Embryonic Deliverance

I have seen your face
blended into mine
reflected in the eyes
of every woman
in love.

Every woman who desires
nothing more than
timeless and continuous
connections,
who imagines
thick-lashed Eskimo kisses
from behind closed lids,
nuanced touch
to keep her from
the anguished tumbling
into the alice-hole
of not knowing.

You and I were never allowed such
somatic bliss,
instead were charged with
filling psychic apertures
and neuroblastomic
perforations.

Perhaps, as I, you questioned their origins --
these openings without completion --
wondered, as I, about your role;
perhaps you also tried
to embody your exceptional mind,

use definitions and classifications, to staunch these fragmentations of your wounded children.

I have seen from behind half-opened eyes
how at night
you held these fragile ones close,
brushed their hair from their foreheads,
how you sang to them,
how you gave everything you could
without falling away yourself,
desperate to make them once again whole.

Now, in these sunrise days of post-passing,
I imagine your release
into the fullness of a more welcoming
mysterious and unknowable world.
I carry your unburdened spirit
hidden in my pocket,
wrapped within this stolen gem
         (a small slice of Pribiloff peridot)
tucked away where I
can touch it
always.



 

Call and Response

In my dream you were lost
strange songbirds serenading
your stumbling attempts
to make your way through
a dense cobweb maze.

Your name burned in my chest,
erupted from my throat
like the sharp explosive chink 
of the white-throated sparrow.


I woke into the echo
of that loud, foreign cry
trembling with the unfinished scene
breezes riffling the curtains,
shadows spinning
across the white bedroom wall.

Mothers

We hold, caress
nurture, launch,
embrace, let go
open to with love.

Whether having
borne human children
of our own, sustained
those of others
or conceived, carried
and released with
rhythmic intensity
progeny not fully
of our own making,
through the ages
we are known as
those who give birth
to the unexpected
and not fully knowable.

Those two trees

You planted them
years ago
yards apart
along the trail
that runs next to our home,
hoping to make us
more secure, 
to fill in the holes
where -- without the
lush foliage -- 
scanning eyes of others
could undress us.

How they faltered
those first few seasons,
almost didn't make it
through the transplanting,
barely budding out
leaves consumed by hungry parasites;
the way we pruned and weeded
watered and cajoled them
into fruition
where they now shimmer
with full life:
enough protection to
keep unwanted gazes from us
yet permeable enough for
the grace of sunlight.

Those two trees
so like the two of us
stop and starting over the years
needing pruning and space,
nourishment and care,
battling for deeper sustenance,
waiting for transplanted roots
to spread more fully
into sacred ground.

For the love of Death

As with all things

meaningful,

death will arrive

to claim us;

is already here

as the potential
energy within which
we exist.

Waiting for us

at every inhale

and exhale;

in every desert,

mountaintop,

flowing stream,

and lush

wild-flowered valley,

She is with us

breathing her open

and closing heart

into our pores. 

Try though we might,

we cannot push

Her from our house,

cannot force Her 

from our lungs.

We are useless against Her.

For death visits

when She will.

Beckoned 

or resisted

by the hinges on

our hallowed doors

she makes entrance,

entwines her arms around us

carries us on her back

into the unknown

without burden or regret.

Resurrection

This morning
across the river
descending over the mountains
the orange laugh lines
streaming from the clouded sun
reminded my empty heart
of possibility

Praying

We don't have to
get down on our knees
in subjugation
to The Father
need not plant
carrot seeds
exactly
three fourths of an inch
apart
and then wait

For enough rain
enough sunshine,
enough absence of
evil predators,
believing the answer
lies in the emergence
          or not
of feathered green crowns
whose nutrients lie
buried beneath the surface.

It is enough to
     leave the garden
fallow and free 
to stand by the
forest's full river
drop small smooth stones
   with abandon and gratitude
into the flowing water.

Enough to watch ripples
merge with rapids  
tumbling beyond our
truncated vision
     leaping and dancing
beneath overcast skies
toward the endless
and faraway seas.

