the rapscallion's lair

a.k.a. rabbit hole

11 notes

beneath the tree of tomorrow
I am listening to silence (which is never quiet), I am listening to summer (pretending to be fall), I am listening to flowers bloom (a whispered symphony).
The sound of bare feet on wood floors, old floors, the kind that have enough character to creak.
Bird song that creeps beneath closed windows, a tea kettle whistling loudly, the hushed rush of clouds rolling by.
Everyone has all the answers.
I cover my ears, preferring my unwisdom, my empty bowl of questions. There are things I enjoy not knowing.
Where the tree frog sleeps at night. If dew is enough to quench a flower’s thirst. Why a book can break my heart, and still, I’ll keep reading.
The truth is, none of it matters. The truth is, my truth is always going to be different than yours, because universal doesn’t mean we have the same eyes. There are no perfect gardens. The all have bugs, unless you kill them with chemicals, and then that’s just a synthetic version of paradise.
By this time of year, it’s hard to find a plant in my garden that has no evidence of damage. Holes chewed by slugs, or grasshoppers, blooms made small and weak by pests that suck the life from their stems, leaves yellowed by lack of nutrient. This is life and we call it less than perfect, not-so-pretty.
We look away.
I use scissors to cut out the worst of the leaves, the dried brown blooms gone to seed.
Afterwards, I think the plants look awkward, fake, lopsided. They were happy to show us their bounty, their scars, their proof of life. Happy to be riddled with this evidence of time.
Life always makes its mark on you. If perfect is the only beauty you can see, you’ll always miss the map of scars leading you back to your heart.
I am listening to silence (which is never quiet). I hold out my wrinkled hand and brush dirt from yesterday’s cheek.
I am dirty, I am tattered, I am smiling.
And my lips are stained by berries. . ~Kelly Letky . (via that’s mrs. mediocrity to you)

beneath the tree of tomorrow

I am listening to silence (which is never quiet), I am listening to summer (pretending to be fall), I am listening to flowers bloom (a whispered symphony).

The sound of bare feet on wood floors, old floors, the kind that have enough character to creak.

Bird song that creeps beneath closed windows, a tea kettle whistling loudly, the hushed rush of clouds rolling by.

Everyone has all the answers.

I cover my ears, preferring my unwisdom, my empty bowl of questions. There are things I enjoy not knowing.

Where the tree frog sleeps at night. If dew is enough to quench a flower’s thirst. Why a book can break my heart, and still, I’ll keep reading.

The truth is, none of it matters. The truth is, my truth is always going to be different than yours, because universal doesn’t mean we have the same eyes. There are no perfect gardens. The all have bugs, unless you kill them with chemicals, and then that’s just a synthetic version of paradise.

By this time of year, it’s hard to find a plant in my garden that has no evidence of damage. Holes chewed by slugs, or grasshoppers, blooms made small and weak by pests that suck the life from their stems, leaves yellowed by lack of nutrient. This is life and we call it less than perfect, not-so-pretty.

We look away.

I use scissors to cut out the worst of the leaves, the dried brown blooms gone to seed.

Afterwards, I think the plants look awkward, fake, lopsided. They were happy to show us their bounty, their scars, their proof of life. Happy to be riddled with this evidence of time.

Life always makes its mark on you. If perfect is the only beauty you can see, you’ll always miss the map of scars leading you back to your heart.

I am listening to silence (which is never quiet). I hold out my wrinkled hand and brush dirt from yesterday’s cheek.

I am dirty, I am tattered, I am smiling.

And my lips are stained by berries.
.
~Kelly Letky
.
(via that’s mrs. mediocrity to you)

Filed under life garden imperfect

4 notes

time will tell
and all you can do is listen
the sound of petals opening is a whisper of countenance
growth is always louder than stasis
rushing headlong into the light can leave you blind
all the answers lie
in the space between seconds
where the song of eternity echoes
two hands one heart
weaving songs of forever
left to dance on the wind
of intention  . ~Kelly Letky .
 (via that’s mrs. mediocrity to you)

time will tell

and all you can do is listen

the sound of petals opening is a whisper of countenance

growth is always louder than stasis

rushing headlong into the light can leave you blind

all the answers lie

in the space between seconds

where the song of eternity echoes

two hands one heart

weaving songs of forever

left to dance on the wind

of intention
.
~Kelly Letky
.


