New Year’s Poem

Time is falling all around us today,
white and swirling like the snows
on these frozen dirt roads
somewhere in the woods
of New Hampshire.

Such beauty, this time,
when the light has left us
tired of fighting. The cold melting on my face
is a relief to the sting of the wind
from yesterday and all that howling
and breaking of branches.

This winter blanket folds herself softly against me,
velvet as the lining of an elegant coffin,
inviting me, like a mother’s calm lullaby,
to crawl in, put my weary head down,
and close these eyes for a long sleep.

If only tonight,
at the end of the storm,
and the end of another year of trying
to command happiness to hold me at midnight
and look me in the eyes for a single, sweet kiss--

if only tonight,
at the bell of this new year,
I give away the dream like my last breath
and awaken tomorrow morning alone,
perhaps then I will finally notice
joy landing on my sleeve,
one delicate flake at a time,
melting gracefully
like the blessings
of the beloved.

Where The Lily Blooms

Winter will arrive, suddenly and soon,
through the bright openings of all these stars,
the jewels these dark nights have left for me.

I touch my lips
with fingers aching for warmth
and I touch my forehead
for wisdom looking for vision—
for some relief—
from the blindness
this final set of hours offer
weakly as the sound of snow falling
between branches that will not hold
until spring.

Winter has arrived all around me.
Ice glazed the sun into a few mornings
before leaving the dead
to rot like corpses
in the smoking cremation grounds.

I stretch my body here
on the surface
before I realize I will be taken
by the worms and the rain.
I inhale and let myself sink
into these depths—
a child looking up toward the surface
where air and words matter.

The bubbles exhaled
will eventually freeze
or find freedom in the cold cracks
of another long day
among the reeds and rushes
above the water
where the lily
blooms.

Loneliness

Splinters of light are caught in my hair tonight,
like shattered glass caught in the branches of moonlight,
my skin is torn open in a million places by the needles
of an unseen suffering.

Moon buries herself into my flesh with flashes of cold,
a twisting splinter of lost silver,
so deep under the surface
I dread brushing one hand against
the cool skin of another.
It is too painful to remember the warmth
of the love I couldn’t wait to touch
alone under the white of apple blossoms
where we could hide in the perfume of soft eyes
tracing the shadows of a promise.

In another dream of my life
the sky was so blue I forgot to watch
the color of my heart change into a storm.
The crew was asleep on the deck of this ship,
drunk with the rum of hope,
when the water whipped into the hold
and cracked the belly of this mother open.
She lost her treasure in the shallow waters
of this lonely lagoon and no one could dive
deep enough to recover the hard won coins
or precious light captured in stone crystals.

I sit barely covered in salt eaten cloth,
and my skin is tanned brown by the relentless
sun of constant loneliness.
I dream of making my escape
until I am driven mad by my empty words
and losses of all the days I’ve been shipwrecked here
on this island of nothingness.

It is small comfort to my tired heart to know
I have been loved so long ago.
I go to the edge of the clear waters
and dive again for a handful of gold
that might let me count on something.

Awake from all dreaming now
I can’t ignore that winter has arrived
and I stand alone again--
so lost now if I could cry out
with all this emptiness into this night
not even an echo would answer.

Haiku VII

My heart is lost here.
I have vanished like sunshine
melts snow with one breath.

Haiku VI

Rain falls like sorrow
on the face of dark winter.
Wipe these tears away.

Haiku V

Love is my name now.
I chant this music under
the sound of my breath.

Hiaku IV

Hands ache in this cold
like bone rubbed against granite.
Cruel winter takes flesh.

Haiku III

Peace flags fly tattered,
release their threads like bird song
into winter white.

Haiku II

I carry soft wood
from shed to darkened kitchen.
This path is my peace.

Haiku

Snow falling at dawn,
I long for your breath on me.
Sun melts all this light.

Reborn

If I don’t look back
it may be possible
to fall in love again
at the end of the world,
at the edge of what we know
of this world.

By then I may be speaking to myself
and be able to forgive myself
for ignoring the things that matter—
for living a life just short of happiness,
where open secrets cloud common sense,
the deception of truth,
keeping a distance between me
and my beautiful hurting heart.

The next time around
I will make no excuses
for loving what is right
about laughter and the blue
of forget-me-nots.

The promise of friendship
will be the marriage of souls
I’ll celebrate in white.

Words will honor actions
and actions will bow down
to the music of words.

