Walking Into the Thinness of Air

Why not
start
where every other time
you have stopped
and ignored
the smallness
of the mind
like it was less
than nothing.

Take in the next breath
and then exhale
and before you know it
you've forgotten
what it means
to know the intimacy of air--

the thin line we walk
as the sky opens
and the light pours in
to morning.

Save the risk
for some private thought
and let it evaporate
before taking one step forward.

Only in this space-
between thinking and grace-
will the blade of grass
between your toes
sparkle
and ignite
the world with hope

without
a glimmer
of security

or the promise
of even one drop
of elegant
understanding.

Old Orchard Beach, ME. . .November Walk

The sea curls
around itself like liquid glass
in the light of this early morning.

November chills my cheeks
and my nose begins
to condense the air-
drips joyfully
with each step
along the sand
where the weariness of days
filled with too many troubles
dissolves into the saline solution
and fades.

I smile and greet
the pink faces
of other inmates
set free into the yard
for meditation
and the medicine
of this hard labor
of hours and hours
of listening
to the whispers
of the dark water
against the brilliant moon
and vigorous fall stars.

We look briefly at each other
and return to the silent chanting
in our heads
that will release
the Gordian knots--
the confusion of these ropes
that gather like detritus
on the edges
of this nearly frozen
landscape.

My joints ache
and my heart
nearly bursts
with the knowing
of the kindness
in the eyes
of all these strangers.

Early Snow

My limbs
and fingers ache,
delighted as a child
at this whiteness--

this pure, spun sugar
that melts on the tongue,
almost sticky
as a carnival.

When the power
failed,
I groaned,
lit candles, and retrieved
the book
next to the bed
I hadn't had time
to read.

Flannel,
a glass of wine,
and words.

Nearly heaven
and just
as quiet.

Girl

Girl,
What is your name?
What is it that the universe calls you as you
walk by my house,
day after day, fast
all in black?

Miss Mary Mack, Mack, Mack. . . .echos
like a child crying--
like you Girl. Like you.

What is it that your mother called you, Girl,
who were you -- baby
when you cried?

Cried tears
like silver buttons. . .
all down your back.

Oh, Miss Mary.
I would pay you fifty cents
if you will tell me

What calls you to dress
in a dress. . .when nobody your age-in this age-
wears a dress. . .that covers arms and legs
so sweetly,
so mysteriously,
so plainly,
and matches the night . . . .

you walking in meditation
for miles and miles
until you are thin as the long hair
that falls down your back,

as thin as the line between
love and the smell of ginger
and cloves,

as thin as the light before winter

closes in,

as thin as the sound of a voice cracking
to call out to you—

to ask you your name,

to make room for your sad story

this sunset
before the lake

freezes over.

The Last Sunday Morning of Summer

Silent
but for the sound of my own breath
and a few cars on the highway--
the breezy light gently creeps
to the edge of my bed
and whispers me awake.

I am almost able
to hear the leaves releasing
their hold on the end
of branches
as cold comes
and makes that grip
impossible

save the stubborn oak
who presses his lips together
and turns his face away,
resisting the ease
of so much joy.

For him
freedom will come
in the dark of December
and with the tumble
of ice and snow.

But today I watch
the color of the sun
escape into reds and gold
tripping drunk
after a long night
of forgetting.

I will ready myself
for the communion
of Saints
and the raising of voices
to the universe in praise
of this soft leaving.

The new way
eventually surrenders
to the low moan, the humming
of long notes
at the end of the spirit
so much like gospel
and blue grass
we move our feet
in a gentle waltz,

aching to be held
in the arms
of a distant lover
before kissing goodnight.

These blessings are worth keeping
in well lit places,
or between the pages
of the hymnal,
so we don't forget
we have them.

Jumping the Banks

The rain that has fallen
for what feels like forever
is at it again--
eroding the roof over my head
one particle at a time
with this tapping at tin--
this invitation to open up
to the sky.

