Endings

At the birth of another year
we all wander out of the womb

with blood and an ache in the low back
where poison sits like venom

hands soothing with pressure
what must be cleaned

like a mirror cleaned with spit

Scrubbed with surrender
that only women know.
where this liquid retreat is a clock
that does not wither,

but illuminates and swells
with  the ways we chock
and wheeze, uncomfortable and

resigned to make the next days
worth every  moment of pleasure

not sacrificed without reward
or the common grace
of awakening.


No need to capitulate,
but make safe the way,
when the ending is clearly in sight.

Lost

I am resigned,
ashes of the woman I once was

assalted and surrendering

to the great draft of a life
lived under watchful eyes
of a god who didn't know
how to love
anyone

as much as he loved
himself.

I have become the diaspora
of my own soul's company,
wandering lost in the desert--
alone and thirsty for a retreat

where the bitter voice of warning
learns to forgive

and capitulation
is a solution
my many sisters and I
can learn to accept as ransom
for less than the truth

over strong tea
and sweet songs
are sung at the return
of the long
and darkest
winter nights.

Christmas Eve

At the pageant
the children,
sweet angels
and star-struck shepherds,
process like they own this sacred space,
resolving themselves,
with simple words and heavenly voices,
helping us to find the balance we lose
in the daily life of too much work
and not enough bowing of our heads
in wonder
at everyday miracles

like these perfect faces,
drifting in and out of magic,
like perfect etchings of ice
only caught on the breezes
of a single December night.

Wisest men need to kneel here
before this innocent beauty
and breathe the spicy air,
incense of purest youth
untouched by the dirty hands
of those who have forgotten
how to believe.

On the Day the Calendar Ends

On the +day the calendar ends+
I will meet you near words
that mean something,
say words that matter
as if they were vows read
in the table of contents
and in the next chapter
we are not afraid
to turn the pages.

I am hungry to hear this story of joy
as it flows like a flood
from the mouth of the river
held quiet in the silence of a dam,
the pool behind forcefully insisting
the boards be let loose
just in time to claim each moment
as the deluge of laughter
spills over into an ocean
of moments worth living.

When you watch the sun dip below the horizon today,
earlier than it has any other day in this year of sorrow,
find me and tell me that you want me
just as I am
and I will believe
you  might be right
about infinity,
that masterful master,
learning to rest
at the edge of understanding
and in the company simple kindnesses
of the hope of tomorrow.

Prayer for a Bad Day

You train yourself for courage,
that mountain of performance
at the core of searching
that makes you feel like a guest,
and not a resident,
where ever you go,

searching for a place to call home
when there is nothing but double the pain
when you fall helplessly
engaged in so many losses
no matter the color of the walls
or the hope of a single white curtain
in the breeze  near the open glass.

And now I offend you,
a slap in the face
by omission of another simple word,

not out of malice, but rather,
out of all the deaths I have suffered
without learning how to right the wrongs of the lines on your face,
how to ask for forgiveness of sorrows caused by not turning the corner,
how to slip out of the sweater of night where you wait for me
into the cool shining of the sea of your kindness
and learn to swim strong next to your full strokes
without fear
of the undertow
that will eventually
pull us all under.

Nothing More Than Flowers

Sweep your mind
posture after posture of pretense,
a lifetime of competing for a bold position
next to the master.

The heart treads lightly at dawn
ready to release the brow
from holding, like lace
unraveling all her stitches
at the tattered hem of accuracy
just for the sake of argument.

And when the soul is privy to heaven
and the wale of too much love stings sweetly,

let kindness extinguish the holding,
the unceasing friendship
that binds us to everything holy.


It is here that you will cleanse
the bones of your body
with God's words and let yourself pray
for another day to gather daisies
and purple-faced iris
into bouquets
of nothing more
than flowers.

Advent

 I am restored in this darkest season;
the agent of night who tiptoes bootless
down the aisle of the sanctuary of defeat.
The stars are becoming a luminous choir
singing a song so sweet and sincere
that even God listens . . .

and where the  sun forgets
that morning will ever shine again.

 I pace the cave of this longing
and let my hands follow the stone walls,
cold and slick with my grief.

