The Taste of Honey

Synchronize your daydreaming
to the lighting of the stars
while you watch the blue moon rising
and you may find my hand
crossing the sky,
tempting fate.

If you are awake
you will see me
fingering this sweet, beautiful orb
hanging on the edge of the new year
like a droplet of fresh honey
to be placed on the tongue
for pleasure alone—
only to melt and glow
in the middle of my mouth.

Who am I
to be this bold,
to want this much happiness
all to myself?

Surely I am no goddess,
nor a woman of importance,
who will be forgiven for forgetting
my place in the dust.

Even so,
even with this warning
in the light of day,
I find you
with poetry
on your breath,
waiting eagerly
to kiss the lips
that have abandoned
the idea of sin
to sing the praises
of the truth
without shame
or fear of retribution.

Even the bee understands
what must be given
to prosper
at the edge
of such abundant
wilderness.

Sacred Space

Inhale December air
freshly washed with rain,
where snow was expected
and the sun surprises the eye
with new light
that was lost in fog
and the mist of melting
only hours before,
and you will know
my sacred space.

Trees stand tall here
and dare to reach for the heavens
only because their roots are planted—
have grown deeply down
into the veins of granite,
heavy anchors
to Mother Earth.

Breathe with me in the silence of this place
and you will suddenly find your belly touching mine,
skin exchanging oxygen through every pore,
the surface open
like cells absorbing
necessary nourishment.

Your soul shadow is painted
on the delicate walls
inside the cave of my body.
In this temporary temple
ancient symbols draw conclusions,
and poetry is written
in a language only we share
and must recite
before the dawn of waking
and at the rituals
welcoming the night
where we kneel before the alter
of each other,
gently touch the face of the blessed,
and embrace what we have learned
of peace.

Fire Words

On the day
you promised me morning,

you brushed your hand
across the warmth of my cheek
like sunrise
and in that breeze
we shed the feathers of flight.

The first day I saw you
I hardly noticed
the biology in your hands
and kindness released like breath
from your lips into thin air.

It was then that you first whispered the ignition--
the sparks of the Fire Words

Come here.

This was all we needed
to find grace between us.

Here you unlocked the sacred space
at the base of my throat
with the keys you borrowed
from the maker of light
and I found my way home

with your bidding
wrapped gently around my wrist
taking the shallow pulse,
just under the current of my blood,
and I trembled like Mother Earth
in another life.

So That I Will Not Fly Away

In the covenant of confession
it is my duty to be honest;

to undress my thoughts like a new bride
and stand with my emotional skin
innocent and bare to the truth.

Take this cup of new wine, Love,
for my hands are trembling.

The night shines
heavy with the moon
and I must embrace the body again
so that I will not fly away.

In the Arms of Courage

After waking,

after the night
when all the stars shook
wondering if they might be next to fall,
shattered into pieces of the sky,
plummeting out of control
to the soil under our feet,

I cannot help but weep.

I am almost human again

knowing I could stand
like a sailor on this celestial sea

without leaving the ground.

It has been many years
since I cast off from the safe harbor,
opened my sails to glide
into these unknown waters
trying to map my course
toward untangled love

and birds who breathe softly
in the nest of my hands.

My eyes walk like strangers
into the heavens looking for traces of angels
in the flashes left by meteors,
the temporary lighthouses

where laughter balanced lightly
on stones stacked by God.

Words are not enough

after the galaxy has been my lover

and my blood believes in eternity
plucked moment by moment
from the tree of life.

I am more certain now than ever
that I will be healed

in the arms of courage

as he leans in
to kiss my third eye.

Leonid Love Song to an Imperfect Lover

Somehow I knew the heavens
had drawn themselves closer
even before I stepped out into the darkness
beyond my kitchen door and into the trees.

My path has taken me, again,
into the abundant fruit of the orchards
that hang heavy, desperate with sin,
and ready to be harvested
like a heart ripe with too much
unexplained love.

I do not take the warning
of stars falling from the sky
without notice
and cannot ignore the call
to gather myself, flesh and bone,
for the redemption
and what it means
to be washed in the light
of Leonid.

If you meet me by these waters, Lover,
hold my holy hands and speak in a whisper
until the vessel of your heart
is an empty container of faith,
all will be forgiven for our imperfections.

All will be forgiven
as we cast a glimmering net of hope
into the promise
of another broken dawn.

Treeline

Scan the edges
of the forest
with eyes that have seen
what cannot be seen;
the places where stone walls
once stood exposed as prey.

Here the hawk is always ready
to sink talons deeply
into the fleshy parts of the body
before gliding away.

I am not a hunter in November’s light at dawn.
Nor do I stand at the edge of these fields waiting
for the doe to step from her hiding place
so that I might take her
with the force of a weapon--
knock her down from her upright grace,
spill her heart and liver
onto the cold, wet ground
for the pleasure
of placing her warm flesh
in my mouth.

I am not innocent.
I too, have sinned,
but it is not in my nature
to want that much power
over God.