(via that’s mrs. mediocrity to you)

Filed under poetrytuesday garden time

2 notes

purple hearts and pregnant pauses
the ripe ones are always waiting
closed up holed up sewn up biding time like the best of new mothers
and you think you know how to birth them
“sounds like so and so” i hear you snort as you rustle past with your wrinkled paper on your way to tea and toast
all posh and proper confessional only on bitter days
the rest of the time you’re sure to rhyme though you much prefer to couple
and i always listen
ears pressed to the floor with fingers tapping
waiting for more
there’s always more
cadence calls and you’re off to supper swilling syllable and savory refrain
waving your fork in the air mid-rant
even as the knife continues sawing through the vein
i serve cold soup and sorry sentence in a too-tight apron laced with stain
and hope that later once you’ve finished
we’ll invent a new word for dessert . ~Kelly Letky .
(via that’s mrs. mediocrity to you)

purple hearts and pregnant pauses

the ripe ones are always waiting

closed up holed up sewn up
biding time like the best of new mothers

and you think you know how to birth them

“sounds like so and so” i hear you snort
as you rustle past with your wrinkled paper
on your way to tea and toast

all posh and proper
confessional only on bitter days

the rest of the time you’re sure to rhyme
though you much prefer to couple

and i always listen

ears pressed to the floor with fingers tapping

waiting for more

there’s always more

cadence calls and you’re off to supper
swilling syllable and savory refrain

waving your fork in the air mid-rant

even as the knife continues sawing
through the vein

i serve cold soup and sorry sentence
in a too-tight apron laced with stain

and hope that later
once you’ve finished

we’ll invent a new word
for dessert
.
~Kelly Letky
.

(via that’s mrs. mediocrity to you)

Filed under poetrytuesday dverse poets poetry

8 notes

daisy chain
i remember when romance and hope were the same thing he loves me, he loves me not tattooed in a circle round my ankle
an ink drawn fresh dried forever shackle offered in exchange for the customary key
but a young girl’s heart is always moving forward ready to burst into star-struck song and a brief exchange of whiskey serenade
until she learns with a crone’s bold eye love is not the flower, but the root . ~Kelly Letky . (via that’s mrs. mediocrity to you)

daisy chain

i remember when romance and hope were the same thing
he loves me, he loves me not
tattooed in a circle round my ankle

an ink drawn fresh dried forever shackle
offered in exchange for the customary key

but a young girl’s heart is always moving forward
ready to burst into star-struck song and
a brief exchange of whiskey serenade

until she learns with a crone’s bold eye
love is not the flower, but the root
.
~Kelly Letky
.
(via that’s mrs. mediocrity to you)

Filed under poetry spilled ink photography

4 notes

sherbet
Last night I sat outside and watched a storm roll in, a storm that was supposed to be a bad one, and indeed, the sky turned black and the wind turned vicious and the birds sounded their own sharp warning.
I sat there and wondered why I never grow tired of the sky.
Thunder rumbled its way into the distance, and then the rain came, dropping words to the ground all around me.
Tomorrow’s flowers, every color of the rainbow, washing the dust of life away.
I sat there and told myself I would always remember that moment, but I know I won’t.
It will melt into a melange of all the other nights of storm watching, garden gazing, summer loving, sky worship.
Each one of them perfectly delicious.
.
~Kelly Letky
.
(via the blue muse)

sherbet

Last night I sat outside and watched a storm roll in, a storm that was supposed to be a bad one, and indeed, the sky turned black and the wind turned vicious and the birds sounded their own sharp warning.

I sat there and wondered why I never grow tired of the sky.

Thunder rumbled its way into the distance, and then the rain came, dropping words to the ground all around me.

Tomorrow’s flowers, every color of the rainbow, washing the dust of life away.

I sat there and told myself I would always remember that moment, but I know I won’t.

It will melt into a melange of all the other nights of storm watching, garden gazing, summer loving, sky worship.

Each one of them perfectly delicious.

.

~Kelly Letky

.

(via the blue muse)

Filed under gardening photography reallife

2 notes

sapphire
all the memories become a jumble of forgotten chances
paint peels and the sky blinks
clouding birds with gun flint steel
a southern hurricane whispers blindly through the poplars i planted
one day long ago when i could not say your name
now those same trees shade our bedroom telling secrets to a clear clown canvas
and i paint circles on your chest with knobby-edged fingers
wondering if the rings at the heart of those tall twin trunks are made of time or gold
or if it matters
shadows dance as leaves shimmy shake across the surface of a lake we never managed to explore
and we watch the sun set down color like a promise
or a platter filled with food from a picnic never taken
.
~Kelly Letky
.
(via that’s mrs. mediocrity to you)

sapphire

all the memories
become a jumble
of forgotten chances

paint peels
and the sky
blinks

clouding birds
with gun flint
steel

a southern hurricane
whispers blindly
through the poplars
i planted

one day long ago
when i could not
say your name

now those same trees
shade our bedroom
telling secrets to a
clear clown canvas

and i paint circles
on your chest
with knobby-edged
fingers

wondering
if the rings
at the heart of those
tall twin trunks
are made of time
or gold

or if it matters

shadows dance
as leaves shimmy shake
across the surface of a lake
we never managed
to explore

and we watch the sun
set down color
like a promise

or a platter
filled with food
from a picnic
never taken

.

~Kelly Letky

.

(via that’s mrs. mediocrity to you)