The deliverance
of tomorrow,
the knowing
that there is so much more music
to return my heart
to the sound of love
and forgiveness;

this is the grace I pray for
as I light a single candle
and breathe in peace;
let my voice ring a single clear bell
of radiant hope.

When I Say I am Sorry

I am sincere
when I say I am sorry,
looking into the luminous face
of God
with regret,

plaster falling 
 with decay
signifying
the toll
the earth
has payed
on these shores
of heaven.

In the volume of time,
a renaissance of defeat subsides,

the tunnel of light from the sky
catches heat and slouches like a daisy
in the fullness of the late afternoon sun

before the coolness
of forgiveness
coughs sloughy
and full of regret
into the face
of a stranger
you have feared
all your life.

Enough

The heavy toll on the heart
nearly bursts these fragile walls,
pounding frantically on the long path
of confidence, the volume deafening;
severe enough make me question
my resolve.

I am a swimmer who will never make it to shore.
I am a maul with no wood to split into kindling.
I am calling out in the tunnel of darkness, echos
of my solitude close enough to signal
endings all around me;

the fire smoldering
in the corner
at the end of winter.

A race that cannot be run
fast enough.

Passing Judgement

I curl myself into this rough and demanding  place
inside myself again,
vesting my soul against the budding charm
of tradition that is not mine.

I'll accuse myself of love
like the stream of brisk consciousness
flowing past me one thought at a time--
fish that cannot be caught
but only swim by in a dream.

In the market square
of this dominion of damage
accuse me.
Judge me to the degree
that you dare throw
a stone
to apply
your form
of justice.

Force me
into silence.
Force me
to believe all
is lost again
just like every other day
I have believed
it might be different.

First

Some have promised
to pause in the barren Badlands
of my scarce affection.
Some have promised to let me catch my breath.
Some shine like the fresh coat of paint,
semi-gloss and premiere.

To rush at these moments, take everything I have owned
and deliver it across the expressions of grief
that nearly crush me.
Ensure that I will bridge this loneliness
and unbind my heart to be set free from the cages
made of steely promises.

Grant me the peace of open air,
smiling and bright as November mornings,
and I will walk toward joy
like I am greeting
Love for the first time.

Bring on the Nights

Let the thermometer drop,
red dipping low on that totem pole
scanning the lack of flavor;
no heat in the air.

I listen to the trees crackling
and cold as they contract into their bark,
their roots curl toes up,
branches brittle as bones.

Winter always scares the studio of golden haze
that raids the gardens of their wholly won delights,
green and sweet nectar abundant in the sun--
fingers holding greedily and tight to the brilliant bunches
of the easy life of July and August.

But I say bring the nights as soon as you can.
Bring the nights full of stars and breath that freezes
before it escapes easily to earth, astounded by the beauty of pinholes
that leaped into the heavens
and dance 
unafraid to be embraced
under thick blankets
of time twisting in a dream
of lovely gaps--

the truth of the mind
suspended in the subtle body
of time.

Confession

It is better to discover solitude gently
than to receive the false cover
that delivers the violent storm;
the news of losses
not expected.

The sea takes the shore away
one grain of sand at a time..
The wind whips dark soil from the fields
and returns us to dust.
The mind is intent on navigation away from peace,
where losing purchase
on stillness
is never
completely
comfortable.

Bring me the covenant
that seals body to soul
one last time
before I burn;
a flame of forgiveness
for this life and for all
the others before this
flickering confession
of sorrow.

First Snow in Vermont

 Come, with celebration in your heart
and salvage the joy on the day
after shoveling,
frozen and dark as the solstice
looking into the stars of the longest night's
indigo expansive yawning,
and I will produce a smile
a shark would be proud of.

Love winter;
the white and barren place
between fall and spring,
and I will find a way to remind you
of the good that comes of blizzards,
hoarfrost, flurries, and the occasional
fluffy Vermont nights awaiting
those who believe.