Maybe Noah has a new contract
with God
"Please clean the Earth.
Get between the cracks."
is all it says
this time.

But I have
my own contract
to sign
as I jump the banks
of my body,
let my mind and my heart
flood the fields
where I live,
ignoring the same paths
I have carved with each spring
with each new rain.

I am weary
of the same grooves
I trace through the trees
and their ancient roots
that stand over me,
holding me in place,
where I have smoothed
the jagged granite
until it is comfortable
in someone else's
hands.

Today I will change
direction forever--
ignore everything solid
but my will of watery power
and glide free on my way
toward oceans
and the places
where the tides
gently caress
the white hip
of the moon
with so much joy.

It is here
where my laughter tumbles
onto the swimming skin
of my Love
and I am
reborn
as a single drop
of rain.

Clean
and ready
to begin
again.

Before the Storm

The electricity
that is summer
has moved from the air
thick with fireflies
into the wings of angels
and the black crickets
that hop and play
in the dried leaves
of grass.

What was summer hums
and sparks at pink dawn
before the storm of fall
announces itself
in frost and furry of winds
not seen
in my lifetime.

You have traced my soul
with your fingers
in this sweetness
and the single steady note,
this simple touch,
sustains me.

A kiss
to my neck
awakening me
from my silence
in this empty nest.

Curtain

I see it.

The future
in a single window.

A wandering breeze
exactly in Italy
on a lazy August afternoon

and this curtain
allows imagination
to take flight.

You
don't even touch me
and I am
gone.

Fading

August, you escape me.
Your heat and light disappear
into the vegetable garden;
into the parched grasses of the field
and the promise of lush lawns.

How I resisted
capturing summer
in a jar like fire flies--
let it drift by my window
at midnight--

not holding on to anything

only the observer
of this fading--

this folding in
on myself.

These dirty feet
carelessly soiling
the clean, creamy sheets
of cool comfort,

exhausted
by so much
heat.

The Luck of Two Herons

The young rooster crows
early this morning
as summer begins to fade
with the exhalation toward fall
and all things dark.

He is finding his voice—
finally gathering the sound
of wisdom in his chest
and making that mighty sound
fly from his throat
while he still
has a chance.

Birds are like that.

Yesterday
two herons circled
the lake into which I dive—
gather the truth of myself
together in the waters
so that I might make it
through another winter—
gather the light in my skin
and in the blood that will be
made in my bones.

The luck of two herons
circling above my head
and reflected on the surface
of this mighty pond
is almost enough.
I might live forever
with this much joy. . .
with this much good fortune.

I grab a breath,
pull myself under,
glide smoothly
for a long and delighted
blessing of water--

an enlightened flight.

Chronic Joy

Who wouldn’t want that kind of joy?
The chronic joy
that sits in our belly
before making love
after a long separation
from the body--
that joy that makes us shiver involuntarily
as we brush our leg waiting
at the pause of a stop light—
smile at the stranger
who is us
in a mirror.
The stranger we have
passed a million times
not noticing the confidence
in so much beauty.

I am willing to bet
I don’t have to show you anything
to have you understand
that noticing what is missing in my language
gives meaning to what is overflowing
in my mind.

Don’t look away at sorrow ever again—
that friend of sadness and suffering
you’ve ministered to
for so long.
Look me in the eye
and find that familiar ache
that sits uneasy
between us.

You crave that chronic joy
as much as I do.
That low hum,
the dull ache
of time knocking
at the window,
that shows us how
to love ourselves
with each breath
before we kiss our beloved.

All the angels
and the saints hovering
in our constant prayer
know we can’t hold on
to this much love for more
than a moment at a time.
The gift of your laughter
or in a story about a memory of peace
lets us sleep as we are protected
from the enemy the heart knows best.

Take me into your bed
howling at the pain of blood
flowing freely-
the damage informing
the exchange.
Say good night to all the fear
of losing
something that was never
yours at all.
It is only mine to give.