(Women's) Labor Day Credo

We strive to avoid betrayal
of our ancestors
the suggestion that
we
are une autre
or somehow
cut from different cloth

Straining toward perfection
we deny that
longing
for umbilical connections
the desire for
fruits of labor
that will never
be dismissed
as not enough

Two and Seven

Before the life-blood-robbers arrived
thundering on horseback,
their demands
for our flesh
branded nightly
into our dreams,
we went fishing together,
my big brother and I,
the familiar "no sound"
leading us,
hand-in-hand,
toward the irrigation ditch,
all expectation and hope:
pockets full of paperclip hooks,
rusted campbell soup can full of dirt and worms
trailing a kite string
beneath the sun sparkled poplars
that flickered above
our unbent shadows.

Child of lost Mother

Her spruce limbs
sway with evening breezes,
heavens above
reflect her memories,
longing for
the one
whose breath
moved the clouds.

Her blue-grey needles
left hanging
in the space
between
holding on
and release.

into the fatherland

weapons unseen and deadly
buried mines intended
to nourish
survival of the fittest
we tiptoe
are maimed
retaliate with bloodshed
hold our breath
 waiting
again
for the explosions

Awakening

Even with eyes closed
the light comes
nudges resistance
bumps gently
against indulgence
noses its way
beneath the covers

Even with eyes closed
you wake with star-shining angels
and fairies
gilded dragonflies
and hummingbird wings

they flutter their softness
into every dessicated cell

as love
recalls love
recalls love.

Guns no more

Guns are not the way
to claim our voice
not the way
to resolve our fear of
ourselves
being gunned down
by the protectors
and the wounded,
by those we
wish to call evil
but who really are
simply the fruit
of being exiled.

Remembrance

Created to mediate
we reconcile

Created to call together
we mend the broken

Created to affirm
we sow seeds of hope

Created to agitate
we protest injustice

Kaleidoscopic Tempest

For every action
there is a reaction

         ( evaporation distills
              into deluge)

For every certainty
confusion

         ( stillness transforms into funnel cloud)

For every somnolence
vigilance

           (the eye gives way to the storm)


We who work so hard
to create balance
are forced to live
in the battle

We who desire peace
are forced to live
in the anguish

Listening to thunder
standing in the rain soaked night
allowing bodies to become
chilled to the bone
we are invited to
move into shelter
take up the dry
oversized cloth
rub ourselves down
offer massage to the "other"

The Great I Am

The Great I AM

If we want to be
better than
we must speak the truth
we must stop
two-stepping with
denial
deceit
degradation.

Whether in planes on 9/11
in an Afghan village
or on the streets of Sanford
whenever one
unarmed and vulnerable "other"
is hunted down and killed
a little piece
of each one of us
dies within
and is buried.

10,000 voices
raised in protest
can make a difference.

100,000 candles
flaming in unity
can bind us together.

1 Million hoodies
can call for justice
and reform
can remind us of
who we were meant
to be.

A people better than.


People who deep within
house the great
I Am.

Because you killed him

When you pursue another
and assume their guilt
when you let your fear drive
and drag your clarity
behind
so that it becomes
bloodied and disembodied
you have not "stood your ground".

Whether the one you pursue is
conscientious or irresponsible
warm-hearted or cruel
eats fried chicken or smokes crack
this is something 
you can never know
just by the way they move their body
just because you think "they don't look right"

Moreover
one deserves your bullet
no more than the other
for you are not God
you are not the keeper
of justice in the world
you are not in charge of
ferreting out wrong and right
by shooting to kill

What you can bring to the world
is hope
the belief
that innocence
resilience
and peace
lie within
constrained perhaps
by the fear and trembling
that mirrors your own need
to wipe out danger

What you can bring to the world
is an outstretched hand,
a willingness to question
a desire for fulfillment
of the promise:
all are created equal.

Protest

There will come a day
when darkness
will be celebrated as deeply
as the power of the light,
when fear
will no longer suffocate
those of a different heritage.

There will come a day when
all men and women will
come together
free from watch dogging the "other"
free from pursuing in order
not to be pursued,
free from grinding down
the sharp edges of our diversity
through violence and oppression

There will come a day
when circles
instead of lines
will be drawn.