I know my place is within
the treeline, invisible
to those who want too much,
with my nose to the wind,
and my ear turned to the sounds
of life and death.

History of the Heart

Falling deeply
into the history of the heart
I find the dark door
of the forbidden city
where I used to live.

Heat rises up
from a hidden place
in this body
as I consider
the way your face
relaxes and your eyes
land gently on my mouth.

You want nothing more
than to touch this place
with your lips
like it was the first time,
like it is the only chance you have
to tell me about the last time
you loved the soul hiding
inside this new body.

Simple gesture.
Pull your chair
close to me, in front of me
so our knees touch,
so you can pull me close
and kiss me sweetly.

The keys clatter
in my silent hands
as I disappear
like ashes scattered
into the open prairie
after the wildfire
cleansed the earth.

I am breathless
and glowing like a full moon night
illuminating the trees
as if it were midday.

The river sparkles
on the edge of this constant longing
for a time when there will be no secrets,
straw turned to gold by one right touch
that becomes the feast of flesh
and you will find me dancing
in the center of my life.

Until that day of celebration
I’ll slumber underground
like the face of a yellow daffodil
waiting for the voice of spring
to call out her greeting,
sweeping the steps of sin
and all signs of that other death.

A Poem on the Evening Train to Milano

Outline the darkness of a city
on the evening train to Milano
with brushes of night
before we travel into the nothingness
of another half moon.

Lines cross this sky with electricity
and information that could explain so many things,
but we have slowed
and we must stop in Reggio Emilia
and wait for some travelers to depart
and others who will join us on the ride.

If only I could speak
the language of these people
perhaps they would understand
what I have done
and what I must do
to shed my skin
and make my way
to a another place
I’ll call my home.

The clock shows how quickly
a life must leave us—
one cell, one second at a time—

before we know it the train arrives and passes on
to another destination with nothing more
than love exchanged between us.

The truth is,
I am not the woman
I was when you met me
nor are you the man
I wanted to make love to last night.
I am not the woman
you will glance up from your book
to smile at absently.
I will never be that good wife again.

These strangers in this strange and beautiful place
see me so deeply under their sleeping eyes,
lulled by the rocking of the train over the tracks
through the invisible countryside.
I take comfort in knowing
it is in the not knowing
that I will find a reflection of myself
in this window streaming with rain
and the cleansing that comes
with a long journey to the west.

Pointing North

The day I started to go crazy
I thought an earthquake
was starting in my feet
and trembled her way into my mouth
like bees and electricity.

Soon after I thought I was sprouting wings
with feathers that sparkled and grew stronger
as I saw the light turn purple
when I closed my eyes.

When I was a girl
I admired the danger
and strong beauty of tigers
as they moved in the jungle
of my mind. The mask that hides courage
has turned strength into ugly plastic
that cannot possibly be loved
by any imagination
but of those who are dead.

Now I sit with bandages on my wounds
and bleed all emotion into the flood
of my former self.

I can only travel these lonely,
back roads of despair in silence.
If I stop to look at the gold coins of nature
gathering at my ankles
I am sure the statue of dust I am becoming
will disappear with the next breath
of cold November wind.

The ghosts of lovers and their mothers
will try to collect the tiny pieces that were me
to explain the sacred abandon of space
as if I were a fallen star.
It will not matter.

I am lost
no matter
which way I turn
and it does not help
to admit
that the compass
disguised as a heart,
was shattered
when I took possession
of this body—
before I even knew
how to point
north.

Paint Pink Feathers

Paint pink feathers across the blue sky in October
and soften the blow of all this leaving.

If I go now
it will only reflect my sorrow
at losses of everything I thought was true.

The stars are not here yet to comfort me
and the moon has retreated into her darkness
and is nothing to me now.

Be soft.
Be gentle as the bodies
that fall all around me
like ghosts of my other lives.

Cradle me like a mother
holding her son
soothing his cries
for something more.

This light is beyond my understanding
like a dream and I must find an escape--
the rejection of the body of evidence
has left me alone in the friendship
of so much silence.

These feathers of the night fade.
Black and white replace the delicate shades
of compassion and I have no choice but to breathe
my last breaths like I am begging for a forgiveness
I never knew I needed to find.

If I can only wake up and welcome the mother
who is following me too closely
asking me to pray for you over my left shoulder,
I may find the way
to redemption.

Memoir

I hadn't expected your arrival at my door,
the rain still fresh in my hair
and a puddle left soaking into the hem of my skirt

but there you stood
dark and quiet
as the child of this day
expecting the urgent universe
to unfold.

Your mouth found me ready
to loosen the tight binding
wrapped red and circling
the forbidden places
and forgotten corridors
of this house.

I did not turn you away
but instead traced the shadows
on your arm and did what any woman would
when offered the silence of pleasure.

We Live in Bodies

When I send the air and salt
from the inner journey to my true self
on postcards to the universe

I will first unravel the blue salvages
of my name and return to the center of the circle
where I was nothing.