Adore the poem
waiting to be born
every day--
each time the tide of love
comes in and washes you clean
back into the churning waters,
polishes the cutting edges
you are so afraid of,
yet run your fingers over carelessly
waiting for the skin to break open.

Take the stones you carry
in your pack for ballast
and hand them to me
one at a time.

You cannot forge your own life.

In all your weeping
you have forgotten
that I already know you.
You share my blood by the transfusion
of pain we know—by this disease of the heart
infected by the healing surprise
of another day.

July

Cornflower blue
suddenly appears on roadsides
everywhere
as the miracle it is.
Equally bright in the sun
or the mottled drops of rain,
the smooth surface
of absolute color
strikes the otherwise green.

My hands so often on the wheel
I smile at the ways I have arrived
with purpose,
confidence into another summer.

Just for today
I will not worry
about winter.
I will laugh at the way
the world romances me
with flowers
that grow wild
at the edge of the path.

Orange lilies and Queen Anne’s lace
dance. Pinks and daisies can’t help
themselves. Black-eyed Susan
incorrigible in their short, golden glory
near the purple heads of milkweed that sing
before weaving themselves
into the cocoons that will sleep
until the silky wings of fall
unfold into the looming darkness.

But come, July,
and the suddenness
of this glorious waking

in all this beauty
of unstoppable,
breath taking
light.

The Never Ending Sequence

There is no shame
as I walk alone,
mile after mile
of nothing in my head,
while reading old,
and often tattered maps,
to places I’ve already been.

I adore looking at the lines,
reading them slowly
like a beloved poem
reminding me of the pull of the sea,
to trace the roads
with my fingers
knowing
eventually
I will come out
at the places
I am supposed to be.

All I can do;
all anyone can ever do,
is to walk with toes pointed
forward and believe
in the sky
and the Earth
uniting at the horizon
to give us a point of hope,
something good and clean to focus on
in the never ending sequence
of forgiving days.

Easy Dawn

At this easy hour of dawn
the air touches my face lightly
tracing the edges of my smile
and the crow's feet
around my waking eyes.

The ocean is open
and the clouds above
take nothing away from the birdsong
and the clatter of the simple waves
lapping at the sand.

I fold and unfold myself here--
a washer woman
scrubbing the stains
out of my skins,
snapping the fabric I have woven
and hang myself out to dry
in the sun and breezes
filled with the force of life.

Clean again and again
with each wave of water--
each moment of laughter
at my lack of faith.

I am new
in the slow movement
of this long night
into the coming day.

Four Haiku Poems from Sky Meadow

Surface of the water
calm, yet under consciousness,
death and life are close.


Rain drops drum slowly.
The tin roof an instrument.
Peace is present here.


Tadpoles and crayfish--
new life and warriors make love.
Water heals us all.


My body empty.
My mind follows close behind.
Joy in the silence.

Without Words

Without words
this silence cleanses me,
strips me to my nakedness
in the cool, new summer rain.
The wind is still
with only the song of birds
and the low-throated gulping
of the frogs to drift with.

Without words
and the sound
of your voice to comfort me
I must go within.
I seek relief
in my own skin
and the touch
of my warm and eager fingers
to find the truth—
answers to the questions
of my birth.

Without words
the birds sing for me
and carry music
to your window
with no effort.

These winged messengers
simply open their mouths
and the words of the loving universe
gather the language
we have carefully crafted
and return to trace the letters
of an alphabet
our souls know
by heart
with their feathered faces
looking joyfully toward the sky.

Return Address

Just write.
Just put the sharp point
of your pen to the almost empty page
and let the words make their way
past the milky screen of your mind
flow like the trickle of life
over the dam
full to overflowing
with the unimaginable power
to inform the heart,
to change the shape
of the landscape
like a flood
God sends to cleanse
the earth from darkness.