Hope

If you want me
when roses are budding
unfurling from the shy
cut-back-a-season-ago stems
and it seems an eternity stands
between then and when
just stand quietly
let your eyes rest upon
the possibilities
imagine the full lipped opening.

Emergence

She sleeps fitfully,
moon shadow eyes flutter
beneath closed lids.

I want to hold her,
to caress her brow
and keep her from the fear
of passing over.

I breathe in the morning dew
for her
send healing mist
into her shallow breath.

Some will say
she cannot hear me,
but how is it possible?

Does the wind
not hear the rustling pine?

The Ark of Maria Goretti

We will find jubilation only
by decoding incantations
 of the heart
beating in cacophonic
agitation
butterfly wings torn
by the wind
thundering hooves
of storm clouds
that finally
through our presence
unleash the pelting
rain of return
and remembrance
healing waters for the
parched soul,
restoration of
forgotten roots
redefining the message.

One Day (with thanks to William Stafford)

One day when the river is butter
ask me how i have lived with it
all
the melting into terror
 rising up from
the vacuum
rushing on the edge of
oblivion
below
churning rapids.

Ask me how the day breaks
new and surprising,
how I haven't
clung to a log
or climbed
to the polished rock
beside
the tortoise back
how it is that I simply
found myself
in the sea
neither abandoned nor
rescued
but with all my senses
not only intact
but sharper
more present even to the lapping
water whispering to the shore.

Together
we will listen
together we will
find the answer
in the vast impulse to surrender
the moments in between.

Heart Against a Stranger's Skin

Stumbles against iron(ic) pressure
systolic encumbrances
weigh upon the chest

How then
shall we open up
space?

Why I sleep in (with apologies to Mary Oliver)

The warmth of my down comforter
like sunbursts after a thunderstorm.
Heavenly music of percolating coffee,
the breath of angels
misting through
winter branches
outside my sunrise window.
Oh, the pure love of
cozying into the familiar
and incandescent,
knowing you are there
always
in the surprise
in the opening skies
where one
or hundreds
of little cloud-puff sky holes
remind me of
my particularity
and infinity --
the bookends of my life.

No submission

I have no intention
of commending my soul
to you
or any of your servants:
not the breath of fire
the watcher on the tower
or the keeper
at the gate.

When I go
I shall bring her with me
wrapped in swaddling clothes.
Together we shall mount
up as on eagle's wings
as one
we will cross the thin veil
into the land of immaculate plenty.

Wiley conniver that you are,
trying to trick me
into believing your goodness.
I know you want me
only for yourself and your
appetites. You think you can
separate us. You think we are
yours for the asking.

Beware the heart of a woman.
Beware the radiant mother of all.
Beware the power of pure love
that can never be divined by one
who seeks only to be loved
and not to be
Love.

Anything is Possible (in the spirit of Oscar Wilde)

Anything is possible, though not anon
     When fireflies emerge from out of dark
     Or morning sneaks up as a lark
But now, before our wild world is gone.

Sweet watermelon kisses I bestowed
     On finely boned ringed fingertips
     Met luscious citrus scented lips
'neath sunset skies so soft aglow

Miles apart though we may be
     Your skin still calls my tumbling heart
     Connecting us as at the start
The memories of caress and sea

The salt spray still upon me lies
     I long your treasures to unfold
     Yes yet one moment more of gold
 Your face still lives behind my eyes

You dance in grand rooms in your gown
     Twirl thrice with men you haven't known
     Forget how once you were my own
I tip a brew, on knees fall down

Anything is possible, yourself you said
     This lying breathless in my arms
      I never guessed I'd lose your charms
When summer's leaves fell brown and dead

Return to me, my ship divine
     I'll ne'er cast out from my small berth
     Won't step once more upon the earth
Without your soul wrapped into mine

Blessing (with thanks to Mary Oliver)

May I never not see stars of passion

in your eyes,

no matter how dark the moonless night

how sharp the icy wind.

May I never not know you

as my brother or my sister,

my soul’s kindred spirit,

no matter the hurt I perceive,

how fearful I’ve become

of your light.

