Puppy streaks through fields
pounces pokes stops starts spins
mirrors inner worlds
Friday, December 31, 2010
Thursday, December 30, 2010
Monday, December 20, 2010
Sunday, December 19, 2010
Friday, December 17, 2010
Like a Bird on the Wire
The elephant strode into the room;
round crystal weights
shifting
from piano
to coffee table;
pencils scribbling on walls,
the sound of breaking glass
striking notice that
things
were
no longer.
I fell into a dream of you,
could not replace the shingles
on the roof of our house
that blew off with your anger.
Yesterday
I remembered
how tall you were;
how small
the trees became
the way the robins still sang.
round crystal weights
shifting
from piano
to coffee table;
pencils scribbling on walls,
the sound of breaking glass
striking notice that
things
were
no longer.
I fell into a dream of you,
could not replace the shingles
on the roof of our house
that blew off with your anger.
Yesterday
I remembered
how tall you were;
how small
the trees became
the way the robins still sang.
Tuesday, December 14, 2010
Monday, December 13, 2010
I'm still here
We carry your love
on our tongues
in our veins
feel the force
stirring beneath the surface
of the tea we drink in your name.
We carry your love
across time and space
(England,
Ferndale,
Lopez,
Alaska)
smile in the memory
of your rhythmic words:
"The Nose Pinching Stench
of the Humpback Whale."
Sometimes, though,
walking home
alone
in the dark,
soggy leaves underfoot,
blackened streets
glistening in dense
diffuse moonlight,
I see again the doctor's eyes:
grey-blue and unfathomable,
your cry crawls back
into my chest,
rises up
as if from the grate
where rain disappears
gallons at a time:
"My family.
What will I tell
my family?"
on our tongues
in our veins
feel the force
stirring beneath the surface
of the tea we drink in your name.
We carry your love
across time and space
(England,
Ferndale,
Lopez,
Alaska)
smile in the memory
of your rhythmic words:
"The Nose Pinching Stench
of the Humpback Whale."
Sometimes, though,
walking home
alone
in the dark,
soggy leaves underfoot,
blackened streets
glistening in dense
diffuse moonlight,
I see again the doctor's eyes:
grey-blue and unfathomable,
your cry crawls back
into my chest,
rises up
as if from the grate
where rain disappears
gallons at a time:
"My family.
What will I tell
my family?"
Sunday, December 12, 2010
After the service
Out the window
rain blew in
on the breath of God,
torrential,
hurricane force,
no longer the quiet acceptance
my heart had nourished.
You, too, fell from the heavens
not one drop but a thousand
million
gazillion
pieces of you
resurrected from all the rivers
created by our tears;
lifted from the seas
our fears had sown;
bringing forth
glory
and connectedness,
erasing
the pain
of being one with.
At the window's edge
In the heartbeat of that moment,
finally free
to cross over
into your
refracted reflection,
I inhaled the essence of you,
released
my bated winter breath,
watched our commingled droplets
unleashed
upon the lush
and fertile land
of the not yet forgotten.
rain blew in
on the breath of God,
torrential,
hurricane force,
no longer the quiet acceptance
my heart had nourished.
You, too, fell from the heavens
not one drop but a thousand
million
gazillion
pieces of you
resurrected from all the rivers
created by our tears;
lifted from the seas
our fears had sown;
bringing forth
glory
and connectedness,
erasing
the pain
of being one with.
At the window's edge
In the heartbeat of that moment,
finally free
to cross over
into your
refracted reflection,
I inhaled the essence of you,
released
my bated winter breath,
watched our commingled droplets
unleashed
upon the lush
and fertile land
of the not yet forgotten.
Wednesday, December 1, 2010
Tuesday, November 30, 2010
The Mystery of Not Knowing
Who knew?
The feast of Stephen
was a day
and not a place
where king and page trod
seeking yonder peasant.
That Christmas,
snuggled on the floor
beneath the carefully icicled tree,
listening to carolers
at the front door,
(wrapped in my mother's white chenille bedspread
-- the one we always used when we were sick --
my thumb worrying the special corner hole)
I closed my five year old eyes,
scanned my own snowy fields
of memory,
seeking my brother
of the same name
who had entered a hospital
and not returned.
I imagined a field being named for him,
my footsteps
walking in the dinted snow
where his had been,
seeking someone
even sadder
and more alone
than I.
The feast of Stephen
was a day
and not a place
where king and page trod
seeking yonder peasant.
That Christmas,
snuggled on the floor
beneath the carefully icicled tree,
listening to carolers
at the front door,
(wrapped in my mother's white chenille bedspread
-- the one we always used when we were sick --
my thumb worrying the special corner hole)
I closed my five year old eyes,
scanned my own snowy fields
of memory,
seeking my brother
of the same name
who had entered a hospital
and not returned.
I imagined a field being named for him,
my footsteps
walking in the dinted snow
where his had been,
seeking someone
even sadder
and more alone
than I.
Monday, November 22, 2010
Friday, November 19, 2010
The Siren of Sophia
You turn us toward
all things
seen and unseen,
call us from
coals
into fire.
We dance
in the heat
of Your passion,
find consummate rest
in Your flame.
all things
seen and unseen,
call us from
coals
into fire.
We dance
in the heat
of Your passion,
find consummate rest
in Your flame.
Turning toward Jerusalem
What else is there
but to follow
the path
into the thick of it,
overhanging branches
twisted over and into
each other,
fireflies dancing
at the periphery,
mosquitoes snacking,
out of nowhere
deer hooves
drumming
through the undergrowth;
we neither give in
nor avoid
the fear,
we call to the caution,
move through the
rising panic,
enter deeper into darkness:
neither knowing
light will follow
nor being certain
it won't.
but to follow
the path
into the thick of it,
overhanging branches
twisted over and into
each other,
fireflies dancing
at the periphery,
mosquitoes snacking,
out of nowhere
deer hooves
drumming
through the undergrowth;
we neither give in
nor avoid
the fear,
we call to the caution,
move through the
rising panic,
enter deeper into darkness:
neither knowing
light will follow
nor being certain
it won't.
Tuesday, November 16, 2010
on avoiding misapprehension
Mist suggests
the torrent's return
through felt sense shivers
lacy fog in the forests
blanketing the island
across the sound.
I submerged myself in the bathtub
emerged with a clogged ear.
How alike these things:
muted
not yet revealed
calling for choice
at the threshold:
panic or surrender.
the torrent's return
through felt sense shivers
lacy fog in the forests
blanketing the island
across the sound.
I submerged myself in the bathtub
emerged with a clogged ear.
How alike these things:
muted
not yet revealed
calling for choice
at the threshold:
panic or surrender.
Tuesday, November 2, 2010
waterways
In our youth
we used to drink
from clear streams,
dipped our hands
cupped and receptive
into the running rivers
no thought to illness
decay
organisms that destroy
now you dream of them again
untamed waters
racing toward the open ocean
you bring them to your light
open your heart to their mercy
relive your youth
we used to drink
from clear streams,
dipped our hands
cupped and receptive
into the running rivers
no thought to illness
decay
organisms that destroy
now you dream of them again
untamed waters
racing toward the open ocean
you bring them to your light
open your heart to their mercy
relive your youth
Tuesday, October 26, 2010
Revival
Do not be afraid
to hold her in your lap:
the thrashing arms
and thrusting legs
the sometimes silent screams of
"Don't tell me what to do!"
Do not be afraid.
She is listening;
longing to be seen
for all of who she is:
angry
frustrated
blocked by her hopelessness,
her fear of Not Knowing How.
Do not be afraid.
For if you withdraw,
who will help her
to invite Not Knowing
(a nickname for the taming)
into her own, small lap?
Who will show her
how to love that exiled one
as much as
anger and frustration?
If you stay back,
insist she calm and soften
before you love her,
who will help her to unseal and lift open
the window to her cautious heart?
Who will help unlock and release
the door to her fledgling trust?
Who will breathe with her
the cross breeze
of her yearning
for discovery,
so that hopelessness, too,
might be lifted from the floor
brought in to rest
between you?
to hold her in your lap:
the thrashing arms
and thrusting legs
the sometimes silent screams of
"Don't tell me what to do!"
Do not be afraid.
She is listening;
longing to be seen
for all of who she is:
angry
frustrated
blocked by her hopelessness,
her fear of Not Knowing How.
Do not be afraid.
For if you withdraw,
who will help her
to invite Not Knowing
(a nickname for the taming)
into her own, small lap?
Who will show her
how to love that exiled one
as much as
anger and frustration?
If you stay back,
insist she calm and soften
before you love her,
who will help her to unseal and lift open
the window to her cautious heart?
Who will help unlock and release
the door to her fledgling trust?
Who will breathe with her
the cross breeze
of her yearning
for discovery,
so that hopelessness, too,
might be lifted from the floor
brought in to rest
between you?
Barren Winter Elm
When she,
like a mother,
has lost her foliate children,
some drifting past her vision
into territories
she will never know;
others fallen,
mulched into blackened soil
from which all
(ashes to ashes
dust to dust)
derive;
When she,
like a lover,
feels the withdrawal,
the empty appendages
that quiver,
is left only with
the memory of
vibrant
fluttering
life:
Where then
will she turn her focus
(as if the choice were
ever hers);
Where then will she
receive
the meaning of
her being.
like a mother,
has lost her foliate children,
some drifting past her vision
into territories
she will never know;
others fallen,
mulched into blackened soil
from which all
(ashes to ashes
dust to dust)
derive;
When she,
like a lover,
feels the withdrawal,
the empty appendages
that quiver,
is left only with
the memory of
vibrant
fluttering
life:
Where then
will she turn her focus
(as if the choice were
ever hers);
Where then will she
receive
the meaning of
her being.
Monday, October 25, 2010
Leaves like Lovers
Stillness
transformed by
an unseen power
into movement,
orange yellow flashing blaze of glory,
shimmering with heartbeats
still firmly attached
to their source,
while all around
others are lifted,
released,
these brothers, sisters,
less resilient,
less anchored
to their deep-rooted
stiff-barked nurturers.
On unseen wings
these vulnerable ones
twist and turn
delicately dance
and descend
blanketing and nurturing
again
the earth
from which they were created.
Those still hanging on
still attached to bending
life-force branches
do you think they sometimes wonder,
When will I join the rest?
When will I begin the fall?
transformed by
an unseen power
into movement,
orange yellow flashing blaze of glory,
shimmering with heartbeats
still firmly attached
to their source,
while all around
others are lifted,
released,
these brothers, sisters,
less resilient,
less anchored
to their deep-rooted
stiff-barked nurturers.
On unseen wings
these vulnerable ones
twist and turn
delicately dance
and descend
blanketing and nurturing
again
the earth
from which they were created.
Those still hanging on
still attached to bending
life-force branches
do you think they sometimes wonder,
When will I join the rest?
When will I begin the fall?
Saturday, October 9, 2010
host
like ivy spiralling up
the pine outside our bedroom window
seeking nourishment from
that which is other
and also now connected
so, too, the way you
and I once lived
together
the pine outside our bedroom window
seeking nourishment from
that which is other
and also now connected
so, too, the way you
and I once lived
together
Monday, October 4, 2010
On Not Pushing to "Help" Others
and what if walls
instead of defensive barriers
were invitations
to come closer
(but not too close)
to listen
(but not ask too many questions)
to sit next to
(but not climb over)
What if walls were our inventions
for pacing connections
for promoting softer revelations
for creating the slow
but certain loosening
the gradual letting down
of our ancient inner drawbridges
instead of defensive barriers
were invitations
to come closer
(but not too close)
to listen
(but not ask too many questions)
to sit next to
(but not climb over)
What if walls were our inventions
for pacing connections
for promoting softer revelations
for creating the slow
but certain loosening
the gradual letting down
of our ancient inner drawbridges
Thursday, September 30, 2010
un-comfort-able
sometimes you just hate everything
even the cat who really can't be blamed
even the way people try to reach out to you
especially the words that bounce like loose arrowheads
off echoing white-washed walls
sometimes you just hate everything
even the cat who really can't be blamed
even the way people try to reach out to you
especially the words that bounce like loose arrowheads
off echoing white-washed walls
sometimes you just hate everything
Tuesday, September 28, 2010
Inspiration #2
something enters our vision
something tiptoes
into our room
we resist the urge to capture
we pull down the shades and listen
something tiptoes
into our room
we resist the urge to capture
we pull down the shades and listen
Inspiration
inspiration
something enters our vision
something tiptoes into our room
we remove our shoes and listen
something enters our vision
something tiptoes into our room
we remove our shoes and listen
Sunday, September 26, 2010
In Truth There Will Be Many Paths
In truth there will be many paths
Some may beckon
paved with quiet mantras,
stolen lines from Shakespeare
or His Holiness
The Dalai Lama.