With my black pen
I will write to her
of the constant longing for light
and the eclipses that bent joy to the earth
in conversations with starlight
on my skin.

Of romance
I will take the time
in the small spaces
to be clear
that living in abundant kindness
is what I wanted—
like poems that can’t help
but capture beauty in one word
placed precisely next to others
in a line of love.

And what of these mortal bodies can I offer
but that they are meant to hold the spirit
like a basket of grace to be shared
with God on the faces
and in the arms of other travelers
looking to find their way home.

This is
after all
where we must live
and patience will not turn us
into the darkness or cold.

Into The Fields

We won’t go there today
into the fields
where the grasses and flowers of summer are brown
and escaping the light and the impermanence of green.
We won’t go to the places where dragonflies hover
and dart into the sky with purpose.

No,
today we hide
near the fire,
burrow into each other
like the two small and wild birds we are,
come home to nest, before the winds
start howling again and we are lost
from each others’ song.

Your feathers glisten
next to the faded seasons I carry.
I close my eyes only when I must rest
and when I stretch my neck to smooth my cheek
against the layers of softness you offer this longing.

When the sun returns,
or perhaps under the bright waning moon,
we will fly together again over the spaces
where you first found me
balancing on a stem of burdock
and considering the possibilities of flight.

All the Ways

In the afternoon
everyone’s mind wanders off,
sometimes scanning an empty street
to see a familiar face or car
only to end up rummaging through
the pantry of emotional jam
for just the right flavor
on just the right
kind of toast with tea.

Taste the sweetness
just inside the mouth of memory
and you will know the bitterness
of this much longing
like the Buddha
eating a few grains of rice
on the last days before
enlightenment.

Tomorrow you will come to me
like you did the last time
and hold me
before I fall,
too weak to stand
alone in my desire.
Here it will be known
that the human body
can be moved to great courage
for a single act of unconditional love.

Hold my face in your hands.
Place your hands on the small of my aching back.
Rub my weary temples.
Stoke my curls damp with night
and foggy with sleep
and dreaming
of all the ways
I want you.

Untitled

The ancient scent of your soul
lingers on the hem of my dress
and on my hands from this earthen climb.
Even the locks of my hair curl
around the sacred conversation
of the musky dampness
of this kind of paradise.

Here we live
in memories stolen
from the pocket of a widow's coat,
from another life,
where you slip shoes
from my tired feet
at the end of a long day
and assess the damages
with so much kindness
I've come back to find you again.

In the geography of the impossible
we've found each other wanting nothing more
than comfort and the ease that comes
just healing the wounds of another day.

Come even closer than you dare
and exhale into my open mouth.
Here the green moss will rub free
from the walls of this old place
and you will see my name
etched into the stones
near the river
and into the place inside yourself
that reflects ripples
of absolute home.

The Earth Between Us

It is September
and the heat of the day
turns my heart racing
like the blades of a frantic fan
trying to disburse the remnants
of a summer that never was.

Red leaves fall outside my windows
onto the dirt of the driveway
like droplets of old blood,
crimson with a death I love.

I can't take my eyes off the body
decaying slowly with the light.

I've waited through stagnant years
to unleash the fury of my life.
The switch has been flipped
and the spark ignites moment after moment.

On, off.
On, off.
On, off,
blinking,
then holding
steady.

For one moment at a time
we hold each others' gaze
in the dark house of the truth
and listen to the leaves drop
whispering to the earth between us.

In the Pursuit

It is September just before the first frost.
Here I am in the overgrown garden

and I am not the farmer.
I am located on the edge

of the tangled summer.
You will find me to the left

of the stonewall
and where the trees have learned

to translate silence,
where fog and desire blur the edges

of all the rules of nature.
For all this heat

we have burned to make one another glow,
to gaze at sun setting into purples,

and to let earth cool around us
until we are lifted into the arms of stars.

We travel in native time and heal our wounds
with magic, secret herbs, and prayers

that sooth us with the blessings of our mothers.

Be lightning. Be skin and blood to touch.
Be an endless breath. Be invisible and primal stones

anchoring us to these happy days of new autumn.
Let the sky take us to where we harvest

only the bright beauty
of our absolute joy.

Speechless

Words escape me
as I look at your face
and into your eyes
after the wave
of these souls
crashes over me.

I tumble in the surf,
broken into pieces of glass,
and shine on the shore
to be taken again
and polished smooth
by sounds that syllables
will never understand.

Words are nothing
but sky exhaling
in this place where body
and the spririt are entwined
like the tendrils of ivy
and sturdy bars of steel.

Your mouth on mine
unlocks the heavy doors
of grief and your hands
guide the blind beggar home
unashamed in the light of day.

With the wisest vision
I remember the curves of this path
and the direction the cairns point us
on the rocky shore.
Our mortal frames are strong enough
to carry the burden of love
from the sea this time
and I can do nothing but walk steady beside you
and hold up the image of your truest self
like it was the key to all the languages
ever spoken by those who know peace.