There is a quiet that enters
with singular contentment on that day
when the first snow comes

that muffles the earth,
and when children rejoice
in the cancellations of everthing

with the exception
of this sticky beauty
that can be rolled into
forts, cannonballs,
and a village
full of people
who will melt
at the mention
of hot chocolate
and the steamy breath
making individual crystals
disappear into the fibers
of a single red mitten..

Resolution

Simply face a problem.

Look it in the eye
and don't turn away
from the body
of evidence
that points you to
resolution.

For example,

the science of water
and the power of that force
in a brook, a river,

the tides moving with the energy
and light of the moon,

the way cells of a flower
drink up the liquid
and send it to where it must go,

water dripping from a faucet in the kitchen
at midnight until you cannot sleep--
or spraying from a fountain
in an Italian piazza.

The way tears
fall, salty
until they reach
an unfortunate end
alone.

A Gentle Guide

I am blind again.
Suddenly without sight,
all I have is your hand
and the sound of the sea
that always pulses
brilliant and salty
under my skin,

simply switching
the cells of foam against the shore,
these blood-red waves crash
against the weight of the tide
giving me the necessary
distant lighthouse.

Exhausted from the looking,
I rest in this musty smell of fall
waiting for some clue,
some poem or puzzle
to touch me deeply,
some phrase to take me
back to the door of my father's house,

some loving kindness
to protect my tender feet
on this journey

like my first pair of shoes
before I learned to dance.

A gentle guide
at the small of my back.

Home Alone On a Friday Night

"Who needs Love?" you think,
Home alone on a Friday night again,

and

if you dare
ask yourself,

perhaps after the darkness of dusk,

how you will ever knit 
the jagged edges
of your wounds
back together;

how you will ever

nurse yourself toward wellness,

away from the lure of the pain
you carry in the rheum

that has become the natural gleam
in your eyes.

It is not hope that you will find
in those mirrors

but it is unquenchable sadness

that returns like a drunk to the stool
at the smokey bar
night after endless night.

Here you find yourself
alone and tired;
elated to be so addicted
to losing yourself,

falling off the wagon
of joy
again,
and again,
and over again.

Vibrant Light of Tomorrow

On the edge of illness
my brow is warm with fever
and no hand will sooth me this time.

Brick upon brick
I have built a fortress high
so that I might not look outside
these walls,

will only set the lamp
on the ledge of stone
on the nights
I am most
lonely

But tonight I am chilled
to the bone
and making exceptions
to all the rules
that require lines
drawn in the flesh
between head and heart
so that I might see

how I fit
into the gallaxy
that circles
the sound
and dizzying,
vibrant  light
of tomorrow.

Disappearing Into Each Other

Carve your thoughts from pure brilliance;
light shining into light
that makes you squint
and turn away.

Cleave the ideas of forgiveness
away from the bone,
wrench yourself free from the hold
the earth has on your mind
and you may awaken
at the turning of the key
in the lock
of this door
painted red
for abundance
of so many lives.

I am an old soul tonight.
I can feel my body buzz
with the deep knowledge
that we are
the keepers of our sisters
and our brothers
and the tongues
of the universe
as they speak to me

one gesture of kindness at a time.
One moment at the edge of jumping
into the big pond
of glistening stars.


One splash
before we disappear
into each other.

Election Night Kindness

Lean over nearer me
on election night --
let's appoint me the Queen
of the Universe
and you can be
my biggest fan.

Remind me that it matters
to vote
even though no one
ever wins here
except the Queen--
her loyal subjects
constantly falling
on their knees
in gratitude,
weeping for joy.

Kindness rules here
like the sun rises
and the moon
that is just a light
that reflects
all the rays
of the fading
from day into night.

It matters,
when all is lost,
to know that we have
been so much more
than kind.

It takes nothing from the other
to be kind and full of hope.

The Summer We Raised Chickens

The summer we raised chickens
is fading from my mind a little--

The way the feathers smell
when water,
boiled.
is poured over
the stiff white bristles.

The way twine feels
tied tight around legs that tried
to carry the body away
from the inevitable.

The track of blood
from the stump
into the long grasses
and back to the barn
and the steam.

My job
was to pluck them.
My job
was to hold them down.

My job was to remember the names
my sister gave them,
like Brownie and Skye,
and live to tell the story.