To find your way
among these warriors
may seem
daunting
like seeking footprints
washed away,
an impossible
Hansel and Gretel task.
And still you slow
discover what to sow
in order (once again)
to find your way:
seeds of compassion,
the quality of mercy,
an opening
to the heated knowing
behind oven doors
long sealed shut
for your own protection.
With courage
fear's steel band softens;
confusing mind sludge
thins and flows.
Where once panic rose
soft silence
now reveals
the beating of your heart.
Trails blazed by others
become a distant call;
the imprint
of your own past journeys
suffuses every joint and muscle,
adventurous flesh
grows over long-neglected bones.
Roots of change
slowly secure each new step,
unfamiliar horizons beckon
bringing hope
to those lost children within,
now freed from being eaten
by the minds of those
who came before.
Some may beckon
paved with quiet mantras,
stolen lines from Shakespeare
or His Holiness
The Dalai Lama.
To find your way
among these warriors
may seem
daunting
like seeking footprints
washed away,
an impossible
Hansel and Gretel task.
And still you slow
discover what to sow
in order (once again)
to find your way:
seeds of compassion,
the quality of mercy,
an opening
to the heated knowing
behind oven doors
long sealed shut
for your own protection.
With courage
fear's steel band softens;
confusing mind sludge
thins and flows.
Where once panic rose
soft silence
now reveals
the beating of your heart.
Trails blazed by others
become a distant call;
the imprint
of your own past journeys
suffuses every joint and muscle,
adventurous flesh
grows over long-neglected bones.
Roots of change
slowly secure each new step,
unfamiliar horizons beckon
bringing hope
to those lost children within,
now freed from being eaten
by the minds of those
who came before.
dissipation
My words fall into the dark well
of your silence
the sense of connection
detaches
descends
finds the vessel
where once we played
hollow
empty
of your silence
the sense of connection
detaches
descends
finds the vessel
where once we played
hollow
empty
Sunday, September 19, 2010
towards not drowning in our sorrows
rooftops tap morse code
raindrops relay ancient grief
moonlight will return
raindrops relay ancient grief
moonlight will return
Friday, September 17, 2010
birthday rap
this is a birthday rap for You
all my friends and myself, too
we're bathed in a sea of amber rose
covered in love from our head to toes
sometimes we falter
sometimes we fret
it's oh so easy
to forget
with eyes that close and can't see how
we've holding available
here
and now
reaching out can be so hard
we'd rather stay curled in our ward
of walls that keep us in our wombs
just our own music
making us swoon
but when we sense the hearts of others
turns out we care for one another
emerging from our undergrounds
connections always can be found
so here's to all of us, hooray
we're given at least one more day
to stretch and touch
to celebrate
the truth of love
it's never too late!!!
all my friends and myself, too
we're bathed in a sea of amber rose
covered in love from our head to toes
sometimes we falter
sometimes we fret
it's oh so easy
to forget
with eyes that close and can't see how
we've holding available
here
and now
reaching out can be so hard
we'd rather stay curled in our ward
of walls that keep us in our wombs
just our own music
making us swoon
but when we sense the hearts of others
turns out we care for one another
emerging from our undergrounds
connections always can be found
so here's to all of us, hooray
we're given at least one more day
to stretch and touch
to celebrate
the truth of love
it's never too late!!!
Wednesday, September 15, 2010
Tuesday, September 14, 2010
sometimes in the morning
your face appears before me
glitter and shine
all rounded edges and holding
satin patchwork quilt enfolding
me while my sharpened teeth
bare their essential furor
ready to rip off chunks of the
irascible young one within.
Bowing to you
divine essence within
breathing into you
i remember she is hurting
tender places need protection
she does the best she can to give voice
to all that rises within
we return to that which is not finished
we surrender to that which in the end unleashes
we lift our hearts to find what lies beneath
love is indeed the opening door
glitter and shine
all rounded edges and holding
satin patchwork quilt enfolding
me while my sharpened teeth
bare their essential furor
ready to rip off chunks of the
irascible young one within.
Bowing to you
divine essence within
breathing into you
i remember she is hurting
tender places need protection
she does the best she can to give voice
to all that rises within
we return to that which is not finished
we surrender to that which in the end unleashes
we lift our hearts to find what lies beneath
love is indeed the opening door
Tuesday, August 24, 2010
Through the Looking Glass: (now that you have gone)
Through the looking glass
wind shifts perspectives
raindrops flow in rivulets
obscuring life’s form
wind shifts perspectives
raindrops flow in rivulets
obscuring life’s form
Wednesday, August 11, 2010
Poem for Revival
you can over milk the cow
you can under feed the dog
you can simmer in the now
or get caught up in the fog
when you want to feel the sunshine
but you need to feel the rain
when collapsing draws you inward
and you’re sitting still in pain
just remember there are lessons
even though you’d rather not
be steeped in so much messiness
and stirred up in your pot
oh the shadows they have wisdom
the darkness knows its truth
the wicked are not wicked
they’re just stuck in a phone booth
trying hard to send out messages
but confused about which line
will connect them with “the other”
they weave in and out of time
sometimes you have to listen to
the ones that shake you up
be very still, it’s overdue
you must drink from their cup
you might say it’s retribution
or a master plan of fate
that keeps you stuck and hurting
and makes you isolate
but aint it far more likely
there is reason for distress
through the pain of staying oh so still
you might find a slim egress
still, you think it isn’t easy
you wish it weren’t so
when you feel a little queasy
and it seems there’s far to go
but if you just zip-up the keeper
of the “we know what it is”
let your heart attend it’s beeper
if it’s slow or in a whiz
rest into the unknowing
don’t escape toward left or right
but focus on the glowing
edge of being here tonight.
you can under feed the dog
you can simmer in the now
or get caught up in the fog
when you want to feel the sunshine
but you need to feel the rain
when collapsing draws you inward
and you’re sitting still in pain
just remember there are lessons
even though you’d rather not
be steeped in so much messiness
and stirred up in your pot
oh the shadows they have wisdom
the darkness knows its truth
the wicked are not wicked
they’re just stuck in a phone booth
trying hard to send out messages
but confused about which line
will connect them with “the other”
they weave in and out of time
sometimes you have to listen to
the ones that shake you up
be very still, it’s overdue
you must drink from their cup
you might say it’s retribution
or a master plan of fate
that keeps you stuck and hurting
and makes you isolate
but aint it far more likely
there is reason for distress
through the pain of staying oh so still
you might find a slim egress
still, you think it isn’t easy
you wish it weren’t so
when you feel a little queasy
and it seems there’s far to go
but if you just zip-up the keeper
of the “we know what it is”
let your heart attend it’s beeper
if it’s slow or in a whiz
rest into the unknowing
don’t escape toward left or right
but focus on the glowing
edge of being here tonight.
Tuesday, August 10, 2010
Eavesdropping
You want to know
how to keep an open
and full heart
when storms ravage entire communities
children starve beneath barren hillsides
random shots slaughter loved ones.
You want to understand
how unharnessed fear
unearths buried compassions.
Be still and listen.
Listen.
Listen
to the whimpering wind,
to vessels growling and abandoned.
Listen
to the whispered farewell,
the wail of the left-behind.
how to keep an open
and full heart
when storms ravage entire communities
children starve beneath barren hillsides
random shots slaughter loved ones.
You want to understand
how unharnessed fear
unearths buried compassions.
Be still and listen.
Listen.
Listen
to the whimpering wind,
to vessels growling and abandoned.
Listen
to the whispered farewell,
the wail of the left-behind.
Saturday, July 24, 2010
The Pug
No longer at home in his world
at the end of a leash he didn't quite choose
pulls once to the left and then to the right
from a fraying french collar
that's so much too tight
In their youth they tumbled and dug
She was his Robin Hood, he was her knight
they followed their hearts and their noses
no one yelled if they barked
or trampled on roses
Back then they slept under stars
a sheepskin bed thrown over coiled hoses
created a fenced-in oasis
breathed into each other
exhaled all their crazes
Now her eyes look a little like his
squinting at moonlight and strange passing faces
face full of jowls from eating too much
fat rolls that jiggle
and no one will touch
Tonight he looks out at his baby and wife
a yard that's too small; his throat starts to clutch
yanks at the tie that's so much too tight
pulls once to the left and then to the right.
at the end of a leash he didn't quite choose
pulls once to the left and then to the right
from a fraying french collar
that's so much too tight
In their youth they tumbled and dug
She was his Robin Hood, he was her knight
they followed their hearts and their noses
no one yelled if they barked
or trampled on roses
Back then they slept under stars
a sheepskin bed thrown over coiled hoses
created a fenced-in oasis
breathed into each other
exhaled all their crazes
Now her eyes look a little like his
squinting at moonlight and strange passing faces
face full of jowls from eating too much
fat rolls that jiggle
and no one will touch
Tonight he looks out at his baby and wife
a yard that's too small; his throat starts to clutch
yanks at the tie that's so much too tight
pulls once to the left and then to the right.
Thursday, July 8, 2010
A case for Love
In the end
you will be asked,
"Did you pursue
what stirs you most?"
not if
you've saved
more than enough
or traveled coast to coast.
Sometimes
for me
it's hard to find
what flutters deep within,
I have a sense
of weariness
my patience
can wear thin.
So often when
I just can't find
the next step
I should take,
I search out places
far and wide
in which I have
no stake.
I think that
other people,
will help me
find the way:
I ask
and then reject
advice,
It's like I have no say.
I get confused
I cannot think,
my spirits
can sink lower,
I eat some ice cream
drink some tea
seek answers
from some "knower".
Of one thing
I am certain,
though we pretend
it isn't so,
only you
can save
your life,
it makes no difference
where you go.
Not through
the love of others
will you find
your heart's desire,
your deepest
and felt-senses
will reveal
your inner fire.
Listen to
your body's rhythms:
harmonics heard
in rustling thoughts,
the hum
of inner voices,
revealing truths that they have sought.
Like an inner city's
rumblings,
is your own internal light,
sirens wailing
heartbeats pulsing
dancers twirling in the night.
You can
touch it all,
it beckons,
even that
which puts up walls;
your world inhales
with deepest longing,
unseen inner-pathways call
for your open-hearted tenderness,
not some wisdom from afar
just the brush of calloused fingertips
along your jagged scars.
No one upon
this earthly path
will ever really know
what waits for us
behind the veil
that's thin and richly flows.
But when your time
is finished
and Love comes
to your door,
will you say,
"I saw you coming,
it was you I waited for"?
Or perhaps
you'll greet Love warmly,
as an old, familiar friend,
say,
"You've been
here with me
my whole
damn life,
I wonder where I've been?"
We won't have
candied possum tails
or jubilee regret,
I'm sure this end
is not like that
though I've not been there yet.
One thing I know
is while we're here,
each moment we can choose,
to enter fully
into life
and all our messy ooze.
Or we
can keep
a careful distance:
"It's not me,
it's him" we'll say,
but then we really
have no light
that helps us find our way.
We have one chance
to open up,
or perhaps
we've lifetimes more,
but it doesn't really matter
Love is what
we're put here for.
if we
can look
within
and feel
the fever
and the flow,
we'll solve the mystery of life,
and war
and hate
won't grow.
instead we'll find
new ways that we
can reach
across the chasm,
to try on
someone else's shoes
or sense their cytoplasm!
So today,
and then tomorrow,
for all the days
to come
say, "Hurrah!" for all we're given,
'cause of us, there's only one!
you will be asked,
"Did you pursue
what stirs you most?"
not if
you've saved
more than enough
or traveled coast to coast.
Sometimes
for me
it's hard to find
what flutters deep within,
I have a sense
of weariness
my patience
can wear thin.
So often when
I just can't find
the next step
I should take,
I search out places
far and wide
in which I have
no stake.
I think that
other people,
will help me
find the way:
I ask
and then reject
advice,
It's like I have no say.
I get confused
I cannot think,
my spirits
can sink lower,
I eat some ice cream
drink some tea
seek answers
from some "knower".
Of one thing
I am certain,
though we pretend
it isn't so,
only you
can save
your life,
it makes no difference
where you go.
Not through
the love of others
will you find
your heart's desire,
your deepest
and felt-senses
will reveal
your inner fire.
Listen to
your body's rhythms:
harmonics heard
in rustling thoughts,
the hum
of inner voices,
revealing truths that they have sought.
Like an inner city's
rumblings,
is your own internal light,
sirens wailing
heartbeats pulsing
dancers twirling in the night.