This necessary guilt
who walks arrogantly beside me
like some global villager
will disappear in the spring
like a snow angel
lovingly released
from her place on earth,

She will be forgiven.
She will be reborn as innocence.
She will be love.

The Equation of the Breath

At dawn the mist cools
over the dark waters of the mind.
A magic carpet of native thoughts
wrestle with nothing
in this hour
of meditation.

There is no happy or sad here.
Only the moment--
the equation of the breath
that calculates sight
and grace.

I stand on this water’s edge
each morning sizing up my lives
fossilized in amber,
knowing soon the seas will wash
over me again
and I will take flight
from this heavy earth,
with the angels and new wings,
toward sweet freedom
of only soul.

The Gift

A lock of the hair
that spends her days and dark nights
smoothing the curve of my thin neck
like the wind gentle in the branches
of a willow.

I tie her with a red ribbon
for luck and as a reminder
of her royal lineage of joy.

The sensation of finger tips
near the edges of a mouth tired of talking.

The knowledge and wealth of kings
content to walk in gardens with children
and wisest elders quoting ancient poetry.

The yellow of filtered dawn
and the absolute blue of twilight.

Stars.
Let me gather stars
into baskets of longing
and set them drifting
in your happiest dreaming.

The laughter of my belly
carved with hope
to place her warm
next to your compassionate kindness.

Turn your palms skyward
toward the heavens of early winter
and I will bless you,
take your sweet face in my hands
and guide you safely to tomorrow
in one slow dance of peace.

Four seasons
and all the direction spirits
will turn their good gazes
stopping time to watch you
accept the gift of your birth rite.

Growth Rings

It is always a wind from the west
that rattles the branches of my body
awake in the evenings of no warning.

I shake against myself now.
Words walk around in my head
like a wanderer on the crackling shores
of a quickly frozen pond—
exercise, flexing her muscles
in the dark music of winter.

I can’t help but howl into the black
sky igniting sparks of rage—
my voice,
my strong will like stars
twinkling and unashamed to shine.

These flight patterns of the universe
make time a distance I need not measure
into cups of fire
and promises or water.

Instead I must only look inside myself
to find growth rings huddled tightly
against the cold.
Marks of survival
adding strength and flexing easily
against the gusts of impossible November.

Not The Enemy

You arrive unexpectedly
as the sound of the bell at dawn
awakening me from meditation.

The sound of your words
curl like the notes of a poem
wrapping the tendrils of green
around the trellis of my mind.

Soon the purple of morning glories
or soft sweet peas
may burst into blossom
as I let the idea of kindness
take root.

Walk with me in this garden,
sweet friend, and we shall teach each other
about unconditional love.
It is here we know
we are not the enemy
but, instead, lovers
who have never left
each others’ sides.

In this early light
I trace the edges of your face
with my smiling eyes
and there is nothing more
required to find
all that I will ever need.

I pray only
that we are
safe and protected,
strong and healthy,
find love and peace,
and live at ease and with joy.

Wake Me

Pinch me.
Wave your hands
in front of my tired eyes
and tell me I’m not dreaming.

Tell me I’ve awakened
from this long, dark night
to find hope in the smile
and the beautiful words of a man
who promises to be honest
and to listen to me
especially when we disagree.

This morning after
I did not jerk my hand away
to snap the radio off
but turned the sound of his voice
toward that core of who I am
so that he might whisper
those words of hope,
coaxing the embers of trust
back to life.

“Yes we can”
he says to my heart of hearts.

Yes
we
can.

A Short History of the World

It is said
in the village marketplaces in Africa
and in the piazzas of Italy,
at farmer’s markets in New England,
on the edges of fields in China,
even on Wall Street in the din of bells and whistles
that everything must change.

In this perennial fall of closed minds
and hearts boarded up
like failed shops and abandoned homes
where the cooks at the neighborhood diner
can only scorch or freeze ideas
and toss them on a plate
like fighting words—
what has happened to the American hero
hunting down the selfish wolf
left to feed hungrily
on the dreaming of Yes?

Have we learned nothing
watching American girls and boys
fall victim to hateful words
and disrespect for anything holy
in the name of someone else’s God?

Have we learned nothing from the suffering—
repeat after me,
repeat after me,
repeat after me, my friends,
that comes from staying the course?