Just write
and let the soft body of your words
be what they must be.
Let them love what they love
and not cage the obvious flesh
that was meant to touch
and gather electricity into magic
each night gathering magic under the skin
until dancing becomes art of motion,
until eye contact with your lover
is enough to light a city
with all that sweetness.

Just write
in the comfort of the mornings
where the breath is easy and full.
Pen letters.
Outline stories.
Sketch the beautiful curves
of breasts and the smooth line
of a hip like you are seeing them
for the first time.

Address the envelope
to the universe
and clearly print
the return address
to the place
your heart lives.

It is where the sound of tomorrow
knows where to find you
already.

On Hearing Thunder at Dawn

The rumble,
the low hum of love’s thunder,
arrives with this day—
the storm of cleansing rain
blessing my soul’s home
with the force of God’s voice
whispering in my ear.

I am beginning to believe
in each morning moment
where inevitable smiles
signal the welcome
of the invisible hand
of a lover I have yet to know
and who gently strokes my skin
with hope.

Mist has risen
from the tired and aching heat
of the earth
where the first cut of June hay
is soaked by the unexpected clouds.

The farmer—
who worked so hard.
sweating to gather this early light—
digs his toe
into the thirsty soil

not in disappointment or regret

but rather
thanks the sky
for the answers to his prayers
to be washed
and to breathe each breath
in peace.

Morning Poem

The trembling leaves
of my hope
are tender and still
pink around the edges
of the green and golden light
of another
new May morning.

Fear and the iron taste
of aching anger
no longer live
at the base of my brain
but have been abandoned
near the sea’s shore
for the first tide
to wash these deaths away
with salt
and the vigor of cold waters.

Hold me to your chest
like breath returning
to empty lungs.
Feel the warmth of my hands
over your heart
where blood flows red
with the kindness of only truth.

It is at the remembering of this purity
that I wish to awaken
every day.

Psalm

How I have learned
to be without want;
to lie down my heart
so that comfort can be
as still as water at dawn
where not even the wind
dares to disturb the calm.

Restore my soul
and explain righteousness
for my sake.

Yes, I have walked
through places the color of sorrow
and with the ringing walls of emptiness.
I have learned that fear
is illusion, and alone
is a state of mind
when a feast of kindness
awaits me,
anoints me with joy
until I am filled,

drunk by the cup
my lover has handed me.

Surely goodness and mercy
are with me as I gaze at spring
and I take the keys,
turn them in the lock,
and gather the treasures of my life together
to sing the prayers of a monk,
repeat the chants of a warrior,
and form the notes
in the mouth of a woman
who is remembering
the words
to the most sacred of songs.

Finding a Crocus in the Grass

You gasp
and run to me
like only a small boy can

with delight at the wonder of finding
the color purple
in the brown grass
before spring has her way
with the sun

A single crocus
makes herself known
in the midst of that nothingness
so that you might pluck her
and present her
to me,
your adoring mother.

Miracles like this
are only for sharing
with this kind of unconditional love
between us
like a secret kiss,
like a longing unfulfilled
for a thousand lifetimes.

Blossom

Watch me blossom
like this day
where spring has arrived
at the party
ready to laugh
and drink deeply
of the golden light
that lives in the bottom
of the cup.

Watch me blossom
like a tulip
wound tightly
by winter
bursting open
with no understanding
of beauty
until you discover color
in the garden
next to a melting
mound of snow.

Golden

What possesses the bee
to fly from flower to flower
unknowingly gathering grains
of life force
free while sipping endlessly
drunk on sweet nectar;
tasting the color of light
in her small humming mouth?

Travel mile after mile
in the service of happiness
you will never see;
a queen who buries herself
in the center of the colony
away from the beauty
that lives alone
in the world
among soft petals,
delicate perfume
and you may almost
lose yourself.

Any yet,
something golden
brings you home.