You can
touch it all,
it beckons,
even that
which puts up walls;
your world inhales
with deepest longing,
unseen inner-pathways call
for your open-hearted tenderness,
not some wisdom from afar
just the brush of calloused fingertips
along your jagged scars.
No one upon
this earthly path
will ever really know
what waits for us
behind the veil
that's thin and richly flows.
But when your time
is finished
and Love comes
to your door,
will you say,
"I saw you coming,
it was you I waited for"?
Or perhaps
you'll greet Love warmly,
as an old, familiar friend,
say,
"You've been
here with me
my whole
damn life,
I wonder where I've been?"
We won't have
candied possum tails
or jubilee regret,
I'm sure this end
is not like that
though I've not been there yet.
One thing I know
is while we're here,
each moment we can choose,
to enter fully
into life
and all our messy ooze.
Or we
can keep
a careful distance:
"It's not me,
it's him" we'll say,
but then we really
have no light
that helps us find our way.
We have one chance
to open up,
or perhaps
we've lifetimes more,
but it doesn't really matter
Love is what
we're put here for.
if we
can look
within
and feel
the fever
and the flow,
we'll solve the mystery of life,
and war
and hate
won't grow.
instead we'll find
new ways that we
can reach
across the chasm,
to try on
someone else's shoes
or sense their cytoplasm!
So today,
and then tomorrow,
for all the days
to come
say, "Hurrah!" for all we're given,
'cause of us, there's only one!
Saturday, July 3, 2010
Childhood's Not-So-Empty Lot
Through my eyes
she watches
children
watching videos
connecting through facebook
staccatoed texting and typing
information overload
until she swirls in memories
of her own childhood
beckoning from the light behind my vision:
kick the can
flag-football
empty-lot baseball games
with the boys
all that energy
to be released and inhaled by
her whose brother
(at first protector and guide)
entered doctor's offices
hospitals
and finally
left her for
some unknown
up-there-in-the-sky place
for ten-year-olds,
fogging her five-year-old mind
because there was
no service, no wooden box
slipping slowly into some
gaping earthen crater,
no burnt offering
created from a body left by the soul...
And still,
sometimes,
she senses him
cutting through her own
information overload
(staccato childhood chatter
nursery rhymes repeating
in her mind):
a messenger rising up from the void
releasing pain and anger
breathing in her broken heart
fluttering those
torn paper wings:
an unseen angel
hovering
alive.
she watches
children
watching videos
connecting through facebook
staccatoed texting and typing
information overload
until she swirls in memories
of her own childhood
beckoning from the light behind my vision:
kick the can
flag-football
empty-lot baseball games
with the boys
all that energy
to be released and inhaled by
her whose brother
(at first protector and guide)
entered doctor's offices
hospitals
and finally
left her for
some unknown
up-there-in-the-sky place
for ten-year-olds,
fogging her five-year-old mind
because there was
no service, no wooden box
slipping slowly into some
gaping earthen crater,
no burnt offering
created from a body left by the soul...
And still,
sometimes,
she senses him
cutting through her own
information overload
(staccato childhood chatter
nursery rhymes repeating
in her mind):
a messenger rising up from the void
releasing pain and anger
breathing in her broken heart
fluttering those
torn paper wings:
an unseen angel
hovering
alive.
Tuesday, May 18, 2010
Toward the taming of the Push-me Pull-Yous
Toward the Taming of the Push-me Pull-yous
they beat me up
they really do
these voices say their
points of view
about how I
(without a brain)
have made mistakes
have caused disdain
I am not perfect
cannot track
they say
so many things I lack
like honesty and
vision clear
and ways to keep
my dear ones near.
They say if I
would only try
I'd never lose
I'd never cry
but that is really
not their fear
they're scared I'll
make you go from here
that you will hate me
or what's worse
you just won't see me
(or this verse)
they think you have
a true surfeit
of friends
in fact
they're sure of it
that you'll decide
way deep within
that I'm one who
is steeped in sin
that God will hate me
God will pour
His punishment
right at my door
He'll say I wasn't good enough
Too soft
He'll say
instead of tough.
They fear that,
Poof!
I will be gone
no one will ever
hear my song
or love me up
or stroke my head
or cuddle me
up in my bed,
so what is I
poor soul to do
except to cling,
eyes closed, to you
and try my hardest
yes, to guess
how I might win
your deep caress
your smile
your invite into love
how can I be your
turtle dove
it sounds quite silly
but it's not
to these young parts
you're all they've got
and they are feeling
very sad
and also very very mad.
They want to
be held and to hold
they want the silver and the gold
the want the up
they want the down
they want the spinning turn around
they want it all to be one place
they think it's not, and so they race
from me to you and back to me
and then to others who they see
that seem to offer what you do
a love that no one can undo
but then it just all starts again
(and feels like this will never end)
They come too close
they stray too far
they wonder who
and where you are
these beat me up's
the ones who long
the ones who try
to keep me strong
so I won't need
the likes of you
but then of course
I always do
and so it goes
all 'round and 'round
and all takes place without a sound
it's inside me
this pitter-pat
of you did this
and you did that;
this wasn't right
that wasn't good,
"You've let them down
misunderstood...
you'll find yourself
alone" they say
with no one who can
really play
they're much too young
to understand
a love lives
deeper
in our land
who does not need
to do it right
who understands
with deep insight
a love who feels
their pain and grief
who can calm fears
and bring relief,
they do not know
it lives within
a heartfelt love
that undoes sin
they haven't yet
been in our hearts
they think they are still
just a part
instead of feeling
deep in there
that love
and then
more love
to share.
I introduce them
just a bit
suggest that maybe they
could sit
here next to me
feel into you
can feel our breath
our heartbeats too
and that's enough
for now at least
they're feeling quite
a bit more peace
and I now tuck
them into bed
remind them of
all that I've said
how love is patient
love is kind
love takes their hand
love makes this rhyme
love holds them when
they're feeling sad
love lifts them up
love makes them glad
love is
one
surprising
Yup!
it says come on
in here and sup
with me
whenever
you feel low
or when it's just
too far to go
all by yourself
all on your own
come rest with me
I'm always home.....
they beat me up
they really do
these voices say their
points of view
about how I
(without a brain)
have made mistakes
have caused disdain
I am not perfect
cannot track
they say
so many things I lack
like honesty and
vision clear
and ways to keep
my dear ones near.
They say if I
would only try
I'd never lose
I'd never cry
but that is really
not their fear
they're scared I'll
make you go from here
that you will hate me
or what's worse
you just won't see me
(or this verse)
they think you have
a true surfeit
of friends
in fact
they're sure of it
that you'll decide
way deep within
that I'm one who
is steeped in sin
that God will hate me
God will pour
His punishment
right at my door
He'll say I wasn't good enough
Too soft
He'll say
instead of tough.
They fear that,
Poof!
I will be gone
no one will ever
hear my song
or love me up
or stroke my head
or cuddle me
up in my bed,
so what is I
poor soul to do
except to cling,
eyes closed, to you
and try my hardest
yes, to guess
how I might win
your deep caress
your smile
your invite into love
how can I be your
turtle dove
it sounds quite silly
but it's not
to these young parts
you're all they've got
and they are feeling
very sad
and also very very mad.
They want to
be held and to hold
they want the silver and the gold
the want the up
they want the down
they want the spinning turn around
they want it all to be one place
they think it's not, and so they race
from me to you and back to me
and then to others who they see
that seem to offer what you do
a love that no one can undo
but then it just all starts again
(and feels like this will never end)
They come too close
they stray too far
they wonder who
and where you are
these beat me up's
the ones who long
the ones who try
to keep me strong
so I won't need
the likes of you
but then of course
I always do
and so it goes
all 'round and 'round
and all takes place without a sound
it's inside me
this pitter-pat
of you did this
and you did that;
this wasn't right
that wasn't good,
"You've let them down
misunderstood...
you'll find yourself
alone" they say
with no one who can
really play
they're much too young
to understand
a love lives
deeper
in our land
who does not need
to do it right
who understands
with deep insight
a love who feels
their pain and grief
who can calm fears
and bring relief,
they do not know
it lives within
a heartfelt love
that undoes sin
they haven't yet
been in our hearts
they think they are still
just a part
instead of feeling
deep in there
that love
and then
more love
to share.
I introduce them
just a bit
suggest that maybe they
could sit
here next to me
feel into you
can feel our breath
our heartbeats too
and that's enough
for now at least
they're feeling quite
a bit more peace
and I now tuck
them into bed
remind them of
all that I've said
how love is patient
love is kind
love takes their hand
love makes this rhyme
love holds them when
they're feeling sad
love lifts them up
love makes them glad
love is
one
surprising
Yup!
it says come on
in here and sup
with me
whenever
you feel low
or when it's just
too far to go
all by yourself
all on your own
come rest with me
I'm always home.....
Monday, May 17, 2010
Night time illness
my head it aches
my throat is tight
i might just cough
all through the nite
my mouth tastes like
a garbage can
or silver nitrate
in a gland
i want to write
but i cannot
because my head
is all I've got
the juicy flow
i so count on
it isn't here
it's really gone
so off to bed
i'll take myself
and leave this poem
upon your shelf
my throat is tight
i might just cough
all through the nite
my mouth tastes like
a garbage can
or silver nitrate
in a gland
i want to write
but i cannot
because my head
is all I've got
the juicy flow
i so count on
it isn't here
it's really gone
so off to bed
i'll take myself
and leave this poem
upon your shelf
Sunday, May 16, 2010
open shores
Heated aftermath
bodies under striped umbrellas
massaged by distant whispers
of rhythmic waves
hidden heartbeats
pulsing in counterpoint
all time forgotten
bodies under striped umbrellas
massaged by distant whispers
of rhythmic waves
hidden heartbeats
pulsing in counterpoint
all time forgotten
The sense of you
the sense of you
like oysters slurped
swallowed
the salt taste lingering
along my tongue
like oysters slurped
swallowed
the salt taste lingering
along my tongue
Our Souls Travel After Death
Our Souls Travel after Death
sensing nothing but terrain
open at first but leading toward
forested hillsides
exquisite pools glistening with memory
and the flavor of those who have
entered in the past,
organic soil rich and composting
without need for human turning
whole cascades of waterfalls
joining a plethora of
multi-directional streams
wandering toward an open sea.
And above tree-line
hovering over those endless pregnant glaciers
frozen in timeless awareness
presaging the uncharted but certain
indigenous thaw
inching over lifetimes
flowing toward renewal.
sensing nothing but terrain
open at first but leading toward
forested hillsides
exquisite pools glistening with memory
and the flavor of those who have
entered in the past,
organic soil rich and composting
without need for human turning
whole cascades of waterfalls
joining a plethora of
multi-directional streams
wandering toward an open sea.
And above tree-line
hovering over those endless pregnant glaciers
frozen in timeless awareness
presaging the uncharted but certain
indigenous thaw
inching over lifetimes
flowing toward renewal.
Thursday, May 13, 2010
dreamworld
In the darkening twilight
when the stars like
champagne bubbles
danced into being
infusing the night sky
with our effervescence
I held your hand
remembered your body
against mine
laughed into drunken possibilities
when the stars like
champagne bubbles
danced into being
infusing the night sky
with our effervescence
I held your hand
remembered your body
against mine
laughed into drunken possibilities
Wednesday, May 12, 2010
heaven in disguise
hornets spin webbed nests of flame
dash here and there in protest
junipers now lashed and tamed
twist upwards in behest
antelope and tumbleweed
caress the ancient prairie dust
out here a pious wind of need
welcomes lives of fervent lust
calls olly olly oxen free
invites the likes of you and me
dash here and there in protest
junipers now lashed and tamed
twist upwards in behest
antelope and tumbleweed
caress the ancient prairie dust
out here a pious wind of need
welcomes lives of fervent lust
calls olly olly oxen free
invites the likes of you and me
Monday, May 10, 2010
Toward Life
In the story
the sick man had five porticoes
from which to choose:
five entrances
into the healing pool.
For thirty-eight years
he'd repeated his inner truth
retold his story of neglect and isolation.
For thirty-eight years he'd waited
longing for some other one
to carry him into the stirred up
water, seen how another
always entered the pool first
leaving no room for him.
And I, for example, sick of my pain
also wait.
Frustrated.
Hopeless.
I cling to my mat of fear,
believing I am unable to stand on my own,
stay stuck beside what I'm sure
is the only place
where healing can occur,
feel certain my burden cannot be lifted
unless I am carried by another.
What if, like the sick man
I truly desired deep healing?
What if I opened to possibility,
became willing to move,
to bring my fear along with me?