Let us not ask
what others will do for us anymore
in our illusion of youth and beauty.
It is time for us to grow up
and ask what we will do for others—
for the sake of the future,
for the promise of peace,
for the inevitable grace
that must change in this short human history
of the world.

Memoir

My family was normal
by all accounts,
Midwestern Minnesotans
who smiled often
where children never listened
to bickering parents,
where raised voices were considered
a sin – worse than chewing with a mouth open
and full of sea food on Sundays.

My family was normal.
My father was a Navy man from North Dakota
wanting to get off the farm
for adventures in foreign lands.
My mother a quiet Lutheran girl
from a small college town
went to nursing school to avoid becoming a wife,
to use her brain and kindness away from the daydreams
at an ironing board.

When they met
normally they might not have clicked—
sparked with that flame that ignites romance.
It was too nice,
too predictable for two people
who just wanted to get out
to get into this ark of our family
to weather the storm of the 60’s.
My parents weren’t free love kind of people,
or civil rights activists.
They weren’t sure what a feminist was,
and they didn’t inhale or pop pills.
Instead they crawled into each other
and followed the commandment to be fruitful
and multiply two by two
boys and girls
in love.

My family was normal.
After the Navy, my father took up his hammer,
the carpenter built things sturdy as oak.
My mother dug her small hands deep
in the soil and rising dough.
Back on the farm my father wanted out of
my parents built our foundation on normal.

I was 12
and in my still little girl body
and my ancient mind began planning
her escape into silent words
that didn’t fit in,
didn’t accept plain talk
that hid all the truth of change
like a deep scar.
My flat chest
and pure freckled skin
covered all the tracks
of my inner journeys
my family couldn’t know.

The freedom train of possibility
traveled in my blood.
The trail of tears
wore away my bones
like an escaping prisoner
doing time.

My family was normal
and on the farm it was right and good
for a girl to wander into the fields at night
and lay her body down in the deep grasses
and watch the brilliant night unfold herself
from the cloak of twilight—
each star reminding her
that it was possible to hope
for something
more.

Your Body is a Battleground

Imagine yourself at war
the Empress sitting in her throne
at the center of your chest
commanding all the cells of the body
to march.

Last night I dreamed
I was alone in Africa
with no way to know which way
to the safety of the sea,
which strange food or drink
would make me wretch at the side of the road,
and how to avoid the angry gangs of the dark continent
from casting my used flesh to the side of an unknown path.

It is the worst of times
as I chase myself back over a dozen years
to punish the first failures.
The queen watches, amused
her nose slightly raised to the heavens
knowing cautionary words of hazard or drowning
in self-pity won’t matter here.

Education of the body
is only satisfying when I lash myself
to a doubtful dream—
when I open the profitable pores of my skin
to fortuitous change like well waiting for water
Like eyes hungry for light.

If I dream of Africa
or the myth of the naked man
I always crawl onto with raging compassion
and desire—
it is there reality will erupt
with the force of the wind
against the broken battleground of the body
that aches to disappear-
afraid to be discovered
by constant change.

White flags were never carried by this company of soldiers.

Falling from Grace

Words fall from the branches
of these days
just like October
and the tides of rising winter.

The light is leaving me again in this northern place
and my muse has curled up in his corner
longing to hibernate and hide from love.
He will not turn his eyes
to look at the glory of another autumn
or at the pages I am engraving with his name
on my skin.

He’s cold and starving
while I beg him again
to take my meager offering
of bread and wine.

It hurts no one for him to accept this nourishment
of friendship and loving kindness,
but he refuses me as if I am the enemy.

Beautiful muse--
eyes dark with so much longing,
permit me to wash your dusty feet
and stroke your hands
with anointing oils of healing.

I will touch nothing sacred
on my way to the treasure
of your heart of hearts.
We are bound to that red thread
of each other—
my wrist touching yours
so that the pulse together
has become the fresh sap
waiting to flow
on the first days of the next chance
at spring.

After The First Death

After the first death
at the edge of the world
on an evening with no warning
I was able to recover
the soul I thought I’d lost forever.

Nothing personal
and speaking for myself,
life is over-rated.
The temptation of body and blood
always too rich for my appetite.

Sailing on this open sea of grace,
I’ve learned again
to trust no one
and remember I am
heaven’s only child
of original sin.

On this salty water,
in this warm womb,
I must drink only the clear rain
to satisfy my thirst at midnight
in my lonely bed of memory.