The tilt of the sun
at the setting of stars
in the vast darkness.

The inner compass
pointing always west
like wind.

The scent of honey
on your breath
as you kiss
the reflection
of your heart
in the mirror
of one moment
of another
lonely
day.

The Wind in my Face

There is a place
in the folds of my mind
where the wind blows
almost constantly

from the early morning bird song
to the light leaking from the sky
into the empty silences
of night.

That is where I have pinned my soul
to a clothesline
with wooden pins
bleached by the sun

and all that cleans
and whitens the grey that gets caught
in the fibers of all the days
between January and December
will be washed away.

It is the strong light
and the fast air
that will strip the smell
of dark thoughts
and fade the stains
of blood wounds
from the linens that hang out
in this open prairie
of my heart.

The hands of women
know this easy work

of sharing hope with space

and how to make new life
out of cloth
woven from tough and beautiful
threads of dreaming.

Take my breath away
with joy.

Let me stand facing the sweetness
of the coming storm.

I will gather the dry garments
I have come to wear
in creaking wicker baskets
moments before the rain cuts loose
and is delivered
from the heavens.

Unravel

pulling the threads
from the center
of the tapestry of words
I have become

vows and promises
exchanged in my body
in the ways I exchange
the universe’s currency

light and subtle vibration
under the surface
of my skin

at the tips of my trembling fingers
draw out single strands
so as not to disturb
the beauty

the strength of the sky

until suddenly
I am naked

the source of joy
stunned and speechless

at my feet
a pool of silken web

unraveled

and making new love
out of the starlight
and dust

making beauty
out of the remains

of what was
the life we once lived.

Magnet Poem at Midnight After a Long Day of Nothing
in February

Together you recall death
smooth like a red lake
still a place
easy thousand tongued rain
elaborate beneath the sun.

I never please.

Blue honey runs
delirious & drunk
as moments fall away

ugly

smear power there
lie live and stare.

The rust
is symphony
under me.

The Silence of Winter

The silence of winter
creeps close to the kitchen windowsills
and pushes the dreamer
deeper into the earth,
the companion of blossoms
and green life
almost forgotten
in the pure and cold pleasure
of this dormant time.

Listen carefully
as you place your ear
to the chest of the living
and whisper loving vows of gratitude
for this much kindness
shared without meaning
or expectation--
without any exchange at all.

We are nearly arrived after flying
for the longest journey
like swans transformed
in these darkest days.

We arrive at the door of our souls
and they smile and embrace us
as they have done
for all time,
reuniting like light entering
the center of a single snowflake
and becoming delicate bodies--
the gentle, healing beauty
on the shoulder of a weary child
or in the hair of a woman
who is learning
she doesn't need
to sleep after all.

It is here
that a steady exhalation
makes death a friend
we need remember with joy
and as a reminder
of what we must
all give away
in order
to be absolutely sure
we are free.

Reasons to Be

In this skin
it is becoming clear
that I have many
reasons to be
exactly the woman
I have become.

It is not easy to hide
in the forest when I have become
one of the only remaining trees.

Slowly you have cut others
to the ground
and let them cure,
drying up all sap
until the bark
is loose and brittle,
cut into perfect lengths
and burned
all season long.

But I stand firmly rooted
even while all my sisters
and mothers
and sometimes daughters
leave me to the open sky and sun
for long days of heat
and the endless stars
and darkness of the night.

I stand,
arms stretched
in prayer,
and accept the embrace
of this posture alone
as the blessings
for reason enough
to be present
and ready to blossom in spring
proved shade on the long days
and release my grasp each fall
to become the peaceful observer,
the perch for all things
that fly away,
my mind soaring
and offering never
to return.

Prayer III

The night awakens
like a sleepy bird
on her roost,
feathers flattened
and needing a shake
after so much stillness.

The sun is glowing
at the seams of the door
where dawn can’t help
but shine through
and announce
another day
for joy to leap
into the room
on the breath
of the believers.