Would I turn toward that voice of embodied love
that calls "Stand up, take your mat, and walk."?
Would I risk the fall in favor of the journey?
the sick man had five porticoes
from which to choose:
five entrances
into the healing pool.
For thirty-eight years
he'd repeated his inner truth
retold his story of neglect and isolation.
For thirty-eight years he'd waited
longing for some other one
to carry him into the stirred up
water, seen how another
always entered the pool first
leaving no room for him.
And I, for example, sick of my pain
also wait.
Frustrated.
Hopeless.
I cling to my mat of fear,
believing I am unable to stand on my own,
stay stuck beside what I'm sure
is the only place
where healing can occur,
feel certain my burden cannot be lifted
unless I am carried by another.
What if, like the sick man
I truly desired deep healing?
What if I opened to possibility,
became willing to move,
to bring my fear along with me?
Would I turn toward that voice of embodied love
that calls "Stand up, take your mat, and walk."?
Would I risk the fall in favor of the journey?
Sunday, May 9, 2010
Mother's Day
That eagle
how did he survive
the vicious swoop and lunge
of those angry crows
trying to save their nesting young
from evisceration
by the raptor's talons?
I stopped to watch
never having seen
one-hundered cawing crows
twisting and dive bombing
before.
But once the cause
of all the fracas became clear
I knew,
understood viscerally,
why those black winged protectors
attacked.
I was late and couldn't wait
to see the outcome.
But walking home, passing again
by the tall fir where the battle had raged
I wondered,
if, as a child,
such a large armament had been amassed for me,
would the one supposed to represent
loyalty and strength,
bravery and redemption,
have been stymied?
Would he so easily
have escaped culpability?
how did he survive
the vicious swoop and lunge
of those angry crows
trying to save their nesting young
from evisceration
by the raptor's talons?
I stopped to watch
never having seen
one-hundered cawing crows
twisting and dive bombing
before.
But once the cause
of all the fracas became clear
I knew,
understood viscerally,
why those black winged protectors
attacked.
I was late and couldn't wait
to see the outcome.
But walking home, passing again
by the tall fir where the battle had raged
I wondered,
if, as a child,
such a large armament had been amassed for me,
would the one supposed to represent
loyalty and strength,
bravery and redemption,
have been stymied?
Would he so easily
have escaped culpability?
Saturday, May 8, 2010
Since you have left us here on earth
Your voice calls to me
like a window in the wind,
an opening toward;
the chiming of a child's discovery:
unspent pennies
in a glass jar beneath the sink:
the promise of things to come.
like a window in the wind,
an opening toward;
the chiming of a child's discovery:
unspent pennies
in a glass jar beneath the sink:
the promise of things to come.
Thursday, May 6, 2010
To those who visit these words: Uncommon Knights
For my friends, Mary and Mindy, with many thanks:
To those who visit these words: Uncommon knights
For you I release the knight watchmen
though hours go by when I require their skill
the way they scan the horizon for intruders
anyone who might mount the castle wall
and attack.
But tonight, after an indwelling supper
prepared by an unknown benefactor
feeling well-nourished, connected and satisfied
aware that all I covet is here, within these walls
I free them from their duty
invite them to put down their swords and armor
bring them, too, into the Great Hall
where you are now also welcomed
to hear the pulsing heartbeat of the banquet band
to partake of the great buffet
to pick and choose what feeds you.
.
To those who visit these words: Uncommon knights
For you I release the knight watchmen
though hours go by when I require their skill
the way they scan the horizon for intruders
anyone who might mount the castle wall
and attack.
But tonight, after an indwelling supper
prepared by an unknown benefactor
feeling well-nourished, connected and satisfied
aware that all I covet is here, within these walls
I free them from their duty
invite them to put down their swords and armor
bring them, too, into the Great Hall
where you are now also welcomed
to hear the pulsing heartbeat of the banquet band
to partake of the great buffet
to pick and choose what feeds you.
.
Tuesday, May 4, 2010
Monday, May 3, 2010
When you have gone
When you have gone
It is enough just to follow
heart kisses into rainstorms
licking drops in secret hollows
where dead souls are reborn
It is enough just to open
to storm clouds that hover
drinking in unseen golden rays
promised like lost lovers
Promised rays and lost souls
reborn like a rainstorm
open hearts kissed ten fold
letting new life take form
It is enough just to follow
heart kisses into rainstorms
licking drops in secret hollows
where dead souls are reborn
It is enough just to open
to storm clouds that hover
drinking in unseen golden rays
promised like lost lovers
Promised rays and lost souls
reborn like a rainstorm
open hearts kissed ten fold
letting new life take form
Saturday, May 1, 2010
In the aftermath
In the Aftermath (if you have time, would love to hear which version you prefer)
sometimes it is just living
into the small graces that gets us through:
raindrops on the window,
light from a streetlamp in the misty evening,
memories of hands held in love....
we are who we were meant to be
or
sometimes it is just living
into the small graces that gets us through:
raindrops on the window,
light from a streetlamp in the misty evening,
memories of hands held in love....
wanderers into life's mysteries
passers-by in the stream of embodiment
remembering
we are who we were meant to be
sometimes it is just living
into the small graces that gets us through:
raindrops on the window,
light from a streetlamp in the misty evening,
memories of hands held in love....
we are who we were meant to be
or
sometimes it is just living
into the small graces that gets us through:
raindrops on the window,
light from a streetlamp in the misty evening,
memories of hands held in love....
wanderers into life's mysteries
passers-by in the stream of embodiment
remembering
we are who we were meant to be
Friday, April 30, 2010
Nocturnal Nurture
the shadow follows and we
indulging our appetites
swallow
ingest the rich soil
of darkness
humus for the spirit
indulging our appetites
swallow
ingest the rich soil
of darkness
humus for the spirit
Thursday, April 29, 2010
Thursday, April 22, 2010
Spring Fever
You have been the teacher
unwilling to release me as you
follow broken stone pathways
into your garden filled with flowers
whose precise and common names
you love to pour off your educated tongue,
like larkspur, honeysuckle, iris.
Today a stormy wind blew open
your peeling picket gate
and I crossed open fields
mossy unkempt knolls,
dug bare toes into rich foliage beneath the forest firs,
knelt down before a small wild orchid
the petite purple slipper hanging head down
a harbinger of transformation
beckoning my Cinderella finger
to lift it tenderly
to the light.
unwilling to release me as you
follow broken stone pathways
into your garden filled with flowers
whose precise and common names
you love to pour off your educated tongue,
like larkspur, honeysuckle, iris.
Today a stormy wind blew open
your peeling picket gate
and I crossed open fields
mossy unkempt knolls,
dug bare toes into rich foliage beneath the forest firs,
knelt down before a small wild orchid
the petite purple slipper hanging head down
a harbinger of transformation
beckoning my Cinderella finger
to lift it tenderly
to the light.
Wednesday, April 21, 2010
Sunday, April 18, 2010
Bed Room Stories
Bed Room Stories
The one about the tortoise who
found love under a bridge with
his soul mate who, having lost her
own shell tucked into his
The one about the magician
having had seven shots of scotch
before bed and then
juggling fire sticks how he
burned his lips from trying
to kiss the sky
The one about the gorgeous saint Selena
braiding her hair into skeins of silver
letting them down out her towered window
only to grow faint-hearted
cutting her own locks at her chin
and curling up on the floor
All of these and more read to me
tales of distant worlds
mythology as dear to me as the
swish of my dead brother’s heartbeat
which every night I listened for
The one about the tortoise who
found love under a bridge with
his soul mate who, having lost her
own shell tucked into his
The one about the magician
having had seven shots of scotch
before bed and then
juggling fire sticks how he
burned his lips from trying
to kiss the sky
The one about the gorgeous saint Selena
braiding her hair into skeins of silver
letting them down out her towered window
only to grow faint-hearted
cutting her own locks at her chin
and curling up on the floor
All of these and more read to me
tales of distant worlds
mythology as dear to me as the
swish of my dead brother’s heartbeat
which every night I listened for
Tuesday, April 13, 2010
After the chill
Green shoots erupting
from brown wintered branches
everywhere these reminders
that love will surprise.
from brown wintered branches
everywhere these reminders
that love will surprise.
Wednesday, April 7, 2010
The Dream of Us
That night I cried myself awake
from the dream of us.
In my vision
winter had suspended icicles
from the portal of the house
where I wanted us to live,
and, wearing nothing
but silk pjs and a knitted hat,
I had taken you
to show you how they sparkled
in the snow moon’s light,
all juicy and with daring,
threatening to loose
their fragile tether
the way it seemed I also lived
in those barren days
before our spring tide
before our full-blown thaw.
from the dream of us.
In my vision
winter had suspended icicles
from the portal of the house
where I wanted us to live,
and, wearing nothing
but silk pjs and a knitted hat,
I had taken you
to show you how they sparkled
in the snow moon’s light,
all juicy and with daring,
threatening to loose
their fragile tether
the way it seemed I also lived
in those barren days
before our spring tide
before our full-blown thaw.
Tuesday, April 6, 2010
She drifts so far away
She drifts so far away
from all the faces and their cues,
feeds on photographs and memories
woven in the retinue
of images she carries
like moonlit dances in the wind,
in her dreams she beckons herons
whose one–leg stance feels so akin
to the sense of almost balance
that she’s tried to cultivate,
from her bodily imprisonment,
her fear that its too late,
all the ways she’s cared for others
husband, children, many more,
the sacrificial worry that she's carried
is suddenly falling to the floor.
Just opening her eyes
making known that she is present
it’s almost more than she can muster
all her life she’s been so pleasant,
she has covered up her woundedness
like that extremity tucked under,
like the heron she’s been patient
hasn't scolded or chased wonder,
she has always done for others
in her life of soldiering on
but now her heart won’t beat in rhythm
its creating a new song,
as she begins to lift her head
shake it like she might not stay
though she’d have to let that leg down
she would have to fly away,
she would have to have a vision
of the world around that point
could she believe it without seeing
allow new waters to anoint,
to heal and offer nurture
to the parts that feel so dead
could she really call a future
from her body not her head?
If her prison is her healer
if she listens, and then flies
across rippled sunset waters
beneath a new and vibrant sky
on her own she might find beauty
and access that distant shore
could she really leave those others
and just open up the door
to her own heartbeat,
her beauty,
to the rising of her breasts,
to the sense that she is worthy
of great laughter and life’s zest?
If she wades a little deeper
and lets down that hidden limb
spreads her wings and calls her evening
cry to voices deep within,
will she find the upsurge in her lungs
and say a sweet good-bye
to the be-the-weak-one bay land
that has held her in its sigh?
She can feel her heart grow stronger
she can feel the wind now lift
her wings upon their journey
with great purpose she’ll not drift
no her own way she will find this time
let go of pleasing others
around the point
or down along the shore
its up to just her druthers.
From her lofty flying place
she looks down at waters deep
tonight she'll choose where she might land
and where tonight she’ll sleep.
from all the faces and their cues,
feeds on photographs and memories
woven in the retinue
of images she carries
like moonlit dances in the wind,
in her dreams she beckons herons
whose one–leg stance feels so akin
to the sense of almost balance
that she’s tried to cultivate,
from her bodily imprisonment,
her fear that its too late,
all the ways she’s cared for others
husband, children, many more,
the sacrificial worry that she's carried
is suddenly falling to the floor.
Just opening her eyes
making known that she is present
it’s almost more than she can muster
all her life she’s been so pleasant,
she has covered up her woundedness
like that extremity tucked under,
like the heron she’s been patient
hasn't scolded or chased wonder,
she has always done for others
in her life of soldiering on
but now her heart won’t beat in rhythm
its creating a new song,
as she begins to lift her head
shake it like she might not stay
though she’d have to let that leg down
she would have to fly away,
she would have to have a vision
of the world around that point
could she believe it without seeing
allow new waters to anoint,
to heal and offer nurture
to the parts that feel so dead
could she really call a future
from her body not her head?
If her prison is her healer
if she listens, and then flies
across rippled sunset waters
beneath a new and vibrant sky
on her own she might find beauty
and access that distant shore
could she really leave those others
and just open up the door
to her own heartbeat,
her beauty,
to the rising of her breasts,
to the sense that she is worthy
of great laughter and life’s zest?
If she wades a little deeper
and lets down that hidden limb
spreads her wings and calls her evening
cry to voices deep within,
will she find the upsurge in her lungs
and say a sweet good-bye
to the be-the-weak-one bay land
that has held her in its sigh?
