In another life, I think,
I must have
Stood upon the highest ledge
I could find and in the
Final moment, dizzy, breathless,
Thinking of you,
Learned how to fly.
In another,
My blood trailed from your knife
And I was glad it was yours.
I have died in your arms.
Died wishing to have
Your arms around me.
Died not knowing you
But knowing something.
The Suicide of Dorothy Hale – Frida Kahlo (1938). Courtesy of Frida Kahlo Fans
©A. D. Joyce, 2014
The greening of the pink
Last week (Photo by A. D. Joyce)
Today (Photo by A. D. Joyce)
©A. D. Joyce, 2014
from morning dew
to ladened sky
endless completion
a circle
a wheel turning
©A. D. Joyce, 2014
(revised)
I dreamt that I woke up
with you lying beside me.
You told me I was dreaming.
I cried myself to sleep
and when I woke up, you were still there.
You had been watching me sleep
and you said you would not leave.
Then the alarm clock went off.
I hit the button and just lay there,
the sound gone
but the buzz still coursing through me.
©A. D. Joyce, 2014
Change is the new now;
soul the new body;
heart the new brain;
now the new truth;
we the new I.
Everything is a function of everything.
Feel what you see–
the horizon is the edge of the worlds.
©A. D. Joyce, 2014
The wind chimes give
the cold air a voice
in an April
reluctant to spring.
The morning birds
sing on
in sparse trees
still budding.
©A. D. Joyce, 2014
It was only a Saturday,
and from my vantage
on the freeway,
breaks in the continuum approached
where the darkest clouds
would soon give way to brilliant sunlight.
But first, there was
an arbitrary line crossed
where sprinkling rain gave way
to blinding torrent,
deep and uncontrolled.
Time stretched out
in the shade of darkness,
all the cars in slow motion,
as God, She called to us
from the other side of the deluge,
Her sexy sky dressed
in gold and white taffeta
billowing bright.
And once there, dry and safe,
I continued to drive toward
that door of heaven.
©A. D. Joyce, 2014
as we hang
in the balance
i stay still
so as not
to move your
prime directive
left or right
when you
want to
you can
make it so
©A. D. Joyce, 2014
wherever
the
sunset lives
it’s worth it
to watch the yellow melt
into the clouds to form the night shadows
Photo by A. D. Joyce
©A. D. Joyce, 2014
At a buck fifty, you won’t find a hot dog
that tastes as good. On one side
of the plastic picnic table topped with a Sabrett umbrella,
I eat mine with a thin line of yellow mustard.
On the other side, Mom’s has the deli mustard and sauerkraut.
“Mom, I’m different now,” I say mid chew,
apropos of nothing but needing to say it then.
I expected incredulity. She often thinks
I say crazy things and mostly I disagree with that
and sometimes I do say crazy things just for the fun of it.
At age fifty plus, I still take pleasure in that.
This time, though, I’m not so sure if what I’m saying is crazy or not.
Sometimes I barely recognize myself. So I look at her hard.
She keeps on chewing and I know she’s thinking
that the steps to our mother/daughter dance have changed.
These days, I call her on bullshit I used to let slide. Even her
mother-guilt has lost its mojo. I have no more buttons to push.
She nods her head in agreement.
“So you think so, too?” I say.
Mommy says, “Yes, but that’s a good thing, right, Pom?”
using the nickname she gave me when I was a little girl.
©A. D. Joyce, 2014
A. D. Joyce 