of my friend, P., who passed away on May 8th. This was my old Seattle poetry group, the Mercer Street Poets. We all met and became friends because of P.
We each went around and talked about how we met P and how she changed our lives. I was fine up until the point I started talking about how her belief in me and how she supported my vision for the rest of my life. It was then I broke down in tears realizing what a different life I would have had if I had not left my corporate job, if I had not moved across the water from the city to a blue house in a hill surrounded by evergreens, horses, sheep, goats, cows, and beach.
Sometimes we meet people in our life and they change us in the best ways. Synchronicity is more than a Police song, it's something I'm thankful for. I said yesterday that my life is better for knowing P., she was the human form of a blessing, she was what I imagine magic would look like if it wrote poetry, smiled, cut flowers from the garden and brought them inside.
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Last night I had a dream that Peter P. was sweeping his driveway and Dean was planting beautiful red roses in their yard. I walked a little further and there was another poet's home and garden (I can't remember who though). I kept thinking maybe there's a poet in every house. The rest of the dream falls away at this point and I remember something about water or a boat and someone walking me through a cottage and saying, "You can live here for as long as you like."