These are the only words spoken from this place of silence.

Peaches for a Pie

The thin blade of my knife

slips easily into the sweet flesh

of the peaches.

My fingers and palms

are covered in the thick slickness

as the skins and pits fall into the sink

and I slice the fruit into the curve 

of the blue glass bowl.

My hips lean into the counter

to do this quiet summer chore

and I can't help the thought of your mouth

that enters the dim light of the afternoon kitchen.

What my hands could offer

that empty fasting place

with one simple gesture

like priest to believer.

And in that moment of faith

I disappear into sugar,

flour and butter I cut so small

no one will notice

the stutter in my breath

as the shadow of awakening

slips his hands

around my waist

and whispers love 

into my ear.

Stone Placed in Palm Before Dawn

I place a smooth stone
in the center of my palm
before I walk
as a reminder of the place of love
from which I come.

The gritty surface of her cool skin
will guide her belly skillfully
onto the waiting partner
to balance and hold that sturdy structure
where sanctuary begins.

They pray together, embracing under the sun,
as their exact selves—
no pressure to be anything
but the vessel collecting wisdom
in the small spaces chipped into the hardness
like truth always manages to do.

Hard won reward
is the act of kindness they offer each other
in the quiet of this spirit place
and the eyes, naturally, stay open
to watch every moment bloom
on the alter of the soul.

The safe harbor of this beautiful garden refuge
is enough to give strength and courage
to the rest of each cacophonous day.

Gathering Hope

Watch me as I fall in love with the sky again—
that dreamy place that spills its contents of fire and heat
into these watery pools of light.

The shiny coins are hot and glowing
with the wealth of the approaching darkness.

I want to hide in these places
where anyone can gather hope
into a few honest words and glances
overflowing with reason
to live dancing in the moment of prayer
where each step toward the window
laughs with taking flight
and the companionship of wind
is expected.

Blow softly on the coals of the lowest burner
and ignite the eager kindling.
If you coax the flames
and make a ritual
of the breath and body,
only the heavens will know
how much you have given of your soul
to stand awake on the edge of the fire
and the enlightened ones
will lift your bright, beautiful celebration
into the stars to join joy with eternity
until all horizons become one final sunset.

Dream at the End of Summer

In the dream of another life
you slip beneath my skin
like my husband
late for a train

in a distant land
at dawn.
Your body tucks itself neatly
around the length of my arms

and down the backs of my legs,
the prayer silent light
that eases into the palms of my hands
like the rustle of wooden beads

and the whisper of a name
inside the words of this poem.
I gather you there,
as if you were the last bouquet of summer,

black-centered Susans stare boldly
tracing the curve of my foot
and milkweed cocoons, the springs wound tightly
around silky seeds, with her sister asters

the promise of a brilliant, peppery autumn
in the kitchen of my mind.

Forgive me for awakening
in the patterns sketched inside
the surface of your heart’s chambers,
but I have been called to be your humble servant

and to carry your tired soul
to the end of forever
if only to watch the sun set
in the closing of your eyes.

The Ocean Calls to Her Sisters in the Dark of an August Night

This air hangs down the skin of my back
like the veil of a new bride

or the gauzy covering over the face of a dancer who waits to fly
like the orange crescent that hangs in the dark of an August night.

The ocean rages against these summer shores
even as the sun shines on the face of the sky.

She is unable to contain her restless discontent
and calls out over the miles of trees and rolling hills

to the sisters she will stir to action
now that there is no reason to be silent.

Change is constant as a heartbeat in her depths
and less painful than giving birth to the tears

that erode days into years of squandered breath and broken peacemaking
with warriors who will not lay down their swords.

I make ready in these dark dunes to cross over sand and waters
to a new land where love is never rationed or reserved

but blooms in abundant beauty under the soft warmth of reason,
patience, and kindness beyond any heavenly dreaming.

A MULTI-CASE STUDY OF PRIMARY CIRCUMSTANCES AND LIFE EXPERIENCES CONTRIBUTING TO THE CAREERS OF FEMALE PRESIDENTS IN HIGHER EDUCATIONAL SETTINGS IN NEW ENGLAND
by
Leigh C. Marthe

Abstract

Early in 2007, the American Council on Education (ACE) released the results of their 20th anniversary edition of The American College President. In this study it is identified that only 23% of all college presidents are women, up from 18% just ten years prior. Though the ACE research shares significant insights into the world of women president through statistical analysis, this study intends to inform the larger body of knowledge concerning women in uppermost leadership roles in higher education in the context of qualitative research. By understanding through qualitative research conducted through individual, face-to -face interviews with five female college and university presidents in New England, this study asked the subjects of the research to describe the life and career experiences that enhanced and/or hindered their success in achieving their leadership roles in higher educational settings. This research replicated research done by Smith (2004) in her dissertation entitled “A Multi-Case Analysis of Perceived Circumstances and Life Experiences Contributing to the Presidential Ascent of Mississippi Female College and University Presidents” in which it was recommended that future, regionally diverse studies might reveal patterns identifiable to others interested in pursuing leadership roles. In this New England study, the women interviewed offered insights into their backgrounds and education, career opportunities, and mentoring relationships, as well as refection on how self-esteem, personal and professional skills, and goals for future experiences offered opportunities to succeed. The results of the research revealed negative gender bias, lack of formal mentoring or training, and relationships on all levels of experiences impacting the smoothness of their transitions into leadership roles.