Distant Relations

I am fading tonight; pale
with only the slightest outline
sketched on my sheets,
hands tucked under my head
and breathing deeply.

My breath resonates
in a frequency
that only birds
the color of cardinals
can hear.

These bloodlines,
warriors,
are cousins
and distant relations
to the sounds of music
with no place else to go
but up.

Clouds and stars,
and sometimes a falling maple leaf,
can see beauty in all that red
and the incredible flashing
of clarity against the
cool exhalations
of snow when winter
inevitably arrives
just before we expect
seasonal gratitude.

Traveling So Far

This jagged scar;
the ridge of this lesson
prospers with parallel
tracks, brindle and dull
from disuse.

Almost forgotten letters
are traced on the inside of my lids.
When I least expect to find their raised edges
and the deafening meaning
that comes
from touching these wounds,
I encounter the cold resistance
to losing everything.

I am stumbling toward the darkness of prison--
the metal of bars pressed heavy
on my chest, my heart fearful.

As if the unbearable dream was over,
I declare I will not go back there
now that I have stopped
the bleeding
and I have remembered
the distance
of traveling
so very far
toward freedom.

The Body was Even Cold

Brace yourself
for the thud,
cold and stiff as bones
tolling like lonely

church bells,

when the ache
of your body
drops

quiet as death
from the corpse,

breath pilfered
from the pink satchel
of your lungs--

gasping for anything
like air..

This day is as precious as the last,
you think.
It seemed easier to notice the losses
when the heart pointed out
there aren't as many beautiful
morning mists or babies to kiss
on the roundness
of a cheek.

The shock of it all
was like grief.
Abrupt abandonment
awakened before the body
was even cold.

Even Oaks

Forget what you have ever known
about the core of yourself;
that pithy center that has held  you up
through the stormy days and nights
of your life until now.

Forget what it meant to waste hours, minutes
wandering through the grief of rain
you carefully weighed
on scales that measured nothing
of the soul that inhabited the space
that slipped away like leaves
letting go on cold nights.

Even oaks eventually give up
and let copper and brown
fly and give way to the wind
that remembers everything
and is content to release the silent voice
of another season
turning the corner
where memory and love
first kissed.

Doing it Right

At the top of the stairs
I hear myself scold you;
holding you accountable
over the phone for your digression.

I see myself in the mirror
and reflect on the way my mouth
tightens at the edges
and my brow gathers in a stitch
between my eyes.

I am guilty
of wanting your happiness
to flow like easy water;
a cold and deeply clear spring
that quenches your desire.

Like any mother
I want you to do it right
this time.

Cup of Kindness

When deep winter comes
and the snow chases our attention
across the fields to the stone walls
and the hem of trees,

the mind will wander to early spring
and to the sheep that stood
steaming in the heat of the stable,

their small bodies waiting for the shearing;
a sacrifice that is is always lost in their bleating.

Follow the white flakes
caught in the wind
to where memories
of  brothers laughing together,
tossed handfuls of cold at one another,
and knew what it was to silently love

and here you will find your ancestors
smiling at the door of your soul
asking to enter for a cup
of kindness.

Learn to Dance

Tread lightly
and learn to ignore
the world
that might jump
the tracks
like a machine
out of control,
swerving across the solid
lines, color flowing
everywhere.

Tread lightly
and learn to dance
alone with flare
and flounce
around the edges
of your skirt.

Beauty lives there,
in the halo
around the silences
of all that joy.

Another Way Home

My fingers have fused to the wheel
leaving this place --lost so deep
in loneliness it seems impossible to conjure
the truth of where I have been.

I inflate these tires of trust daily
hoping to spark my interest in
a new way of doing things.

Instead, I have failed to do
what was needed to be done;
to find my way out of the darkness
and sweep the path clean,

clear it of debris
that clutters my view
with so much sorrow.
Blackness in the midst
of a sunny November day
of copper light.

The Chain

In the end
I will choke
as the chain pulls tight
around my throat,

me, straining to break free
and run away from under the porch
where I have hidden for so long
from the abuses of my days--
harsh words
and the newspaper
to my nose and haunches.