The economy of Eden requires this kind of sacrifice
for the soul to make her way free toward flight
away from the holding of flesh and heavy Earth.

But this death—
this departure from stone and fire
gives me hope that won’t ever be taken away
from my now knowing everything
about the blinking brilliance of light.

Gravity

Consider for a moment—
just a breath or two—
breaking your silence in order
to place your ear
near the center of my chest
and finding the way
to speak to my loneliness.

She is desperate and anxiously waiting
for word of your return
or death—
whichever comes first
is equally appealing.

In the meantime, the taste of rusting iron
on my tongue will not wash away
with the salty rain
and these metal shards have lodged
this coppery banquet,
like fillings in my slowly decaying mouth,
until my head aches
and flashes with silver explosions
until I can no longer stand
the idea of your brilliance
or brown and golden eyes.

Consider forgiving me
for loving you unconditionally.
I know that burden
must be heavy with the responsibility of joy.
Few I have met can balance such a heavenly light
in the small container of the body
without spilling the ego—blood-red
and staining everything it touches.

You are awake in my mind each night
as I hand you the many stones
making up this love affair.
Smooth and round. . .Flat and long.
Pocked with so much heat and longing to weigh us down.
Here I have confidence you have pre-meditated patience
to find the steady place--fulcrum for these outstretched souls
to find the way gravity makes us stronger together.

Epilogue

Siddhartha,
now that I am smoke on the wind
and ashes in the silent burial grounds,

now that I have left you
in the vacant heat
of your solitary cot,

I have forgotten
why it was I longed
for my human form
except for that need to join
with your flesh and your spirit again.

My sweet love,
you are love,
again and again
my hungry lover.
One hundred thousand lifetimes
may not have been enough for us
to extract the essence of this lotus.

Even as you contemplated
my cooling lips
and wrapped my quickly dissolving flesh—
tenderly draped my feet and hands,
tenderly witnessed and blessed
by our son’s tears.
Swaddled in the death garments
and cradled on the rough pyre—
these are the symbols
frightening life with such untruths
and loneliness.

Just as on the last night I made love to you,
I watch you devour my bones and aged humanity—
poisoned by a simple snake.
I see you reach out toward my heart place
just to feel how alive you are, left behind.

The river is your lover now, Siddhartha,
and our son will fly
on the winds of his own Karma.


Farewell Siddhartha
until I find you
breathing quietly and chanting
your beautiful words
in the shade
of the eternal
and golden garden.

Robbed by Buddha

Sometimes Siddhartha’s words
are filled with the jingling laughter
of many golden bracelettes on the wrists
of a clapping woman.

Sometimes his words are chanting prayers
that flow off Siddhartha’s tongue
and get caught in my hair
and in the folds and creases
of my garments.

What do I know of prayer, Siddhartha?
My body has been the temple,
the shrine of adoration
many men have come to
for enlightenment and temporary relief
from all suffering.

And you bring me words
that will not cease chanting joy
to my ripe heart
and to the place within me
of all knowing.

I am confused by this open sky
and light above my head
that magnifies your face
like the Holy Ones.

Oh Siddhartha?
What spell,
what incantations
do you weave around me?

I am captured.
I am goddess
of all things wonderful
rolling off the waterfall
of your beautiful lips.

Do not ask me for my purse.
I have already given it to you.

Woman Alone

The world does not know me
as the one who stands alone—
a woman naked in front of the mirror
solitarily examining the outline of the places
so many have traveled
to find companionship or adventure—
a place of respite
from the drudgery
of the world.

Always I am at the side
or entwined in the grasping embrace
of a man—
the focus of a longing
never fully satisfied.
A hunger for nothing
but more.

In this body
I have been witness
to the payment and gifts
given over for pleasure.
Shining and golden,
I have seen what people
give of themselves
in the search of happiness—
always moving forward
toward the true path.

The world has seen me as accomplice
or crafty conspirator—
the bandit to blame
for misfortune—
the guilt attributed
like a crown of thorns
to be placed on my weary head.

My red blood runs freely
from those punctures
like any other woman
who has been that close
to the danger of truth,
but I walk near the wounded
with no shame,
my back straight and regal
my head held high.

I walk alone
on my own way.
The only way.
For I know
it is into my own eyes
I must glance with loving
at the end of sleep.

I must sit quiet
and content
at the sound
of my own strong heart
beating absolutely alone—
the drum
that guides me home.

