When debating a/
superior intellect/
and wit, I’ll just quit.

It always amazes me
when things happen that I didn’t see.
It’s not only that I’m blindsided,
but I ask myself “How’d I let me be so misguided?”

You think you’ve got things figured out;
You’re predicting flood instead of drought.
People ask you for sincere advice
and you give it to them, and try to be nice.

But then, like bathing in winter’s fickle Chinook wind,
they ignore you and do what they want again.
And you just shrug and watch them play,
and wish them happiness; what more can you say?

Because, in the end, it’s their life they have to live
Despite all the advice you tried to give.

She wrote her wish list/
years past of her man. She mourns/
him not on her list.

Or

Years ago, she wrote her/
man wish list. She now mourns him/
who is not on it.

She who once wagged her /
finger, now embraces me/
and shows her vision.

OR
She who once wagged her /
finger, now embraces me/
with love and vision.

I told her about U,/
of the 1st story we shared,/
back when U/
asked 2b grounded,/
and I surrounded/
U with a warm sea breeze./
U fell asleep./
“She trusted U.”

In an evening of healing, creativity and cleansing (and me making, baking and slightly burning — it had rice flour — a rhubarb crisp) at a new friend’s mountain chalet, I wrote this poem in response to a poem she wrote about my and my burnt rhubarb crisp. Her poem, “Rhubarb Crispier”, is at http://moonlightweb.wordpress.com/2010/05/13/rhubarb-crispier/.
Here is mine (the original had “your words” instead of “her words”:

I’ve stood, 4 years,/
doubting my craft, my mind,/
my soul, My heart./
Old words:/
Criticism still heard,/
still hurts./
Her words/
still the ache./
I’ll print them.

A friend and I spent time at her chalet in the mountains, where I brought smudge sticks of rosemary, and where I made (and burnt) a rhubarb crisp. It was an interesting creative evening; as she was writing “Rhubarb Crispier”, I wrote this about the overall experience of encouraging her to write and share her talent as a way to care about other people:
Burnt offerings:/
rhubarb, rosemary,/
heart-/
open her soul and start/
2 carry/
the pilgrim wanderer/
to a place where/
she ponders/
and dares/
2 share/
bcuz she cares.

Will I go topless/
And yet never hear from you/
again? That’s painful.

Sitting next/
to my X;/
She looked down/
with a frown./
There my hand rested, protecting my crotch./
Is that deeply Freudian, or what?

Awakening/
to a message from a dater:/
Could anything/
be any greater?/
Could it make my heart sing?/
I’ll let you know later./
Maybe./
If I’m lucky./
We’ll see.