She can feel her heart grow stronger
she can feel the wind now lift
her wings upon their journey
with great purpose she’ll not drift
no her own way she will find this time
let go of pleasing others
around the point
or down along the shore
its up to just her druthers.
From her lofty flying place
she looks down at waters deep
tonight she'll choose where she might land
and where tonight she’ll sleep.
Friday, April 2, 2010
Wednesday, March 31, 2010
Tuesday, March 30, 2010
Receding
I mourned because
I did not get to say
one last good-bye,
my heart aching and afraid,
my unquiet mind disbelieving
that you loved me unconditionally
that you would return.
The table had been cleared,
all the guests departed,
coats donned
scarves wrapped against the rain-swept night.
Pretending to be fine,
even to be very busy, I bustled
from empty room to empty room,
straightening crumpled linens here,
re-ordering misplaced photos there,
tossing refuse,
hiding my secret longing
for the we-are-one-ness of your eyes
sparkling into mine.
Without their light
I felt myself grow smaller,
my heart flutter in fits and starts
as a choked cough denied how,
what seemed like only moments before,
my rhythmic breath had carried yours.
Later, turning off the lights,
closing sliding windows,
pulling down accordion shades,
I forgot the imprint
of your hand in mine,
the we-are-forever-ness of our jousting play,
felt the familiar wall begin to build,
ancient stone by ancient stone,
forming protective battalions around my tender heart
until I became the one receding,
until I became the one to disappear.
I did not get to say
one last good-bye,
my heart aching and afraid,
my unquiet mind disbelieving
that you loved me unconditionally
that you would return.
The table had been cleared,
all the guests departed,
coats donned
scarves wrapped against the rain-swept night.
Pretending to be fine,
even to be very busy, I bustled
from empty room to empty room,
straightening crumpled linens here,
re-ordering misplaced photos there,
tossing refuse,
hiding my secret longing
for the we-are-one-ness of your eyes
sparkling into mine.
Without their light
I felt myself grow smaller,
my heart flutter in fits and starts
as a choked cough denied how,
what seemed like only moments before,
my rhythmic breath had carried yours.
Later, turning off the lights,
closing sliding windows,
pulling down accordion shades,
I forgot the imprint
of your hand in mine,
the we-are-forever-ness of our jousting play,
felt the familiar wall begin to build,
ancient stone by ancient stone,
forming protective battalions around my tender heart
until I became the one receding,
until I became the one to disappear.
Sunday, March 28, 2010
The Angry Ones
They live outside
secretly longing
to be invited in.
Open your door to them,
but do not require that
they enter.
Instead, return to your kitchen.
Set your table
but do not call them in for dinner.
Allow them to pace awhile,
even to run through your roses,
ripping them from their roots
fingertips bleeding as they
tear them apart petal by petal,
shouting No, when they really means Yes.
If you are patient,
they will enter at their own pace,
drawn by the aroma of your freshly-baked bread
the promise of warmth and sustenance.
Though they are children, all of them,
muddy and riled,
wild and unkempt,
do not force them to wash before
sitting down to eat.
Remember, they have been shamed and dishonored,
ridiculed and lied to; rejected, misread, abandoned,
not chosen,
forced to do that which they would not do.
They have forgotten their manners.
They have forgotten where it is they belong.
Do not try to teach them,
do not try to convince them of their worth,
that the meal has been prepared for them.
They may be afraid at first even to sit,
eyeing with uncertainty
the steaming bowls of soup,
the thick bread and rich butter for spreading.
If they do take a chair, they may
place it as far away from you as possible.
Allow them any table edge they choose.
Ignore how their feet jiggle
so fiercely that your floor vibrates.
No one will perish,
do not ask them to stop.
If they slam their spoons
against their plates,
do not scold them.
Otherwise, you will become
the thing they fear the most,
you will become just like them:
tight and distrustful.
Remember,
this time they have hurt no one
they have not hurt you,
they have not hurt each other,
they have not hurt themselves.
Even if the plates are shattered,
unusable,
ruined,
just clear away the shards
sweep them into the trash,
laugh out loud and
bring new plates to be filled,
not when you finally force these
young ones to eat,
but whenever it happens that they are ready,
whenever they choose to settle in,
to reach out and serve themselves.
Saturday, March 27, 2010
Love the Undiscovered
Do not let your wild horses keep you
from continuing to do whatever it
is you love.
If you can find nothing you love to do
then love the undiscovered.
If the undiscovered only makes you angry
because you do not know what it is,
love the anger.
If the anger scares you
love your fear.
If fear makes you tremble and prance about
stampedes into your lungs and throat
threatens to crush every bone in your body,
love the trembling and prancing
the stampeding and snorting
the breathless desire to be seen
and discovered, to feel flesh upon flesh
to be reined in with love
to move as one.
from continuing to do whatever it
is you love.
If you can find nothing you love to do
then love the undiscovered.
If the undiscovered only makes you angry
because you do not know what it is,
love the anger.
If the anger scares you
love your fear.
If fear makes you tremble and prance about
stampedes into your lungs and throat
threatens to crush every bone in your body,
love the trembling and prancing
the stampeding and snorting
the breathless desire to be seen
and discovered, to feel flesh upon flesh
to be reined in with love
to move as one.
Friday, March 26, 2010
Tonight, if I love anything at all
Tonight, if I love anything at all,
it is the pauses,
the quiet gathering between
the words that have been said
and the anguish
of what has been left unsaid.
If I hold anything close,
it is the potential
of those mysterious moments,
the sense that anything is possible,
nothing is forsaken.
it is the pauses,
the quiet gathering between
the words that have been said
and the anguish
of what has been left unsaid.
If I hold anything close,
it is the potential
of those mysterious moments,
the sense that anything is possible,
nothing is forsaken.
Thursday, March 25, 2010
Wednesday, March 24, 2010
One Drop Shivered In The Breeze
You muddy the water
roil it with your urgency
blister the smooth surface
into opaque shimmers of rage,
all because I will not sit
beneath you,
all because you want to own me
and do not.
I went out that morning with nothing in mind
except to wander aimlessly,
to stop the flickered warbling in my head.
The river drew me down a steep
and winding path, until I stood
beside its noisy turbulence.
At the top of the ravine
the early light hung in dewdrop prisms
from willow branches bent
in what seemed to me
a sort of yearning toward
the rushing water.
One drop shivered in the breeze,
broke loose and tumbled in.
I imagined how it might bob downstream
some times pulled beneath by rapids
but never drowning,
at others buoyed by swirling eddies
and long, leisurely, bends.
How would it be,
I wondered,
to change the lyric patterns
in my head;
transform cacophony to teardrops?
Could I release just one
and let it fall, now so far away from you?
Would it plunge into the rapids
make it’s own small journey
around the rocks and boulders,
the twists and turns
until it reached a vast and endless sea?
roil it with your urgency
blister the smooth surface
into opaque shimmers of rage,
all because I will not sit
beneath you,
all because you want to own me
and do not.
I went out that morning with nothing in mind
except to wander aimlessly,
to stop the flickered warbling in my head.
The river drew me down a steep
and winding path, until I stood
beside its noisy turbulence.
At the top of the ravine
the early light hung in dewdrop prisms
from willow branches bent
in what seemed to me
a sort of yearning toward
the rushing water.
One drop shivered in the breeze,
broke loose and tumbled in.
I imagined how it might bob downstream
some times pulled beneath by rapids
but never drowning,
at others buoyed by swirling eddies
and long, leisurely, bends.
How would it be,
I wondered,
to change the lyric patterns
in my head;
transform cacophony to teardrops?
Could I release just one
and let it fall, now so far away from you?
Would it plunge into the rapids
make it’s own small journey
around the rocks and boulders,
the twists and turns
until it reached a vast and endless sea?
Tuesday, March 23, 2010
What if?
What if you are the prodigal one?
What if you are welcomed, always,
deep within the heart, regardless of your deeds?
What, then, becomes of your certainty
that a rightful place has not been set for you?
Or the belief that someone has the power
to seat you at the far end of the table,
where only remnants are passed
on platters previously brimming
with a succulent roast from the fatted calf?
What if you are the lost one,
invited into generosity,
your dazzling body newly clothed,
once again reclaimed into the fold?
How then could your resentment continue,
your tale of recurrent exclusion narrate your life?
Would you lose your judgment against the one
who fled and squandered all,
who abandoned freely-given riches and slept with swine?
Consider this:
what if an amazing feast, a banquet of forgiveness
is laid down for you
simply because you have been misplaced
and then returned?
What if you are welcomed, always,
deep within the heart, regardless of your deeds?
What, then, becomes of your certainty
that a rightful place has not been set for you?
Or the belief that someone has the power
to seat you at the far end of the table,
where only remnants are passed
on platters previously brimming
with a succulent roast from the fatted calf?
What if you are the lost one,
invited into generosity,
your dazzling body newly clothed,
once again reclaimed into the fold?
How then could your resentment continue,
your tale of recurrent exclusion narrate your life?
Would you lose your judgment against the one
who fled and squandered all,
who abandoned freely-given riches and slept with swine?
Consider this:
what if an amazing feast, a banquet of forgiveness
is laid down for you
simply because you have been misplaced
and then returned?
Monday, March 22, 2010
Sunday, March 21, 2010
Delight Sneaks Upon You
Delight sneaks upon you
just when you think your heart is breaking,
that no matter how you try
to understand this un-chosen breaking open
you will simply fail, and fail again.
And then you see how the crab apples blossom
all white and glorious and fresh,
how the roses begin to bud
aphid-less and all spring new,
and the aroma of the lilacs
springs into your very core
as you pass by on your way
to visit her, the one who is leaving,
who may not return.
In that moment you pause from your
rushing-to-claim-just-one-more
(possibly the last)
moment in her presence.
You lean toward the perfumed blossoms,
four-petalled wonders
surrounding that small golden center,
and imagine her breath as fragrant,
her repose as peaceful,
your connection as everlasting
as the sweet-smelling cluster
and its miniature sunrise core.
just when you think your heart is breaking,
that no matter how you try
to understand this un-chosen breaking open
you will simply fail, and fail again.
And then you see how the crab apples blossom
all white and glorious and fresh,
how the roses begin to bud
aphid-less and all spring new,
and the aroma of the lilacs
springs into your very core
as you pass by on your way
to visit her, the one who is leaving,
who may not return.
In that moment you pause from your
rushing-to-claim-just-one-more
(possibly the last)
moment in her presence.
You lean toward the perfumed blossoms,
four-petalled wonders
surrounding that small golden center,
and imagine her breath as fragrant,
her repose as peaceful,
your connection as everlasting
as the sweet-smelling cluster
and its miniature sunrise core.
Saturday, March 20, 2010
The Ease of Companionship
The ease of companionship
stretching into each other
without tearing in the process,
how I’ve longed for the beauty of such a love.
How, though, should I ever achieve it,
given what we know about growth,
about the strengthening of muscle,
how tiny ruptures, followed by rest
and return to whatever movement first wounded us
creates a cycle of healing,
restoration of vitality,
offers flexibility and vigor,
increases our access to life force.
How is it that I forget the heart is a muscle,
companionship a byproduct of concerted action?
stretching into each other
without tearing in the process,
how I’ve longed for the beauty of such a love.
How, though, should I ever achieve it,
given what we know about growth,
about the strengthening of muscle,
how tiny ruptures, followed by rest
and return to whatever movement first wounded us
creates a cycle of healing,
restoration of vitality,
offers flexibility and vigor,
increases our access to life force.
How is it that I forget the heart is a muscle,
companionship a byproduct of concerted action?
Friday, March 19, 2010
Death
Death
I shouted your name
from the crest of the hill,
wanting to destroy you
claw your eyes out
disembowel your very essence.
Like a lion attacking a gazelle
I wanted to devour any power you wielded to further destroy.
But my bellow brought
the wind rushing up the hillside
untamed and wild,
shadowing my echo.
At my feet lady slippers dipped their heads
exactly where they had bloomed the year before.
Somewhere in the sea below I knew
an amoeba simply divided into two.
All this transformation
where I had desired only annihilation.
I see now that you are not the ruler,
not the test we always fail.
You provide no “lesson,”
no inner wisdom of your own.
You are in fact the messenger,
perhaps a dove,
the mysterious courier who carries our essence
over the ridge
across the ocean
into the mysterious other world
which we simply cannot yet see.
I shouted your name
from the crest of the hill,
wanting to destroy you
claw your eyes out
disembowel your very essence.
Like a lion attacking a gazelle
I wanted to devour any power you wielded to further destroy.
But my bellow brought
the wind rushing up the hillside
untamed and wild,
shadowing my echo.
At my feet lady slippers dipped their heads
exactly where they had bloomed the year before.