Just heard this song today for the first time in a really long time and forgot how much I love it. Had to find the lyrics and put them up here. . .Ahhh! The Cure. . .thank you for these heartfelt words.

Lovesong - The Cure

  Whenever I'm alone with you
You make me feel like I am home again
Whenever I'm alone with you
You make me feel like I am whole again

Whenever I'm alone with you
You make me feel like I am young again
Whenever I'm alone with you
You make me feel like I am fun again

However far away
I will always love you
However long I stay
I will always love you
Whatever words I say
I will always love you

I will always love you

Whenever I'm alone with you
You make me feel like I am free again
Whenever I'm alone with you
You make me feel like I am clean again

However far away
I will always love you
However long I stay
I will always love you
Whatever words I say
I will always love you

I will always love you

Into the Night of Falling Stars

I hear your voice in my bones at the blushing of dusk.
It is here I slip under the surface of these cool waters
and into the night of falling stars,
circling and gathering above and below me,
like the essential light of the single candle of kindness
you always offer.

The darkness is nothing in this liquid forgiveness,
where everything is possible,
and where I shine as my purest self.

If you arrive in this falling universe
and find the courage to plunge into this ocean—
wash out with the tide
into the place where sky and earth meet
like old souls on the horizon
of the bodies we left behind—

you will find yourself
swimming into my skin
and to the sugared center of abandon
sprinkled in the heavens
and on the flowing fields of lilies
that smooth the waves
heat wished to capsize
and drown all hope of freedom.

Follow your breath in this patient current
and the healing springs will carry you
into the calmest waters of absolute blue.
Call out like a bird
and I will answer
from the marrow of love.

Moon Over Monadnock

I tell myself not to look back
like a servant to the watch
I no longer wear—
the habit a ghost of the memory
of happiness.

But I know the moon is there,
hanging like a shadow over my shoulder--
rising over the single mountain on my horizon
and I can’t help but admire her yellow, aged beauty.

Even in the rear view,
after too many miles on this road,
she takes my breath away in a panic
at seeing her naked roundness
ascend the edge of the night.

I have begun to count the beads
on the strand of your soul
you share hungrily with me.
These prayers drift across the sky
just like the moon
and when I close my eyes to dream
you dissolve into my blood
to glitter and glow
from the inside out.

Tonight you will become the air inside
the bubbles under the surface of the water where I live
and remind me I am alive and the light
that fills the ocean of your cries
to gather me into your arms
and vanish into one body.

You have only to gaze at this August orb,
call my name into the gentle softness of this heat,
and I will arrive on a promise of patience—
slowly with the wisest ones who have anointed
me like a bride on the morning of her wedding.

The Hours After Midnight

The hours after midnight
I wander through the dark
doing nothing
but missing the empty spaces
between my fingers
and the feel of mystery
between the curve of my foot
and the promise of everything.

How is it possible to extract desire
from this exquisite blue of alone
in a bed not big enough for two?

And yet,
I fly so close to these flowers,
I can’t help but collect their pollen in my hair
and taste the sticky trembling on my breath.

All day I feel the hands of restlessness brush lightly
along the length of my arm
and where they land firmly on my hips
to steady my blurred vision.

And tomorrow the full moon rises
and lifts herself onto the canvas of the teacher
where she waits for the dialogue of the oldest lovers
and the careful instruction to begin.

Even the ocean cannot resist the tide on this shore
and the beautiful music she sings softly
into the ear of the one who insists
on opening his eyes at the first kiss.

What I would give for the morning
to spare me and to release the children of these ghosts
who have settled like August fog
under the shutters of my busy mind.

Mystical Horizon

I have never seen the moon
cut the shape of a sideways glance
stare orange at the end of the day
but there she was calling to my deepest dreaming
where cats and birds dance and fly away from each other.

There she was
with the smell of smoke
on her dressing gown.

There she was,
a piece of ripe melon
in the mouth of my lover
just waiting for him to bite down
on all that musky juice
and swallow.

Once in a lifetime
we are given a gift like this
and we must call for angels to witness—
to join us –
to gasp and linger on the edge
of the unmade bed.

The blessed ones know the signs of leaving
when they see them and they travel
to the watery sky with their eyes open
and smile to know when grace is noticed
and heeded and followed.

I let myself break down here
like a widow alone for the first night of forever
and the memory of the night before the wedding.

It is here I will wait
for the wounds to heal
into scars and the shape of my radiance
to return to the mystical horizon.