Dreaming of a Caged Bird’s Death

In a thousand years
after the karma of our sins
has washed deep into the roots
of the Banyen tree,
has been taken up to the highest branches
to blossom unashamed,
opening fully to the warmth of the sun—

it is here
we will listen
to the sweet song
of the bird who warned you
of death and the lessons of Samsara.

This caged bird has so many secrets
chained to her small soul.
This prison of slender golden bars
is no place to hide
from the exchanges of flesh
and whispers of bold desire
that have played on the stage
of my bedcovers.

Though she may have averted her eyes
at the moment of penetration,
the stabbing sound of pleasure
and suffering could not be ignored
by this creature of wings
whose only purpose
was to flutter prettily
with song.

What is this fear you bring to my loving arms now, Siddhartha,
like a child waking from a dream of demons and finding surprise
at the death of a nightingale?

Did you not know this was her fate--
to please you into a sleeping bliss
so that you might awake fully
from this drunken numbness—
to feel more empty
and alive than anyone
you have ever known?

Let me cup the softness
of the gift of her body
in my hands, Siddhartha,
I will place her empty shell
on the rising and the falling
of the breath in your chest,
where the bird must burn
and escape as white as smoke—
her ashes evidence of hope
we all can be transformed
into holy light
in this dream of discovery.

Let me open the door of the cage
and witness your flight
into fragrant flowers.
I will not fail to listen
for your beautiful voice
chanting in peace.

Traveling to the End of the Path

It was easy to stop by the side of the road
and the end of one day on our long journey,
to succumb to the whining boy-child,
tired and hungry,
to hand him a sweet banana
from my bundle,
crouch near him—my hand softly assured
on his dusty foot,
and allow my eyes to close,
my own exhausted self
given the succor of stillness
near this river.

The sting of the viper
should not have been
a surprise in this vulnerable pose,
my defenses down,
awake yet unaware.

This life has, if nothing else, proven
over and over again
why I needed to protect myself.
Men, my collection of vipers here on Earth,
have been welcomed into my bed as an art.

I have controlled this danger
like a skilled snake charmer
in the marketplace
holding my heart,
the spirit part of me—
well away from the body
at arms length
just outside striking distance,
the distraction my dancing flesh
there so that I might rise above the basket
and trap the poison inside.

Now as the venom races through my blood so painfully
into my limbs and consuming my organs,
blackening my wounded skin,
I know I am at the birthing canal of death.

What miracle is it then
that brings you to me, Siddhartha,
my lovely viper,
as if in a dream
before this life leaves me.
You wrap your kindness around my hand,
coil into that warm place inside me,
that stone core heated by the sun
the center of my safe inner world.

I must tell you,
before I can no longer speak,
that I came here looking for peace
draped in the cloak of a stranger’s story.

I have found it, not there with the wise Gotama,
but in the changing shadows of your eyes, Siddhartha,
in the truth of your enlightened gaze.

It is here I am released,
just as I was all those years in your arms
and powerful loving gaze.
Even now I unprepared for such grace,
where I will again be removed
from all samsara.

If you will kiss my cooling lips
one last time, Siddhartha,
I will leave you
with my peace.

That is the way
I should like to travel
to the end of this path.

Last Night

Last night
after the music stopped,
after the candles burned
to stubs in their holders
and the oil was gone
from the lamps,
after the curtains were drawn
against the pending morning light,
after I washed my skin clean of sweat
and my yani fresh of sticky semen,

after you left me alone in the dark
to slumber after our sweetest rituals,
I wanted you again Siddhartha.
I wanted you like the first day
you shared your kisses,
like the first bread
I placed on your tongue.

I wanted you to admire
the curves of this body
and touch the wetness
of my hair,
finger the beads
that hung boldly
from my ears
and between my breasts.

Without you
I touched the tender smoothness
of my own nipples
and let my fingers find the sacred
slippery river banks of desire
hidden deep—
a treasure reserved
only for you now.

So great was my longing
to see your face,
inhale your warm breath,
to feel your hands on my hips
guiding yourself deep inside me—
around me like light

I could not be satisfied.

My own gifts of pleasure
drifted silent
on the breezes
of the darkest hours
where Star’s wisdom
hushed to the lost child in me
inconsolable into no sound at all.

The dawn doves came to mock me—
the exhausted Empress of nothing.

I stand prisoner in my own chamber
my arms held above my head
naked and facing the wall
begging the master
to open the door
and set me free.