If this is us

Dancing at midnight
firelight flickering off
the deep green of your eyes
my grey wisps of hair
doing a little waltz
on your tweed jacket,
We will be laughing
with the memory of
those Hawaiian deluges,
the way the dolphins
leapt and twisted
around each other's
smooth, lithe bodies,
imagining we, too,
have again the entire ocean
waiting for our adventure.  

I suspect

I suspect

   with thanks to my long-time now-gone friend, Bart Sarjeant

I suspect

we do live forever;

in fact know deeply

the truth of this:

flower, river, moonlight

each moves with the viewer

each waxes and wanes

depending on the season.

How then could we

be any different?

How possibly contained

forever

in this one form,

this one set of neuronal patterns,

this one small step

in the journey of the soul?

Conundrums

Who knows why we still
light fires when
the sun is drifting through
newly leafed trees.
Even dappled lawns
whose leaching
is unseen
need fertilizer.
Even hearts opening
to the spring
can
without warning
grow cold
and leave us
aching for the flame.

Astonishment

Those crocuses
raised from the dead
it seems.
Only a week ago
I walked by
that exact same spot
and saw nothing
but hard packed earth
lifeless and innocent.

Ghosts Before Us

Ghosts before us

   With thanks to Joseph Massey

        And Lorine Niedecker

We dance as through a fog,

see only clearly

the fine lines of our hands

held before us

to keep the totality of our being

from falling into

misted loves,
to halt the dizzy immersion

into the felt but not seen.

Though our hearts call to them,

and our steps

         long for the pathway

                     to their souls,

we make out only

the shadowy after-birth

of those we wish to fully love.

On the eve of our passing

While breathing seems counterintuitive
as agitated waters
fill the lungs,

create torrential pathways to the sea 

of all-knowing,

still, the pain of letting go

calls us,

invites us 

to listen 

to the rapids,

to bring scented plumeria

calm and sheltering

on the inhale,

a soothing salve

of comfrey and myrhh

for the exhale;

suggests we offer

rhythmic 

pulsing of our hearts

as counterpoint

to the staccatoed fearful eddies

to swaddle it in steamy blankets of breath 

to warn against the chill

of separation into oneness.

Who knew listening

could be so difficult?

Who imagined the resistance

to opening up cellular space,

the pull against sensing

into whispered whirling secrets

of longing and despair.

I understand, having lived

within the breath-stopping

rage of the waterfall,

the unwillingness to lay claim

to the rising panic

to believe survival will result

from moving up against

the aching bookends

of the day

when light has long since faded

It seems counterintuitive (Or wait, there is more)

And still the pain calls us
invites us to bring
scented plumeria
calm and sheltering
on the exhale,
a soothing salve
of comfrey and myrhh
on the inhale;
the rhythmic pulsing of our hearts
counterpoint
to the staccato of its fear
blankets of breath to warn
against the chill
of separation

It seems counterintuitive

To breathe into the pain
to draw new molecules
deep into lungs
struggling not to collapse
terrified of
enfolding the sharp arrows
into your being.

Easier by far to wish it
away
mask it with feathered
armor
mardis gras masks
of whiskey and weed.

Who knew that listening
could be so difficult
opening cellular space
sensing into whispered secrets
of longing and despair

worse at the bookends of the day
when light has long since faded
or threatens to return

On the stone bench

Iris, roses, yellow daisies
tucked into black steel containers
reminiscent of your wide brimmed hat
the long overcoat
your bag of belongings
always perched next to you.

A passerby who
like me
has eyes filled with tears
stories how once
his young son
speeding down the pathway
on his new bicycle
slid sideways into the brambles
and you, who yourself
knew too well about
falling into danger,
leapt up and rescued him
from the thorns.

Shot twice the newspaper said,
by those who had previously
threatened and harassed you
for nothing more
perhaps
than being black
blending into the predawn chill,
willing to guard the park
as if it were your home
less for comfort
and more for consideration
of the possibility
that eventually new light
might refract pain
into
possibility.

isolation room

consider the end of things:
white lilies in a pale green vase
softened dog eared pages
of an unfinished British novel
wild hibiscus overflowing into
the rain-pelted river 
where she wishes she could have
spent her final breaths
instead

Release

Close your eyes and listen
to the lyrics of the soul
the wailing counterpoint
to waves crashing
upon the shore.