Paradise

In this summer,
in this garden of the last days,
in the place where I can only dream of the dead
and the ways they traveled to their graves
through particles of God and blood—
I am weary of the smell of the sweetness
at the bottom of the glass and the residue
of what love has become.

In the play I love the most
Adam and Eve become fire and water
and dance almost boiling near the flames.
When she decides to finally leave the garden,
divorce herself from something less than paradise,
before there is nothing left of her shimmering self
nearest her beloved,
she falls first as tears,
then as rain,
and collects herself happily
in the shallows of the purest lake.

In the end Adam
swims at these shores
with Eve on his skin every day
and never knowing she was there
to make this quiet peace
with a love that cannot be controlled.

On the last day
she is transformed
into the woman she must be
and is consumed by the sun.

The Swim

Dip the toes
to test the softness
of Silver Lake,
cool and smooth
like the inside of dreaming.

It is water the temperature of summer
and the touch surrounds me
with the two minds
of fear and longing.

How does a woman dive in
when she has always walked slowly—
each inch of submersion
carefully calculated
and felt fully
as the liquid of drowning
crawls up her skin?

Feet first—
totally shocking and numbing cold
encasing the calves and thighs,
the roundness of the middle,
arms dangling and flirting
until the point of no return
forces a plunge into the chest
and shoulders—
the gasp of release and movement,
the dance to stay afloat
to demonstrage the buoyancy
of flesh and blood
and breath.

The water tastes like wine
and sooths the skin
like iced whiskey
until I am drunk
and want to swim forever in this place
that is so much about the body
that the soul cries
for the gift of a thousand lives
just like this one. . .
here, .alone. . .quiet.

Stroke the water like an old lover.
Push the body toward shore,
caressing the effort,
just to emerge,
to die in the warmth of the sun
and be born to the suffering of water
again and again.

Tomorrow, at the dawn of the new day,
the air will be too cool for July.
I will pull the sheets away from my sleeping self
and climb down the hill toward the ancient lake
to plunge naked and clean again into the light.

If the sky opens and takes me then
it will be enough
to just go.

Forgetting My Name

On mornings in July
when the wind whispers
cool on my skin
I give myself permission
to forget my name.

What good is a name—
first or last—
when a body
and a heart full of words
is enough to identify
the soul’s place
in the spaces between
the petals of flowers
or planted firmly in the sun
with the lapping of waves
hungry at the shore
of some small ocean
of unspoken sound?
There are no mountain meadows here
or inconvenient reversals of roles
between mothers
and the naming of children
who cannot survive.

Instead, let me remember
that there once was a man
who knew my real name
and he called to me
with the clear voice of birds
before light and morning—
before the waking of the world.

I have spent so many sunrises
trying to find his face
in the depths of the dark forests
but I am always left alone to listen
and to forget my name
again and again.

For now call me flesh.
Call me blood
thick with human scent.
Touch the letters of my lips
and the outline of my eyes.
Examine each curved toe
for evidence of my rich female heritage
and the sound of my name
forgotten over and over again
in every language on Earth.

You will know nothing of me
unless you listen to the doves
at dawn.

The Light That Fills The Ocean

Your light fills the ocean
where I live. –Rumi

Whether we give ourselves or not
there is no compromise
in the rising tide
that defends the nature
of the stolen soul.

The handful of daisies plucked
from the edge of the neighbor’s field
does not wilt knowing they will never
see the sun again.

The falling star does not stall
to watch the flicker of fireflies
or wait for the delayed wish
of the woman unsure of how much
she can afford to give away to the night.

Walk the shores hopefully
and cast your body onto the rocks
at risk of losing the life you are living
if it might yield one night of pleasure.
If we give ourselves, or not,
the heart will never forgive
for the opportunity lost
to invite happiness, the most weary guest,
into the light of the warm hearth and give her a place to rest
until she can move on with new strength
toward the heavy doors of eternity.

From this place of salty mist
and sand between your toes
breathe deeply
have courage
and make space
for the ocean of light
that is about to arrive
as the tide is commanded to do.

Running for Cover

Green umbrellas
graze snap dragons and petunias
just passing under the eaves of this shower.

Don’t lecture us on the virtues of water
falling day after day until we are weary
of traveling to the well.
We are flooded with gratitude
for the luxurious green of our dreaming—
held boldly against the great grey
that haunts all our waking
like the common chores
of any servant tasked to survive.

We do not worry about thirst
or other suffering here.
The body is saturated,
if not satisfied,
by this over flowing
of the gods and the cumulous clouds
concealing the heavens
somewhere above.

Open the ribs of this shelter
and protect us from the deluge
while we walk timidly and pray
for the light and relief to arrive
abruptly as the flash of cracking thunder
on her hurried way home—
running for any kind of cover.

What The Body Knows Before Thought

This poem.
This lump in my throat.
This love that has nowhere to go
trickles through the cracks of walls
thick with moss
along corridors and forgotten paths--
between the sweating
cold granite of pain.

I wander here
lost in syllables
and the tone of voice
owned by disappointment,
disagreement, and the purple hood
of shame.