Come back to me Siddhartha.
Fill my soul with your oldest wine.

Mistress Calling Consort

Come to me tonight
Invisible One.

No one must know
that I will become your teacher,
and that you, Siddhartha,
give up your vows
of poverty and faithfulness
to follow your body
toward the enlightenment
found between we two.

Dress in fine and simple clothing
and bring gifts –
the customary offerings
as your disguise,

but be confident and clearly hear
I have never felt this longing of spirit
in the excess of flesh and men
who have known me—
some hundreds of times.

There is nothing to fear
in your innocence
for you are called
to your first lessons.

It is said that the soul awakens,
overflows with light,
when she finds her consort.

You, beautiful beggar,
must heed the voice
of your mistress.

At The Edges of My Eyes

What do you look at Siddhartha
at the edges of my eyes
near the places
worry and smiles have marked
with lines?

You tell me of the silently beautiful mouth
of Gotama and I cannot hear enough
of that kind of peace.

I have felt the universe vibrate
inside the edges of my mouth
and just under the surface of my skin—
this inner earthquake
trembling all I know at the foundation of spirit.

You enlighten me with these stories
of the blessed one
and I take silent vows
to give away the garden
to this holy man.

I know tonight
I will make love to you,
one last time, Siddhartha,
before you leave my side
having etched your face into the first cells
of your son.
He has been waiting quietly at this spirit door
and will enter and grow in the space
you will vacate in my body.

I will extract as much as I dare
when your body joins with mine,
my sweet Love,
for I will need as much of you as you can give—
nourishment for all the long days and nights
that will come too soon without you.

I will gather stories from your skin
and laughter from your hair.
I will touch your feet
with my grateful tears
and release eternity
from the dust of all your travels.

But now, Siddhartha,
you look at me,
you look through me,
you look to the future,
eager to leave this suffering
and all samsara.

Come now, Love
into my bed,
into the long night,
so that I might kiss you
farewell.

This Overflow

I could not have known what love is
if I had never felt this longing.

Anything done in excess
becoming boring except this overflow
that moves toward you.

--Rumi Translated by Coleman Barks

A Woman’s Way of Knowing Truth

A woman
who makes her way
in the knowledge of soft skin
and the dark night of her hair—
the trusted strength of her legs
and upright beauty of her neck and back
is a mystery to the spirit
of those who do not believe
in the world of blood and heat
that must flow from one generation of body
to the next wailing body.

I hold my hands out
in wonder as I touch the face
of another lover,
pull him close enough to view
the black depths of his soul.

This extraordinary perspective of all time,
captured in one beautiful face after another,
has never failed to excite me.

The great experiment of seeking truth--
making her way from yani
to the heart—
and only then finding a voice
and the vision of eternity
to be released slowly
from the crown
of the willing.

It is here that I found the wonder of you, Siddhartha.
I never expected to hand over the keys
to my garden gate so willingly
to a man like you.

A woman like I am
would fight the ferryman
on the River Styx for freedom
from the likes of you—
and yet I have surrendered willingly
to the light I have found
in the empty place in your hungry belly
and mind.

Making Gold

Before Siddhartha the beggar
there were men—
many men who came to join with my body
leaving coins and gems
at the foot of my bed
after they released their power
and their fear,
their anger and their sorrow,
hope and glory
into the depths of my darkness.

Sometimes even love landed
at the bottom of this well
sparkling, catching some distant light.
Tenderness and gentle gestures
played at the longing for more—
shadow puppets on the screens
of my chambers.

But suddenly
the empty poverty
of a man I never knew,
his heart outstretched
toward the place of plenty in me,
between my breasts--
between my eyes—
in the heat of my blood—
drained my cup
like a thirsty vagabond,
ready to crush the grapes of a new wine.

What are you now, Siddhartha, all these years later?
Why did you come to change everything?

We were earth
and the makings of the richest soil
from which gold and truth
would be mined.


Wanting All

It is a comfort to know
I have long since given up
the shell of the rag doll
I once was—
the toy men came to admire
and amuse themselves with
in that garden of wanting.

Now that green place is a resting place,
a quiet place where monks meditate
and there are no women who indulge desire
for anything but peace.

The summer days drift silent as history there,
simple food for the spirit,
in moving patterns of leaves,
the cross current of answered prayers,
where the meaning of bones is sometimes discovered
only to be forgotten in the next breath.