Love gained
and lost
and returned
once more.

Skipping School (embracing the letter D!)

deadlines destruction depression
denying dysfunctional deadenings
don't do
don't do
don't do
don't
do dive deliciously
descend delightedly
dance dance dance

Discernment

Bring your heart
under the moonlight.
Do not force it
to open.
Let your breath
(inhale and exhale
shadow and light)
lead the way into
revelation.

Winter Storm

-->

The wind has offered

its forgiveness.

From beyond the

glaciated peaks,

it shifts and swirls

as if there were so many

possibilities

it can not be imprisoned

by attaching to just one.

Still the rain comes.

Torn from mother clouds,

it slashes rivulets of

altered reflections

across half-opened windows,

drowns newly seeded fields

with its persistence.

Possibilities

grey skies are not for drowning
any more than oceans
their mighty pull
calling us to surrender
are for sleeping

some will imagine
themselves taking flight on the
unseen sunrise peach
stretch marks streaking
across the bay,
knowing that release
from the pain
that lies between
inception
and delivery, 
that the after-birth exhale
lies just beyond our vision

these find themselves
waiting
impatiently
to be brought into
the world
of color
delivered
through the too-small opening
in the pregnant rain cloud
that coming-closer-on-the-wind one
whose water has just broken
fluids released
into the oceanfrom whence it came

Denial

darting under the street lamp
mosquitoes flash and burn
like the unearned trust you court

sometimes

She should be
one person,
one person,
one mind not two,
not seven
or twenty
or a hundred and two,
she needs a clear focus
to make up her mind
she can't have it all
needs to
just tow the line

Better not wonder
what if she said "No"
she should not
imagine
both ways she could go
better
buck up
better fall into place
get everything done
with a smile on her face

Its dangerous, yes,
they all let her know
if her voices don't gather
like ducks in a row
if one of them hops
or two
or a ton
the river of yeses
it just
isn't done.

But some
times when she's
sleeping
or cooking alone
sometimes when she doodles
won't answer the phone
sometimes
when she tiptoes
into the next room
where dishes aren't waiting
and saxophones swoon
she imagines them dancing
these voices
within:
a foxtrot,
a waltz,
one sambas and spins,
she imagines they're lovely
with dandelion eyes
and petticoat junctions
as wide as the skies
they're twirling
and swaying
not a care in the world
all wonderful
parts of a
gorgeous young girl

who still can love rainbows
red orange
and green,
yellow,
blue violet
all colors between
the light
that refracts them
now that is
one mind
but the dancers
and colors
they're one hundred and nine

In the morning
she'll wake up
maybe feel
like a queen
or a sorceress's demon
who's killing
a king,
perhaps
she'll feel bursting
with options galore
or start to do cartwheels,
the house she'll ignore,
perhaps
it will seem
there is
nothing at all,
worth doing,
in fact
she might feel herself fall
toward molasses-filled
visions
where girls do not go
send her heart beat
before her
the blood flow will slow
the day will be night time
the curtains she'll pull
wrap herself in her visions
'til she knows
where to go

but however it happens
whatever she sees
it will not be
with one mind
and she has
no disease
she is living
the full life:
maybe this,
maybe that,
she's discovering truth
and she won't
take it back.

aftermath

wanting nothing more
than a hole in the sky
an opening in the clouds
of confused creations

you found instead
a small hole in the
iced-over pond,
slipped soundlessly
through,
sinking into the canticle
of betrayal
disappearing into
worlds only you
could fathom

Severance

Because you could
shoot one white snow goose
soaring with ragged black underwings
above your fallow field,
because you could only

carve one remorseful page

at a time,
had only
one inner life
whose lacerated artery
you were forced to staunch
with feigned ignorance of your deed

Paradise refuses to
fully embrace you,
the book of forgiveness
will not
for you
be finished