Somewhere in the sea below I knew
an amoeba simply divided into two.
All this transformation
where I had desired only annihilation.
I see now that you are not the ruler,
not the test we always fail.
You provide no “lesson,”
no inner wisdom of your own.
You are in fact the messenger,
perhaps a dove,
the mysterious courier who carries our essence
over the ridge
across the ocean
into the mysterious other world
which we simply cannot yet see.
Thursday, March 18, 2010
The Critics
The Critics
The ones within us are the worst:
the chattering voices
examining and re-examining,
rehearsing and rehashing,
running us round and round in circles,
splintering in a thousand directions.
But there are ways to welcome and calm them.
If we focus on our spines
our bellies and our tailbones,
focus on our breath
and our heart,
the oxygen moving through
our blood and lungs,
how it keeps coursing
whether we make the best choice
or not;
when we have to say we can’t
when we thought we could;
whether or not we did
or we didn’t.
When others withdraw
or throw poison daggers
in our direction,
when we believe all of this is about us,
if we quiet the ones inside
those attacking us tenfold
bring them into our awareness
into the chambers of our heart
help them to
follow our blood flow to our spine
notice how it is aligned.
If we help these critics to
calm and to
allow us to be carried forward,
strong, steady, balanced,
they can transform into
deep listeners that
move us on to the next small thing
one small step at a time,
one flexible movement at a time,
moving through the door
into our chosen future.
The ones within us are the worst:
the chattering voices
examining and re-examining,
rehearsing and rehashing,
running us round and round in circles,
splintering in a thousand directions.
But there are ways to welcome and calm them.
If we focus on our spines
our bellies and our tailbones,
focus on our breath
and our heart,
the oxygen moving through
our blood and lungs,
how it keeps coursing
whether we make the best choice
or not;
when we have to say we can’t
when we thought we could;
whether or not we did
or we didn’t.
When others withdraw
or throw poison daggers
in our direction,
when we believe all of this is about us,
if we quiet the ones inside
those attacking us tenfold
bring them into our awareness
into the chambers of our heart
help them to
follow our blood flow to our spine
notice how it is aligned.
If we help these critics to
calm and to
allow us to be carried forward,
strong, steady, balanced,
they can transform into
deep listeners that
move us on to the next small thing
one small step at a time,
one flexible movement at a time,
moving through the door
into our chosen future.
Wednesday, March 17, 2010
I Don't Find It Hard To Love The World
I don’t find it hard to love the world
in its big, wide open expanses,
its prairie grasses and battalions of geese
soldiering on in perfect v-formation.
What is difficult is to love the losses,
the million small ways in which it seems
life is reduced, instead of grown.
What is difficult is to lay down in the
brittle brown grass and look up at the sky
to listen to the wild geese honking
disappearing across the horizon,
their cry moving into my heart,
echoing my own buried grief.
The beetle doesn’t bother with such things
I don’t think,
neither the tortoise or the eagle.
Rotting stumps decay and become a home for eggs,
swamps stagnate and transform into breeding grounds,
one tree is chopped down, and another,
differently sized and shaped,
but equal in it’s wide arms for holding,
invites the nest
built twig by twig:
flight in and flight out.
It's true,
I don’t find it hard to love the world
in its fullness and welcome
what is hard is to say goodbye,
over and over again.
in its big, wide open expanses,
its prairie grasses and battalions of geese
soldiering on in perfect v-formation.
What is difficult is to love the losses,
the million small ways in which it seems
life is reduced, instead of grown.
What is difficult is to lay down in the
brittle brown grass and look up at the sky
to listen to the wild geese honking
disappearing across the horizon,
their cry moving into my heart,
echoing my own buried grief.
The beetle doesn’t bother with such things
I don’t think,
neither the tortoise or the eagle.
Rotting stumps decay and become a home for eggs,
swamps stagnate and transform into breeding grounds,
one tree is chopped down, and another,
differently sized and shaped,
but equal in it’s wide arms for holding,
invites the nest
built twig by twig:
flight in and flight out.
It's true,
I don’t find it hard to love the world
in its fullness and welcome
what is hard is to say goodbye,
over and over again.
You Do Not Have to be Perfect
You do not have to be perfect.
You do not need to be a star-shiner
polishing your imperfect acts in hope of being chosen
to herald the Nativity.
All you need is to love all of who you are, the longings
and the half-misses, the scattered thoughts and the focused passions,
all you need to do is to walk out into the nighttime air
and breathe,
welcome the vast array of shooting stars
cascading in glory with no idea of where they are going.
You who believe in the greatness of others but not your own,
who fear burning out before you have made your mark,
look closely at Orion and the Pleiades,
constellated stars aligned in space
burning with brilliance,
never altering their position, though the spinning world
will make you believe they are drifting away
disappearing from your sight.
You out there who deny your inherent always-was-enough-ness,
go out, again, night after night
cloudy or starlit,
and greet the galaxies.
Without your star-shiner’s cloth,
powerless to dull or brighten that darkened sky,
go out and receive your gifts:
trajectory and surrender.
When you come to the edge of your evening
will you have seen how the darkness holds the light?
Will you have welcomed
your one, small, meteoric life?
You do not need to be a star-shiner
polishing your imperfect acts in hope of being chosen
to herald the Nativity.
All you need is to love all of who you are, the longings
and the half-misses, the scattered thoughts and the focused passions,
all you need to do is to walk out into the nighttime air
and breathe,
welcome the vast array of shooting stars
cascading in glory with no idea of where they are going.
You who believe in the greatness of others but not your own,
who fear burning out before you have made your mark,
look closely at Orion and the Pleiades,
constellated stars aligned in space
burning with brilliance,
never altering their position, though the spinning world
will make you believe they are drifting away
disappearing from your sight.
You out there who deny your inherent always-was-enough-ness,
go out, again, night after night
cloudy or starlit,
and greet the galaxies.
Without your star-shiner’s cloth,
powerless to dull or brighten that darkened sky,
go out and receive your gifts:
trajectory and surrender.
When you come to the edge of your evening
will you have seen how the darkness holds the light?
Will you have welcomed
your one, small, meteoric life?
Monday, March 15, 2010
Sunday, March 14, 2010
You Have Ceased Your Conversations
You have ceased your conversations
muted your clandestine call
along the sea cliffs
and in the valley floor,
whispered messages of ecstasy,
surrender and enchantment
come no more.
Your empty tomb awaits her,
forbidden wanderers, angels knocking at her door,
night-watch wakefulness, cloistered kisses on the floor.
muted your clandestine call
along the sea cliffs
and in the valley floor,
whispered messages of ecstasy,
surrender and enchantment
come no more.
Your empty tomb awaits her,
forbidden wanderers, angels knocking at her door,
night-watch wakefulness, cloistered kisses on the floor.
Saturday, March 13, 2010
So You Have Felt It Too
So you have felt it, too
the wildness burning deep inside:
hot and fiery.
passionate,
heaven sent:
the jaguar preparing to pounce.
You have traveled in its belly
demolishing your innocent prey,
your fears and envy, your holder-backers,
destroying them all with one powerful bite.
If you bury this lord of the underworld,
it will simply send you to the bowels of your desire,
if you try to tame and domesticate it,
it only grows larger and more fierce
until overwhelming in its power
it releases itself
charging into the river of life.
the wildness burning deep inside:
hot and fiery.
passionate,
heaven sent:
the jaguar preparing to pounce.
You have traveled in its belly
demolishing your innocent prey,
your fears and envy, your holder-backers,
destroying them all with one powerful bite.
If you bury this lord of the underworld,
it will simply send you to the bowels of your desire,
if you try to tame and domesticate it,
it only grows larger and more fierce
until overwhelming in its power
it releases itself
charging into the river of life.
Friday, March 12, 2010
I Open to the Sense of You
I open to the sense of you,
float into your forgiveness like a twig dancing downstream.
I yield to your knowing, the truth of your erosion,
how you carry detritus across the ages,
from frozen ice fields all the way down to the open sea.
No longer caught
in the narrow interstice of my mutinous, glacial boulders,
nor trapped in the dams of my own making,
I embrace your whitewater rapids and swirling eddies,
your placid meandering, and your steep descent
over well-worn waterfall cliffs.
In your presence I flow with ease,
drink each unique moment of the ride,
follow the course of your current.
float into your forgiveness like a twig dancing downstream.
I yield to your knowing, the truth of your erosion,
how you carry detritus across the ages,
from frozen ice fields all the way down to the open sea.
No longer caught
in the narrow interstice of my mutinous, glacial boulders,
nor trapped in the dams of my own making,
I embrace your whitewater rapids and swirling eddies,
your placid meandering, and your steep descent
over well-worn waterfall cliffs.
In your presence I flow with ease,
drink each unique moment of the ride,
follow the course of your current.
Thursday, March 11, 2010
The Fear of Being Left Behind
You know so well
that fear of being left behind,
unseen.
Share your stories of abandonment
and I will tell you mine.
But do you remember the day of the dragonflies?
The thick pack heading south en masse,
electrified orange and red,
moving like helicopters
up down forward back sideways
seemingly all at once
while still making their way down the beach?
Can you still see the way their wings flashed like
beaters, here, and then gone, like
those steel mixer blades
covered thick with chocolate
and our mother’s birthday love,
how, without admonition,
she let us both, together,
run our fingers trustingly
along the could-be-sharp edges,
as she retired to her room?
You call to you the truth that no one survives,
that everyone you love will leave,
you wrap yourself in the surety of your isolation and your need,
but have you forgotten that constant dragonfly stream
how first you feared, then loved their presence?
The outlaw one who landed on your shirt,
stayed for the rest of the walk
wingtips glittering in the sun?
that fear of being left behind,
unseen.
Share your stories of abandonment
and I will tell you mine.
But do you remember the day of the dragonflies?
The thick pack heading south en masse,
electrified orange and red,
moving like helicopters
up down forward back sideways
seemingly all at once
while still making their way down the beach?
Can you still see the way their wings flashed like
beaters, here, and then gone, like
those steel mixer blades
covered thick with chocolate
and our mother’s birthday love,
how, without admonition,
she let us both, together,
run our fingers trustingly
along the could-be-sharp edges,
as she retired to her room?
You call to you the truth that no one survives,
that everyone you love will leave,
you wrap yourself in the surety of your isolation and your need,
but have you forgotten that constant dragonfly stream
how first you feared, then loved their presence?
The outlaw one who landed on your shirt,
stayed for the rest of the walk
wingtips glittering in the sun?
Wednesday, March 10, 2010
I Need To Go To Bed
I need to go to bed
I’m tired in my head
I cannot stay
There is no way
I’m truly almost dead.
I’m tired in my head
I cannot stay
There is no way
I’m truly almost dead.
Tuesday, March 9, 2010
You Dance Without a Partner
You dance without a partner,
and with all partners
caught in your embrace.
No wonder I cannot love just one other,
not just a single pair of eyes gaze deeply into mine.
With you I AM, the alpha and the omega.
In you my senses have their being.
The body’s center is the focal point
from which all movement rises,
in tissue and in sinew,
spirit twirls and is released,
changing partners
in the moment
of the longing of the sigh.
No wonder I am whole only
in the moon-night.
No wonder white bears draw me
toward your darkness
and your light.
and with all partners
caught in your embrace.
No wonder I cannot love just one other,
not just a single pair of eyes gaze deeply into mine.
With you I AM, the alpha and the omega.
In you my senses have their being.
The body’s center is the focal point
from which all movement rises,
in tissue and in sinew,
spirit twirls and is released,
changing partners
in the moment
of the longing of the sigh.
No wonder I am whole only
in the moon-night.
No wonder white bears draw me
toward your darkness
and your light.
Monday, March 8, 2010
After the Funeral
After the Funeral
You have had enough flowers
for one day,
daffodils and roses
wild blue lupine and queen anne’s lace.
You have made enough attempts to imagine open meadows
where you lie undisturbed
breathing aromas foreign and divine.
Their bodies are gone.
The night has come.
The back yard calls you
to its shadows,
moonlight dancing with windblown branches:
a slow waltz, perhaps a fox trot,
and you see them both
(before they ever conceived of you,
before they got lost in the stop-time
of abandonment and pain).
They are moving as one, cheek touching cheek,
stockinged feet sliding slowly across another time,
breathing in
the whole
of each other.
Now you cross their rotting deck,
step down into un-mown grass
and let your bare toes drink in the recent rain.
You pull its sweet essence into your veins
and remember that everything will change.
You have had enough flowers
for one day,
daffodils and roses
wild blue lupine and queen anne’s lace.