In that other life, Siddhartha,
I don’t regret offering you everything.
Wanting all and finding you
filling every empty space
was my greatest joy.
Every fiber in every cell
was waiting to absorb you
so that I might be ready
for this journey to the Buddha.

I hold the hand of our small son
you have never known
and I am glad to be holding part of you—
the foundation on which your body was built
has taken his place next to me.
Here on the banks of a river
I know I am home
in that place you left for me
to become the temple
of all wanting—
that sacred place of loving
the exact moment
of each day
aware of the high stakes
of just placing one foot
in front of the other.

It is this desire to focus
on the love of a child
where I have forgotten
to want anything else.

A Call to Prayer

Come into my bed, Siddhartha,
and feel the warmth of my brown skin
next to the cool smooth of the sheets.

The air is fragrant with incense
and the glow of small flames of candles and oil lamps
stir and flicker in the slightest moon breezes
catching the darkness of your eyes.

You knew from my first glance that I would welcome you here
gladly entering this game of love we must learn and share—
Consort and Master,
Mother and Child,
Flower and buzzing Bee,
Rain and rushing River. . .

I have waited this long day for you to join me, sweetest one,
and the ache of longing leaves my throat and tongue
tinted with the taste of metal
that must be washed clean with new wine
and freshly harvested fruit.

I have the reflexes of a cat this evening
anticipating your arrival and find myself caught
between stretching and nervous napping. . .
pacing the cage of my beautiful gardens
both ignoring and bringing into view
the flowers and the blades of grass
where your feet will travel
to this sanctuary to learn with me,
to discover what it means to open the heart
to all hearts.

My body trembles, my love,
with the distant thunder of an earthquake
that will surely bring us to our knees
that will both change and delight us
so that we might see all humanity
flash silently
in the face of our loving.

I hear you at the gate
and your voice is the bell
that calls me to prayer.

Kamala Getting Ready For Love

When I first glanced you, Siddhartha,
dirty and ragged, you unkempt beggar,
at the entrance to my grove,
I thought of nothing.
I was looking at nothing
but the space you took up
on the ground near my gate.

But when you spoke to me of thinking,
and waiting, and fasting,
I fell in love with the sound of song in your voice
and was enchanted by the misty calm of your gaze.

You called me teacher
and I must now prepare
to fulfill my contract
you’ve sealed with one kiss.

This cool breeze of afternoon
turning to eve
soothes the heat
coming up in my spirit body
and I ask my servants
to oil my skin with musky fragrance
so that you might never forget me.

I pray, Siddhartha, the good fortune of my beauty might bless you,
anoint you as you enter the garden of my skillful arms
and slumber in my generous bed.
I am the priestess
who must share the sacred texts of flesh
and introduce you to this kind of love.

My fingertips are moist with perfume
I will place at your temples,
glide from fleshy lobes
across the tendons of your throat
to shoulder blades and gather lightly
at the small of your strong back.

The Seed Growing in the Belly

Siddhartha,
I watched you leaving my city,
my bed
with no effort of resistance.
I let you go
knowing the seeds of you
are planted in my belly.

My love.
My beautiful bird.
How could I deny you
your freedom to find your goal,
the core of who you are
when I already know
the wonderful truth of you
in the warmth of my skin
touched skillfully, tenderly
by your gentle hands—
My mouth already knows
the sweet taste
of enlightenment
like all the harvests of a lifetime
to be licked happily from the lips
of that deepest hunger.

But now you flutter beneath the surface
of my dreaming, Siddhartha,
like a brightly bold butterfly
or the dusty brown sparrow
settling down for the night.

I offer my womb
for this small twilight shelter
and now selfishly hold
the most precious
treasures of you
safely inside.

Siddhartha,
I am finally remembering
what it is to love
in this child
that will repeat you.

A Poem for Kamala’s Kiss

Beautiful brown man,
I thought I could laugh at you,
mock your poverty
as if it equaled no mind,
no heart,
deny you even the kiss
you ask of me in payment
for a simple poem,

but you opened the vessel of your soul
like the cool breeze just before the rain,
and I must have you, drink you in—
my mouth long at the well of your words.

If I were rich, Siddhartha,
I would cast all my gold
into your watery depths
for the honor
of bringing up the bucket
and beholding the sound
of sweet light
again and again.

How I can kiss, Siddhartha,
for the promise
of another poem
tomorrow.