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.