You have made enough attempts to imagine open meadows
where you lie undisturbed
breathing aromas foreign and divine.
Their bodies are gone.
The night has come.
The back yard calls you
to its shadows,
moonlight dancing with windblown branches:
a slow waltz, perhaps a fox trot,
and you see them both
(before they ever conceived of you,
before they got lost in the stop-time
of abandonment and pain).
They are moving as one, cheek touching cheek,
stockinged feet sliding slowly across another time,
breathing in
the whole
of each other.
Now you cross their rotting deck,
step down into un-mown grass
and let your bare toes drink in the recent rain.
You pull its sweet essence into your veins
and remember that everything will change.
Sunday, March 7, 2010
So what does Jesus do
So what does Jesus do
when disciples turn away?
When fire burns in their bellies
and the hot coals of betrayal
scorch their un-sandaled feet?
No doubt they want
to stay awake and watch,
but they feel his passing
even before the soldiers come,
before the cock crows,
yes, also before the kiss:
those cold lips
so soft and
pliable, barely brushing his cheek.
They know it’s noble
to be loyal,
to match his open and loving ways,
to forgive him the scruples
that are causing their bereavement
and will leave them alone,
the fervor that will steal his guidance,
keep him from taking them and fleeing
into the dark night
like the burning bush of Moses,
all un-consuming flame and heat.
They want to forgive,
but can not let go of the injustice of it all.
What does Jesus do
When they can’t absolve him from
living out the truth of his abandonment?
Does he pray?
when disciples turn away?
When fire burns in their bellies
and the hot coals of betrayal
scorch their un-sandaled feet?
No doubt they want
to stay awake and watch,
but they feel his passing
even before the soldiers come,
before the cock crows,
yes, also before the kiss:
those cold lips
so soft and
pliable, barely brushing his cheek.
They know it’s noble
to be loyal,
to match his open and loving ways,
to forgive him the scruples
that are causing their bereavement
and will leave them alone,
the fervor that will steal his guidance,
keep him from taking them and fleeing
into the dark night
like the burning bush of Moses,
all un-consuming flame and heat.
They want to forgive,
but can not let go of the injustice of it all.
What does Jesus do
When they can’t absolve him from
living out the truth of his abandonment?
Does he pray?
Saturday, March 6, 2010
One Night
One night
you couldn’t hear
what you were called to do,
as you left your burning house.
Muddled by the smoke
and fear of flames
you forgot, for just a moment,
the angry child still sleeping deep inside.
You scooped up the handicapped one
from the cot beside you,
cuddled her head to your chest
to quiet her whine,
grabbed her leg braces
and rushed for fresh air.
But somehow you failed the one who
most likely dreamed of your demise.
You left her
all blanketed over,
no doubt still tucked into fetal position,
like those “pill bugs” you used to torment,
when you yourself were only a child,
poking them this way
and then that,
until they curled upon themselves in protection
you couldn’t hear
what you were called to do,
as you left your burning house.
Muddled by the smoke
and fear of flames
you forgot, for just a moment,
the angry child still sleeping deep inside.
You scooped up the handicapped one
from the cot beside you,
cuddled her head to your chest
to quiet her whine,
grabbed her leg braces
and rushed for fresh air.
But somehow you failed the one who
most likely dreamed of your demise.
You left her
all blanketed over,
no doubt still tucked into fetal position,
like those “pill bugs” you used to torment,
when you yourself were only a child,
poking them this way
and then that,
until they curled upon themselves in protection
Friday, March 5, 2010
Thirty-fifth Anniversary
You tell this part of you that you’re just too tired,
The one who conjures moonlit walks,
Tender kisses,
A blanket spread across the sand
Sun warmed bodies passionately entwined.
You remind the niggling sense of
Pressure, there in the center of your chest,
Of companionship,
Restful couch time,
Watching romance on the television screen,
The way you hold each others' hands.
Perhaps you try to hearten this fearful one
who tangos in your heart at night:
You say that marriage,
(Contrary to the belief of some)
Is not a Holy Sepulcher.
Thirty-five years is, after all, a long time, you say,
Sparks can’t sustain themselves forever.
But there are the crocuses
Warming each other in purple clusters
At the edge of the little garden by your front gate,
And those two robins, persistently foraging in the tall lawn grass,
Battling each other for the earthworm,
And sometimes...you wonder.
The one who conjures moonlit walks,
Tender kisses,
A blanket spread across the sand
Sun warmed bodies passionately entwined.
You remind the niggling sense of
Pressure, there in the center of your chest,
Of companionship,
Restful couch time,
Watching romance on the television screen,
The way you hold each others' hands.
Perhaps you try to hearten this fearful one
who tangos in your heart at night:
You say that marriage,
(Contrary to the belief of some)
Is not a Holy Sepulcher.
Thirty-five years is, after all, a long time, you say,
Sparks can’t sustain themselves forever.
But there are the crocuses
Warming each other in purple clusters
At the edge of the little garden by your front gate,
And those two robins, persistently foraging in the tall lawn grass,
Battling each other for the earthworm,
And sometimes...you wonder.
Thursday, March 4, 2010
Wednesday, March 3, 2010
Seeing Snow Geese
so for this poem I'm offering two versions. If you're so inclined would love to have you "comment" on which you prefer...Many thanks, and many blessings for all of you who continue to "follow" my flow...you can even offer your own third version if you'd like! MBB.
Miminalist version:
Seeing Snow Geese
You have crested these mountains
Entered the verdant valley
One-hundred times or more.
Still, the snow geese startle:
White psalmists in the sky.
More wordy (or more fulfilled?) version:
Seeing Snow Geese
You have crested these mountains
Entered the verdant valley
One Hundred times or more,
Still, the snow gees startle,
Resurrect your black-tipped longing,
Rise with your undulating heartbeat,
Strain to return to the source:
White psalmists in the sky.
Miminalist version:
Seeing Snow Geese
You have crested these mountains
Entered the verdant valley
One-hundred times or more.
Still, the snow geese startle:
White psalmists in the sky.
More wordy (or more fulfilled?) version:
Seeing Snow Geese
You have crested these mountains
Entered the verdant valley
One Hundred times or more,
Still, the snow gees startle,
Resurrect your black-tipped longing,
Rise with your undulating heartbeat,
Strain to return to the source:
White psalmists in the sky.
Tuesday, March 2, 2010
Can you imagine your life?
Can you imagine your life like the honeysuckle?
lingering, delicate, filled with sweet nectar,
always leaning toward release
from your trellis –
your essence transported
by curious hummingbirds
that dart from vine to vine.
lingering, delicate, filled with sweet nectar,
always leaning toward release
from your trellis –
your essence transported
by curious hummingbirds
that dart from vine to vine.
Monday, March 1, 2010
Saturday, February 27, 2010
There is you
There is you with your passionate flow,
and the ones who worry
that it isn’t enough,
who sense your heart failure,
too much drink in your veins,
the shot glasses shattering.
and the ones who worry
that it isn’t enough,
who sense your heart failure,
too much drink in your veins,
the shot glasses shattering.
sometimes in the night
Sometimes in the night
you search for buried sweet things
with love and delight
you search for buried sweet things
with love and delight
Thursday, February 25, 2010
Love's Unanswered Call
Seeking light at the end of my tunnel,
Rain in my hurricane,
Hoping to pull one small stone
From my burdened Great Wall,
I came to your door.
Breathless, demanding,
Your mindless messenger:
Furious as fire,
Ashamed as burnt lace,
Terrified of love’s
Unanswered call.
Forty days I persisted;
Forty days and their nights
I knocked at your door.
On that very last morning,
Dried up and standing alone,
Only then did I finally know:
Not your echoes of judgment
Not your punishing pounding within,
But my own fragile knuckles,
In the end all callused and cold,
Had caused me such pain,
Had kept me without,
Had stopped me
From opening
The door.
Rain in my hurricane,
Hoping to pull one small stone
From my burdened Great Wall,
I came to your door.
Breathless, demanding,
Your mindless messenger:
Furious as fire,
Ashamed as burnt lace,
Terrified of love’s
Unanswered call.
Forty days I persisted;
Forty days and their nights
I knocked at your door.
On that very last morning,
Dried up and standing alone,
Only then did I finally know:
Not your echoes of judgment
Not your punishing pounding within,
But my own fragile knuckles,
In the end all callused and cold,
Had caused me such pain,
Had kept me without,
Had stopped me
From opening
The door.
Wednesday, February 24, 2010
Afterwords
So now that you’re through it
Faced your fears, yes dived in!
Not made mountains of molehills
Instead simply slipped in
To the challenge before you
Done the “I’d rather not”
Now it’s time to be spoiled:
Go for what you aint got.
Maybe small as the whiff
Of the breezes that sing
Through the flowers and treezes
Beneath robins' wings.
Or it could be a treat
Something “grownups” won’t eat
Ice cream snowshoes or icicles
Dripping chocolaty sweets
‘Cause you know it is true,
You can always indulge,
But the best time to do it
Is after the bulge
Of pressure has faded,
When the “musts” have been done,
Less guilt will engulf you,
Lots more fun will be won,
When the house you inhabit
Within and without
Has been cleared of its clutteredness
Inside and out
If you cross off the list
(but don’t make it too long)
It’s much more
Fun to play
You can shout like King Kong
“I have done it, I did it!
I have no more to do!
I can lie on the couch;
I can go to the zoo!
I can find my good friends;
I can cuddle alone,
I can read a good book;
I can chat on the phone.
I can wander outside,
doing naught:
Whoop de doo!!!”
You'll need nary a worry 'bout
What you SHOULD do!~
Faced your fears, yes dived in!
Not made mountains of molehills
Instead simply slipped in
To the challenge before you
Done the “I’d rather not”
Now it’s time to be spoiled:
Go for what you aint got.
Maybe small as the whiff
Of the breezes that sing
Through the flowers and treezes
Beneath robins' wings.
Or it could be a treat
Something “grownups” won’t eat
Ice cream snowshoes or icicles
Dripping chocolaty sweets
‘Cause you know it is true,
You can always indulge,
But the best time to do it
Is after the bulge
Of pressure has faded,
When the “musts” have been done,
Less guilt will engulf you,
Lots more fun will be won,
When the house you inhabit
Within and without
Has been cleared of its clutteredness
Inside and out
If you cross off the list
(but don’t make it too long)
It’s much more
Fun to play
You can shout like King Kong
“I have done it, I did it!
I have no more to do!
I can lie on the couch;
I can go to the zoo!
I can find my good friends;
I can cuddle alone,
I can read a good book;
I can chat on the phone.
I can wander outside,
doing naught:
Whoop de doo!!!”
You'll need nary a worry 'bout
What you SHOULD do!~
Tuesday, February 23, 2010
Favors Through the Phone
I’m hungry
I don’t
want to write
Sometimes
I just feel
so uptight
I need to make
some scary calls:
That makes me
put up
mile-high walls.
I cannot stop
I will not rest
Until I pass this
Character test
Of screwing courage to the post
Punch the numbers coast to coast
Say the thing I need to say
Get in get out without delay
I put it off
I really do
I write this silly
Poem for “you”
Don’t even know who you “whos” are
That read these bad poems from afar
Cannot believe you’re out there, No!
The trick is
“you” I need not know
I think I do
But I do not
You readers have your own life plot
And I have these two calls to make
I put them off,
Slink like a snake
Through my worry’s forest floor
Refuse to open up the door
That settles me and makes it fine
To talk to others on the line
Especially when I have to seek
Some answers
with no prefaced
peek
At what they might
or might not
be
I’d rather just lie here with tea
But that an option it is not
Others wait for what I’ve got
Ability to be the one
To connect
When
life’s undone
To ease their worry
(more than mine)
That’s why I need to stop this whine
Take a few deep breaths for me
A few more grounding sips of tea
And then just take my phone in hand
Stretch my inner holy land
So that the fear will let me be
It can’t be
as hard
as it seems
To ask a favor:
one
or two
I mean reversed, I’d surely do
This thing in short time if I could
And if not
I know
that I would
Offer tendrils,
follow-up
With i-deas
that would
fill right up
This void I hope to perhaps fill
Ok this is enough and shrill
The voices in me say “you’re done”
No one will read this
It’s too long
And what’s the point except that you
Have put off what you have to do
I’m “hanging up” here yes I am
I’ll now have courage in my hand
To make those calls
To seek resource
Remember we all
Share the force
Of love and mercy
Calm those fears!
It's helped that you're out there
You dears!
I don’t
want to write
Sometimes
I just feel
so uptight
I need to make
some scary calls:
That makes me
put up
mile-high walls.