What can these words say out loud
that haven’t been repeated
in the creases of the brain
and in so many other poems
like me?

It does no good to think
when the muscles that run
from skull to hip
ache with knowledge
that does not yield to rationalization
or even the romantic notion
of survival.

Breathe into the cadence of this war
slipped like a sliver under the skin of the page
and the rhythm will draw out the infection
and the fever heat of truth. . .
the illness trapped in the blood,
the script to be read at the funeral.

Light Torn in the Night Sky

I’ve started to worry
in the hours that blur
from one to another
after midnight and before
the birds at dawn.

Not my style to disrupt sleep over nothing,
but somehow I have a contract with the silence
to stand guard and wait for the announcement of morning
or the blinking out of the light torn in the night sky.

It doesn’t seem to matter
that my mind is quiet
and not particularly urgent
to talk

but my skin
has begun to sing
loudly to a lover
who will have me
no longer
and I am not embarrassed
to admit I don’t mind staying behind
to watch her find her way
to that country she has not visited
in years.

The inland sea is so beautiful here.
The fault lines rumble gently in the distance
like a train heading north.

Perhaps if I am patient
I might even see her smile
or watch her rest her eyes in the pleasure
of slumber after sunrise.

Thinking of You as I Weed Between the Peas and Beans

My fingers sink into the earth
like the beaks of hungry birds
plunging after the smooth sound
of worms escaping at midnight.

The peas curl their green tendrils around bamboo stakes
and the beans multiply their leaves by twos each day the sun returns
to remind them they are loved.

I touch them too—
gentle as I pull the undesirable distractions
that remove my resolve from between these new shoots
and instead must encourage the universe to expand to feed us like we are beggars—
our bowls empty as we pray for any small scraps that will fill us
with the light of the stars and the vibrations that pass between the cells
of every living being.

My belly longs for August
and the harvest that is promised me
if I focus on these small wonders,
breathe for these potent dreams
until they emerge strong
and ready to flower--
until they offer their fruit
abundant and full of summer and grace.

Until that warm time
I must be patient and content in my solitary place
near the satisfaction of dirt
and life in my hands.

At Dawn

Early morning light
be gentle as you touch my face,
wake me with a whisper
like a lover who dares not disturb
the peace of the night.

The night has been harsh
and peace was not present
in the breath that entered
that dark place
between the moon and her stars.

If only the moon could protect me
in the fullness of her gentle face
and the stars could whisper the way to freedom
I would make my path with no fear
to morning.

Lover be gentle light as you make your way
to touch my face.
Wake the freedom of love with no fear
with a whisper of peace in the night.
Your breath calls the moon and stars to bless us.

Sweat

A pool of perspiration
gathers, glistens
on the skin of your bare chest
until it overflows like tears
and slides down the dark paths
inscribed under the surface
in order to remember
what must not be forgotten.

It is nearly the time of Solstice
and the sun that marks the passage
of another season and your favor.
Your patience is gone
with the heat of this long journey
around a lifetime of loving
what is impossible to love.

Little blisters bubble
in the cells of your ring finger.
They talk to each other
like giggling school girls
passing rumors of lost love
through the passages
of the day.
A small and tender heart emerges,
beaten from this skin
as if by magic,
but you know the pain
of the choker chain
that reminds you
of your vows to that suffering.

There’s no use pretending
the spirit will ever get something it can’t have
when you’ve marked yourself
in the blood you can’t wash away--
even after the scab has hardened
and the scar is the only remaining mark.

Back at your damp flesh
your mind is brought up short
by that harsh master
and his short leash.

A cloud passes overhead
and you feel the chill
of the opportunity not taken—
of fear of this unknown.
Regret is the ghost that haunts you
like a melanoma waiting to surface.

June

Have you noticed June
has come to us too soon
in a year where fireflies freeze
and are lightning for daisies
in a field I will never walk?

I catch you peeking through my window tonight
like a common boy who wants to see lace
touch soft skin and watch a lonely woman
remove private garments like layers of defense
until she is a vulnerable girl
ready to cry—sob in your arms.

You have no idea how to comfort me—
I am too much light for you to catch
in your hands.
I am stars and all water
leaking through your panicked fingers--
lost to the wide salty ocean and darkening sky.

Oh love,
if you only knew enough
to bring a simple child’s bucket
to the places where I always escape
you would capture your heart
full of abandoned, glittering treasure.

Instead, I must forgive you again for your fear
and your inability to turn away. . . .avert your eyes
from the naked beauty of truth
and the happiness that has come
to cover the outline
of my body.

I gather armfuls of white petals
and place them gently on your threshold
before dawn daring you to do the right thing
and kiss me. . . .abandon your post
at the door of everything proper
and enter into the circle of gold and spirit—
forget where the end of hello begins
and remember farewell is vocabulary
in a dialect we never knew.