Look no further
than the tips of cool fingers
or the crown of the dream tussled head
and freedom can be found
in the expectation of nothing
and in the kindness of the stranger within.

Prayer II

Gather the beauty
of the body
around the heart fire
and light enough
to fill the day
with courage
to love deeply,
to heal the wounded,
and to see with every cell
in one human
the infinity
of our unconditional
bonds
that must be honored
with kindness.

Here we will find peace.

Here we will find our Nirvana.

Prayer I

Circle the heart
with the warmth of love
and find yourself open
to the possibility of healing.

Dream of the sacred places
inside yourself and soon
you will be surrounded
in the light of truth and peace.

Do not be influenced
by a world of fear
and rules that are not in tune
with the universe
and her powerful ways.

Trust yourself
and all that is whole within you
and joy will find a place
in the center of your life
that can’t help but focus
all things.

January Morning

Snow rests silent
in these trees
after making nothing
of the night.

A single path
of footprints
make their way home
to where the hearth
is kept burning,
abundant coals
burst into flame
at the first breath of air
or with a bit of new kindling.

And out in the woods
the chickadee and nuthatch chatter
waiting for the breezes
that will eventually come
to upset the quiet snow
and drop everything
to the floor of the forest--
where the fox
made his nest
after dark.

Morning Meditation

The twilight of the day
sifts through the night
like sugar powdered
for sweetness.

The mind lifts
a finger, wets it on the tongue
of awareness, and dips the senses
into the fine confection
to return to the mouth
a sample
and the comfort
of a new day.

Awake
and searching the edges
of the room for familiar forms,
the only promise of peace
is to rise at the call,
sit upright
and ask thought
to quiet into the breath
and the companionship
of silence
to greet the rush of my humanity
with controlled consciousness
and the release of everything dark.

Caged Bird

Exhaust the ways
escape is possible
and the panic
of no way out
will make the prisoner
weep, break down
call for his mother
who was also captive
before she died alone
and begging for a glimpse
of the sky.

Turn the bars
into the stems
of daisies.

Turn the guard
into friend.

Turn the heart
into unending singer
like the bird
who loves
her cage.

Heat

The heat of the night
rolls through the body
like fire on the edge
of new fuel rapidly approaching
spring on the prairie.

There is no stopping the wave
that must consume the past
in order to make way
for the violent green
that sleeps under the surface
of earth.

You have no idea
of the giant that wakes
from winter,
the glacial cracks booming
in the bones
of unconditional love.

The air ignites
with crimson
at dawn.
The first drops of water, bloody,
sizzle then evaporate
into mist.

New Year for a Writer

Write.
Just write and see what comes from that place
in the middle. That place where
the heart channels the soul to the universe
for examination.

Greet the day with words
on the page
where ink opens you
on the white paper and allows blood
to drip as pure joy into a space
where the clear mind is free
to make love to the curves of a syllable
and the frustration of punctuation
leaves on a moan--
of nothing.

Plunge deeply into the idea of love
with no concern for time
or the obligation to the world.
Here words play on the skin,
run fingers delicately across
the slippery sex of the finer points of argument
and bring chills to the curve of the back
before release.

The breath will not be lost here,
but captured in the arms of reason
and then rejected
like a rigid boundary
that must be crossed
to experience air in the lungs
or dreaming of the color
of the inside of truth.

I wake to the sound of my pen scratching
across the flesh of this page
and laugh at the whispering
no one will hear
but this lover.

This beautiful face greets me
with unconditional abandon
asking only to please my every desire
to live fully present to the sea
and the sun
and the smell of the earth opening in spring
for the seeds that will become a feast
and nourish the hungry soul
that lives lean in the depths of more words
than will ever escape from the ribs
and blossom, exhaled, from hope.

The light of the day
arrives again
and the pages
filled with morning
roll over and make room
for the business of the day.