I cannot stop
I will not rest
Until I pass this
Character test
Of screwing courage to the post
Punch the numbers coast to coast
Say the thing I need to say
Get in get out without delay
I put it off
I really do
I write this silly
Poem for “you”
Don’t even know who you “whos” are
That read these bad poems from afar
Cannot believe you’re out there, No!
The trick is
“you” I need not know
I think I do
But I do not
You readers have your own life plot
And I have these two calls to make
I put them off,
Slink like a snake
Through my worry’s forest floor
Refuse to open up the door
That settles me and makes it fine
To talk to others on the line
Especially when I have to seek
Some answers
with no prefaced
peek
At what they might
or might not
be
I’d rather just lie here with tea
But that an option it is not
Others wait for what I’ve got
Ability to be the one
To connect
When
life’s undone
To ease their worry
(more than mine)
That’s why I need to stop this whine
Take a few deep breaths for me
A few more grounding sips of tea
And then just take my phone in hand
Stretch my inner holy land
So that the fear will let me be
It can’t be
as hard
as it seems
To ask a favor:
one
or two
I mean reversed, I’d surely do
This thing in short time if I could
And if not
I know
that I would
Offer tendrils,
follow-up
With i-deas
that would
fill right up
This void I hope to perhaps fill
Ok this is enough and shrill
The voices in me say “you’re done”
No one will read this
It’s too long
And what’s the point except that you
Have put off what you have to do
I’m “hanging up” here yes I am
I’ll now have courage in my hand
To make those calls
To seek resource
Remember we all
Share the force
Of love and mercy
Calm those fears!
It's helped that you're out there
You dears!
Monday, February 22, 2010
Deep Water Connections
I dreamt my friends had cancer:
Ovarian and lung.
They lived across the sea
And I tried to swim to them
Through breaking waves
Which the lifeguard had assured me
Would calm
As soon as I reached deeper water
Midway through the surf
I realized I had no addresses
Didn’t know where they lived.
Panicked and retreated
Knowing once I reached the other side
My efforts
Would be futile
Worse yet,
Back on dry land,
I learned
I’d lost my schedule
For the new naturopathic classes
I was supposed to attend;
An orientation organized,
All the pupils waiting.
In the hotel where we had gathered
I clambered cluttered rooms
Had to Search
And Disappoint,
Since without the numbered titles
No one knew
In which room I should begin.
I wonder when
I began to distrust
My inner lifeguard,
The surety that I
Would find my way
Through raging surf
To deep water connections,
That I could,
(Without prescriptive tools
Handed me by others)
Within my own knowing,
Release my healing ways.
Ovarian and lung.
They lived across the sea
And I tried to swim to them
Through breaking waves
Which the lifeguard had assured me
Would calm
As soon as I reached deeper water
Midway through the surf
I realized I had no addresses
Didn’t know where they lived.
Panicked and retreated
Knowing once I reached the other side
My efforts
Would be futile
Worse yet,
Back on dry land,
I learned
I’d lost my schedule
For the new naturopathic classes
I was supposed to attend;
An orientation organized,
All the pupils waiting.
In the hotel where we had gathered
I clambered cluttered rooms
Had to Search
And Disappoint,
Since without the numbered titles
No one knew
In which room I should begin.
I wonder when
I began to distrust
My inner lifeguard,
The surety that I
Would find my way
Through raging surf
To deep water connections,
That I could,
(Without prescriptive tools
Handed me by others)
Within my own knowing,
Release my healing ways.
Sunday, February 21, 2010
Immortality
I was not meant for just one life
Too many hearts reside in mine
I know I will return
Not just ten but
Ten thousand times:
On Eagle’s wings,
In empty pockets,
Within the hands of aging waltzers.
Ten thousand times
I’ll echo love;
Ten thousands times
I’ll sigh.
Now this is a day early, too...since I posted yesterday for today...maybe Sunday will just have two...such is life.
Too many hearts reside in mine
I know I will return
Not just ten but
Ten thousand times:
On Eagle’s wings,
In empty pockets,
Within the hands of aging waltzers.
Ten thousand times
I’ll echo love;
Ten thousands times
I’ll sigh.
Now this is a day early, too...since I posted yesterday for today...maybe Sunday will just have two...such is life.
Saturday, February 20, 2010
We Have Always Known
You think you'll live forever
Let death pass over, so it seems
The way you push yourself
Toward "Meaning"
And Keep fording endless streams
Of worry, consternation:
"Can 'True Being' e're be known?"
You charge headstrong on your pathway
Searching endlessly for Home.
But all along
There is this log
Upon
Whose strength
You could repose.
Ospreys hover,
And then plummet;
Sand keeps shifting
Through your toes.
Water whisked, white-capped and fluid,
Laps longing at your feet
You could just lie back
And feel it
You could know yourself complete.
You'd need
No faithful absolution
No understanding passing all,
No great mystery unfolding
To discern True Nature's call.
It's an ever-present cycle
(Not obscured by some dark wall):
We will rupture and return
We have always been The Fall.
so I know this is a day early, but in case I can't get back to this computer, and because I'm traveling tomorrow...I'm posting Sunday's post right now....with much appreciation for the opportunity to practice letting go...M.
Let death pass over, so it seems
The way you push yourself
Toward "Meaning"
And Keep fording endless streams
Of worry, consternation:
"Can 'True Being' e're be known?"
You charge headstrong on your pathway
Searching endlessly for Home.
But all along
There is this log
Upon
Whose strength
You could repose.
Ospreys hover,
And then plummet;
Sand keeps shifting
Through your toes.
Water whisked, white-capped and fluid,
Laps longing at your feet
You could just lie back
And feel it
You could know yourself complete.
You'd need
No faithful absolution
No understanding passing all,
No great mystery unfolding
To discern True Nature's call.
It's an ever-present cycle
(Not obscured by some dark wall):
We will rupture and return
We have always been The Fall.
so I know this is a day early, but in case I can't get back to this computer, and because I'm traveling tomorrow...I'm posting Sunday's post right now....with much appreciation for the opportunity to practice letting go...M.
Friday, February 19, 2010
How Love Is Borne
Did you see my red heart?
Blossoming on the hillside
like poppies after the rain?
Did you see my heart there, too?
Below the eroding riverbed,
like wild chocolate waters
streaming pain?
Don't you feel it?
The way it's meant to be?
How love is borne
of this:
Welcome and arousal;
Abundance and despair?
Blossoming on the hillside
like poppies after the rain?
Did you see my heart there, too?
Below the eroding riverbed,
like wild chocolate waters
streaming pain?
Don't you feel it?
The way it's meant to be?
How love is borne
of this:
Welcome and arousal;
Abundance and despair?
Thursday, February 18, 2010
An Island poem
Today I ignored the sign
just kept walking
one foot in front of the other
on mossy rock outcroppings
overlooking windswept straits.
Only a brief pause to ponder
the wisdom of my ways:
"Private Property Beyond This Point"
"No Tresspassing"
"Please Respect Our Laws" --
Caveates large and red-orange
like the sun setting me on fire;
my heart pounding
despite dogged determination
to continue on
the fear of being discovered
threatening to burst from my chest
the way that first upheaval
created this island home.
Is it any different, really?
The way I slip past my own
red-flagged protesters
and release this island poem?
just kept walking
one foot in front of the other
on mossy rock outcroppings
overlooking windswept straits.
Only a brief pause to ponder
the wisdom of my ways:
"Private Property Beyond This Point"
"No Tresspassing"
"Please Respect Our Laws" --
Caveates large and red-orange
like the sun setting me on fire;
my heart pounding
despite dogged determination
to continue on
the fear of being discovered
threatening to burst from my chest
the way that first upheaval
created this island home.
Is it any different, really?
The way I slip past my own
red-flagged protesters
and release this island poem?
Wednesday, February 17, 2010
Lent's not for Rent....or oh well, I tried!
Fat Tuesday comes
It’s Mardis Gras
Festooned in masquarade
I love the beat
I feel the pulse
For me this night was made
My heart is open
Full, alive
Leans into revelry
The yellow, purple, green of kings
Was surely meant for me!
Night will turn to morning,
but me, I will not rent
the Lenten call
to “thorny crown”
withdrawal
and lament.
My feathered mask
I’ll have to leave
upon the closet floor;
in two-step waltz
I’ll exit from
that cracked, half-opened door.
With steps of not-quite-certainty
I’ll have to yes, proclaim
post-revelry rebellion
I’ll not erase my name
Nor suffer loss
With no intent
Except to suffer loss
Instead I’ll bring my instrument
Of listening to the cross
The ways in which we do not mean
But nonetheless succeed
In stealing one another’s love
Because of our own greed
I’ll notice how I give away
The nurture that is mine
Look outward for a clear display
That my love is divine
Or how I hurt the other one
Who travels on my way
How I will turn toward my own route
To keep myself away
I want to choose
to stay beside
my kindred and my kin
to see the one I dis as “you”
is also me within.
It’s not so different
I don’t think
Fat Tuesday and today
We’re called to sip
Each other’s brew
And not to throw away
The inner eye
The soul divine
We know we each are one
Conundrum, yes
But oh so true
Thank God this poem’s done!
It’s Mardis Gras
Festooned in masquarade
I love the beat
I feel the pulse
For me this night was made
My heart is open
Full, alive
Leans into revelry
The yellow, purple, green of kings
Was surely meant for me!
Night will turn to morning,
but me, I will not rent
the Lenten call
to “thorny crown”
withdrawal
and lament.
My feathered mask
I’ll have to leave
upon the closet floor;
in two-step waltz
I’ll exit from
that cracked, half-opened door.
With steps of not-quite-certainty
I’ll have to yes, proclaim
post-revelry rebellion
I’ll not erase my name
Nor suffer loss
With no intent
Except to suffer loss
Instead I’ll bring my instrument
Of listening to the cross
The ways in which we do not mean
But nonetheless succeed
In stealing one another’s love
Because of our own greed
I’ll notice how I give away
The nurture that is mine
Look outward for a clear display
That my love is divine
Or how I hurt the other one
Who travels on my way
How I will turn toward my own route
To keep myself away
I want to choose
to stay beside
my kindred and my kin
to see the one I dis as “you”
is also me within.
It’s not so different
I don’t think
Fat Tuesday and today
We’re called to sip
Each other’s brew
And not to throw away
The inner eye
The soul divine
We know we each are one
Conundrum, yes
But oh so true
Thank God this poem’s done!
Tuesday, February 16, 2010
Aspiration of Angels
I called that they might feel my pulse
Open the door to my desire
Untangle the twisted vines.
I already know the path
though that longing for the other
breathes through every pore,
constrains the beating of my heart.
The night air brings with it
an ancient cradle,
the wind sings a lullaby;
like a dervish
silver laughter
breaks the stony silence.
I imagine perfumed angels
transcribing the beat of hummingbird wings;
the cobra coils at my feet,
and I weep for the moon.
They hover
almost within reach,
whisper my destiny
passed down through the ages,
fleeting as Haiku:
Dewdrops shimmering
naked on cherry blossoms
preparing to fall.
The angels sing my fragility,
Call me by name
(from daybreak
to dusk,
and through this midnight hour)
to raise my voice in counterpoint.
Unharnessed
my lungs expand,
my heart stretches
as we tumble,
twisting into darkness,
the emptiness
like a serrated edge
between us,
and I fear the light
so white
I cannot sleep.
Open the door to my desire
Untangle the twisted vines.
I already know the path
though that longing for the other
breathes through every pore,
constrains the beating of my heart.
The night air brings with it
an ancient cradle,
the wind sings a lullaby;
like a dervish
silver laughter
breaks the stony silence.
I imagine perfumed angels
transcribing the beat of hummingbird wings;
the cobra coils at my feet,
and I weep for the moon.
They hover
almost within reach,
whisper my destiny
passed down through the ages,
fleeting as Haiku:
Dewdrops shimmering
naked on cherry blossoms
preparing to fall.
The angels sing my fragility,
Call me by name
(from daybreak
to dusk,
and through this midnight hour)
to raise my voice in counterpoint.
Unharnessed
my lungs expand,
my heart stretches
as we tumble,
twisting into darkness,
the emptiness
like a serrated edge
between us,
and I fear the light
so white
I cannot sleep.
Monday, February 15, 2010
a father's dream
I have lived with nothing
But sixpence and decay,
Shouldering unspent boulders
Up incandescent hillsides,
Only to pause for breath,
Ignite delay,
Become rooted
to the place
of uncertainty
and hesitation,
Where once again
I hear
but do not see
The stone’s
Retreat
The momentous propulsion
Backward
toward
the ever-present
Call of
Descent and return.
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