Minutes into
hours into
lifetimes of neglect
can not
it seems
be made up for
in the twilight desire
for return
and renewal

What lies beneath

Sundays we walk
parasols or rainbows
puddle splashes
or dry riverbeds
makes no matter

hand in hand
we
bespeckled with incantations
imagine our eyes
as little starlight specks
of gratitude
for the opening of
textured tunnels
leading deep underground

A Saturday reflection on Facebook's merits

If on Facebook
you should go
remember there are
highs and lows
people lurk
around each corner
some are friends
and some are foreigners
what you post
can travel far
transformed like
caterpillars
in a jar
it's also true
you know
I'm right
Facebook
tempts you
in the night,
in community
you can be
bursts of "like"
can tickle glee.

Perhaps it would
be good
to rest
read a book
find lovers' chests
to cradle heads
(so full
of words)
suppress the draw
(sometimes absurd)
to check
and check
and check, once more
comments made?
are you adored?

But resting isn't
quite so fun
as sharing stuff
that we have done,
or finding others
who agree
with social truths
that we can see
or maybe laughing
right out loud
at u-tubes
jokes
stored up in "Cloud".

I say I'm not
but it's not true
I am addicted
here
to "yous",
the ones who drop by
on my blog
or share new tunes
for my i-pod,
or make me laugh
and sometimes weep,
who listen to
my "I can't sleeps"
who find old mates
from distant pasts,
who show cute pictures:
birds, giraffes,
who comment on
what others say,
who give me hope
and not dismay.

I guess that is
the thing
oh yes!
The thing
that Facebook does
the best
it brings me closer
to my friends
supports my passions
(not dead-ends)
entices me
and my
poor brain,
to come out
connect
and play again!

Remember? I called you Opal (with thanks to Amy Lowell)

You are wine and granite
The touch of you ignites my palate
And chills my soul
You are intoxication and withdrawal
You are the dark of the black rose
The moon-lit ruby-lustered lotus
When I am with you,
My heart is a silent stream
Sparkling with iridescent minnows

In case of stagnation

We need to play
we need to laugh
we need to run
get off our ass,
we need to skip
we need to shout
to shimmy tooshies
all about.

The birds they fly
the gators swim
frogs can croak
and make a din
jaguars leap
and mousies shuffle
hefalumps
they like to snuffle,
but we
we sit
we think
we plod
we act as if
we're stuck in sod.
We want to crow
or belly laugh
instead we stay
on inbred paths.

Today perhaps
tomorrow, too?
let's try to do
just one thing new!

Say take some paints
or whiz of cheese
and smear them
on
canvi*
with ease,
or find a friend
who's out of sorts
draw with chalk
and laugh, with snorts!

We could cook
without a plan
let recipes
ignore our flans.
Or scatter rosebuds
in lagoons
or shoot at corncobs
with harpoons...

All this to say
when we are blue,
there is so much
that we can do,
if we don't stay
in just one place,
but let our body's
movements grace
the moments that
lay out before
those minutes when
we're tired or bored,

Let's jump
or swim
or snort
or croak
create a mess
or tell a joke
it's up to us
it really is
C'mon
let's fill
our lives with fizz!!!!


* editor's note: canvi = plural of canvas :)

Dawning into new days

Do not let them die
of broken hearts --
those fragile dream babies.
Feed them on your hopes,
swaddle them
with your blankets
of patience
and persistence,
let them breathe
of your past triumphs,
suckle on your
memories of connections,
rest in the
open
close
open
of your
ever present heartbeat.

jubilation day for those who have had their coffee

Little monkeys
jumping out of
straw hats
cartwheeling
doing triple flips
on blue banded
trampolines
shouting
hip hip hooray
yip yipeeee yay
if you're looking
for joy
today is the day!!!

A surprise when

What we think of
As loss
Becomes an opening door
Into the hidden
Chambers of our hearts

New horizons

Who said
We must be fearless
If we are to court
Adventure?
Exploration
Requires not
the absence of fear
But to listen to
It's message and
Then to leap anyway.