The End of Love

for Steve Huntington

I’ve studied it—
the turning away of the eyes
at the unpleasantness of life,
wrinkles and blood, pain and thirst,
sound bytes to cover dishonesty with honey,
the denial of inevitable yearning for skin touching skin,
the making peace on the last days that come too soon,
where goodbye is too much
and see you soon is not enough
to stop the heart from breaking.

Once you told me,
in a moment of confession,
about a small truth that had come to you.
You apologized for being too forward
with the lack of God between us
by placing three small words
in my hands.

“We all die.” you said.

Just like that.
And then,
you shook your fist
at the heavens,
your voice trembling
at the boldness
of your anger.

“And another thing,” you said,
“I want this last year back.”

Just like that.

Just like that.

I watched you in that lesson
like my life depended on laughter and kindness,
on outrage and justice,
on black and white—
on unconditional love.

Just like that,
you opened the door
I am always afraid to walk through—
opened it and walked right toward
the end of love—
just like it was any other day,
like all the other days before this one
with a See ya. or Bye.
except this time you really meant it.

Now when I go back to my desk,
my pen in hand,
my heart filled with everything,
I can only write the endings
that leave us lonely, but filled
with grateful and abundant feasts of love.

It is here, at this table,
where I will meet you again,
share a story
about something that matters,
look each other in the eyes without regret,
hearts satisfied at knowing
the embrace of this friendship.

Delivered by Angels

Before the birds of morning
you woke me from my sleep—
entered through the window
of a dream—
climbed through the gnarled forest of my hair
and over the desert of my untouched skin
to the place that glows heavy with blood
and the seeds of children
and other men once grew briefly
and sometimes flowered.

At the sill you gripped the edge of the dream,
announced yourself the new keeper of the garden,
advised this mistress
we must plant now
before it is too late to harvest
the abundant bounty
that comes after the moon
and before the heat of full summer.

You pulled yourself with strong arms
into the embrace of my body,
curled yourself perfectly between my legs
and whispered the secret you’d finally found
of balancing black and white,
night and broad daylight,
hot and the icy cold of alone,
fire and water,
deafening silence and the mercy of birdsong.

I drifted along on the incoming tide that is you--
wild roses and sea grasses reminding me
it is impossible to ignore destiny or truth
when he comes before dawn in a dream,
lighting the way when everything else
is so dark.

The gown of my sleeping self is wet
with the dew of your sweetest kisses.
In this place of kindness I smile for the first time in days
and count myself lucky with each minute you follow me
toward the starry promise of another hour of dreaming.

I gladly recline on the cool of fresh sheets
where night air delivers comfort
through the new green of maple
and purple wind chimes of twilight.
I exhale and surrender to the ways
angels deliver their most holy gifts.

Anniversary

The last day I saw you,
picked you up outside a restaurant we never ate in—
the place we never had the chance to order wine
or share a sweet dessert—
never holding hands across the table
like lovers do,
you only climbed into my old rusty car
out of the gray rain and said,
guilty without looking at me,
“You can turn right here.”

On the last day I saw you
we drove to a lake I’d never seen,
a water dark with spring
near an empty playground
and looked at each other
a long time until the silence
required payment.
We dug deep into our pockets
to find the words we’d said about the end
so many times.
I could feel the syllables crawl
out of the back of my ache
and I hated myself for not knowing
how to break the rules—
jump over the fence
and dive into the dangerous water
and live.

Instead, I was the good girl
who knew not
how to forget the boundaries
that always threaten to damage
and tear apart the invisible cloth
of someone else’s will—
The velvet hood
before the noose
taking my breath away.

On the last day
when you rested your hand
on my heart,
released my spirit
like a frightened bird
into the empty sky
with no where to land,
I lost everything

Your kindness still vibrates
in the places on my face
where you touched me
with your lips
and your wisest eyes.

Your smell of soap
and cinnamon evaporates
with the sweat of this much loss.

Now I wander through a graveyard of last days
shaking the bones of the body
where you will never live
and I cannot endure
this broken music
of nothing.

Debt

The statement arrived
when I least expected it
just as it does every time.

Late, early
or right on the mark,
I am shocked at the accounting
that unfolds like paper
from an envelope
I am rarely pleased
to see sitting before me.

The balance is nearly always
negative numbers these days—
deposits never covering the withdrawals.

The gifts of kindness
become the childish game of take away
that leaves the hands empty with a jerk of greed.
The heart is turned inside out
in disbelief at the lack that is left
by such neglect.

Coins of anger and disappointment pile carelessly
in the corner of the vault that was once filled
with laughter and hope for wealth
overflowing with unconditional love.

The robbery was silent
and subtle as summer
slipping into fall—
frost taking the flowers of the field
with sparkling brilliance
only to wilt and blacken
into the memory of color.

My purse is empty again tonight
with no prospect of the strength
necessary to let me work
to plant the seeds of a new crop.

I am a beggar at the side of the road.
My eyes dare not look into the face of the stranger.
I cannot stand the pity I might find there.

I can only thrust my cup forward
and pray for mercy and the sound
of ringing metal like the gong
waking me from my sleep.