Bishop Berkeley purported

the non-existence of matter
everything in the universe
as merely ideal,
creation stories
developed only in our minds.

Impossible to refute
and yet

this morning
I hear the sharp
"fee-bee" of the chickadee call,
feel the wind's chilling breath
brush my cheek,
taste the burst of fire
in my coffee,
as my bare feet complain
at the icy deck-glaze.

Perhaps old BB forgot
to pause from his thoughts,
never looked up to that suspended
half-white sphere,
could not imagine the moondust:
how they'd breathe it in
how it entered
lungs and sinuses
became cellular links
to those yet to be seekers.

Haiku for After the passing

Sisters stretch, connect
Moon shadows tumbling sunset
Pleiades on fire

For coffee lovers everywhere

Morning coffee, Yes
Gotta be the best
To help return to zest
When all parts want to rest
And not with words be blessed
So give a little yip
For that first delicious sip
It's really quite a trip
How coffee keeps me fit

we think

we think
we must have it
what it is
we know not
just that
it is needed
like good wine
or pot
in our dreams
we pursue it
in fantasies
too
we believe
if we get it
we'll know what to do
with the lives
we've been given
with time on our hands
with wondering
mind blips
that silence
can't stand

when we find it
and grab it
well
it's not
(it turns out)
what we wanted
not really
more like measles
or gout
so we open our fingers
let it fly
from our palms
seek again
something missing
seek again
something wrong.

remembrance of things past

Sometimes
the nightingale
hovers at the edge
of my wakeful
dream state,
calling me to remember
your voice
in the rustling leaves,
to feel in my own
fluttering heart
how deeply you
wanted to
(but, alas, could not)
hold me.

Polarizations released

Cacophony rests
Folding into loving arms
Rupture is repaired

They say

She should be
one person
one person
one mind,
not two,
not seven
or twenty
or a hundred and two,
she needs a clear focus
to make up her mind
she can't have it all
needs to just tow the line

Better not wonder
what if she said "No"
better not
imagine
both ways she could go
better
buck up
better
fall into place
get everything done
with a smile on her face

Its dangerous, yes,
they all let her know
if her voices don't gather
like ducks in a row
if one of them hops
or two
or a ton
the river of yeses
it just isn't done.

But some
times when she's
sleeping
or cooking alone
sometimes when she doodles
doesn't
answer the phone
sometimes
when she tiptoes
into the next room
where dishes aren't waiting
and saxophones swoon
she imagines them dancing
these voices
within
a foxtrot
a waltz
one does
the samba
and spins
she imagines they're lovely
with dandelion eyes
and petticoat junctions
as wide as the skies
they're twirling
and swaying
not a care in the world
all wonderful
parts of a
gorgeous young girl

who still can love rainbows
red orange
and green,
yellow,
blue violet
all colors between
the light
that refracts them
now that is
one mind
but the dancers
and colors
they're one hundred and nine

In the morning
she'll wake up
maybe feel
like a queen
or a sorceress's demon
who's killing
a king,
perhaps
she'll feel bursting
with options galore
or start to do cartwheels
the house she'll ignore
perhaps
it will seem
there is
nothing at all
worth doing
in fact
she might feel herself fall
toward molasses-filled
visions
where girls do not go
send her heart beat
before her
the blood flow will slow
the day will be night time
the curtains she'll pull
wrap herself in her visions
'til she knows
where to go

but however it happens
whatever she sees
it will not be
with one mind
and she has
no disease
she is living
the full life
of maybe this,
maybe that
she's discovering truth
and she won't
take it back.

After the first encounter

Too much
Of a good thing leaves
Choruses of adolescent
Revelers banging
Pots at midnight
Echoing into
Empty sidewalks
Seeking to
Suspend animation
Forever

Bipolar express

Genuflecting children beneath the frosted man:
carrot eyes and coal-draped lips barely parted
revealing tender black-eyed pea bicuspids,
ketchup rivulets
mark the wolf
ingested.

These young believers draped by the magic
of his light
and darkness
know at any moment
they may be whisked
to where both
joy
and pain
are welcomed.

They alone
bask in the truth of it:
that one
can not exist
without
the other.