I dive deep into this vision
of the links I have forged
of my sorrows
and that hold me
inches from everything .

The best I can hope for now
is to hear the metal slip,
groaning under his breath
and prayers slipping
from between my teeth
as I whistle
and call out
to anyone who will listen--

It is time to come home.

Reminders of the Way it Is

The hourglass shape
of my hip moves to my waist,
the small of my back, sighs patiently,
gasps where a partner's hand
gathers the body in,
guides me

onto the dance floor
of all dance floors
and claims me;
no time absently lapses,
leaves me wondering
which direction to move

I sway, an eel in the surf,
hoping to swim to safety
to where the sun slants through
the clear blue-green
and makes us laugh
at the silly sun
and how she counts
day after day
the beauty of skin
and hair
and all that
disappearing
blood.

Oath

October is the perfect month
to travel with your heart
after taking an oath
swollen with loving kindness

an oath to love yourself
better than you ever have

without reservation for the ways
you've lost in the past,
given everything and fallen
flat on your pride,
and come up with nothing.

This time, this day
swear to everything holy
that you will fly
like a small drop of water
blessed and disguised as a crane
taking flight from the fountain
of living words.

Retreating Storm

This private island
of suffering--

a stitch in my side
after the longest run
from my fear
and sorrow
that will not leave,

is not mine.

I will not live here,
abandoned and broken
like a lifeboat
with broken oars.

I will not be beaten
by the angry police
or the mob that would cast
stone after stone in my direction.

Instead, let me sit quietly in the sun.
Let me breathe the air
and watch the sea lap lightly
on the shore where healing grows--

This tide brings tiny treasures.
This brine gathered in the depths of grief
is dispursed with the boiling clouds
and the rain and the salty winds
of the lightness of another retreating storm.

Meteor Shower

When the embers
of this life are glowing
in the space between
ribs near the heart;

hard wood and wool
doing their best work
to warm us,

let the universe write a letter
to the evening sky,
bright with the flashes of stars

reminding the night to let go
of grasping
and settle, relaxed
into the arms of  compassion
that guides all thoughts
embracing the ideas
that have us bound
to the impossible

and have loosed us
to find what makes us
whole.

Next Time

The lead of my thoughts
swirls and flashes
like colorful fish
in a stagnant pool
of heaven.

Angels swoop
like birds of prey
and pluck ideas,
one morsel of
my humanity
at a time
from the murk
and carry 
them heavenward.

So many pieces of my soul
to scatter until next time
I am born
into a single body.

Gates of Prayer

Light this candle of peace
with conviction
and I will wait
near the altar
of that stillness,

a novitiate
with the heart
of a convert
waiting to enter
the safe gates of prayer;

waiting for this convent
of solitude
to protect me
from the fires
that rage at the core
of who I am becoming.

Prayer

This wicked heart
that holds you away, Lord,

it betrays my true self,
the woman I have
always wanted to be,

saddled like a pack animal
with the burdens
of common trauma
of broken cups, broken hearts,
and broken promises

and longs to heal the selfishness of ego
that blinds me from seeing the way
you have cleared for me and  that takes me
from the joy
that I  know
in the quiet whisperings
at dawn
with you.

Pray for the sky to open
beautiful
like the petals
of a single rose
and for wisdom to shine
on my mind
so that I might melt
my frozen fear

with the kindness
of strangers
who smile
and offer
their fortune
and ask nothing
in return.

Leather Between My Teeth

This fire,

this crown of light
that glows over my body,

is all that is required.

This is the leather
between my teeth
as I give birth
to the new days
of a life

changed
and honest
as each breath
shared in the posture
of meditation
and the movement
of loving kindness.

Feast

Feast on the light of dusk
with an abundant serving of wonder
and you will see
with perfect vision
all of what might be joy.

Sealed

For the cost of a brick
I will lift my arm
high and toss a bit of dreaming
into the night sky
where the stars have begun
dancing and singing;
the memories burrowing
into the corners of my skull.

Let me write a few lines
of a poem,
or a letter,
with the seeds of words
I find by the side of the road
or that arrived

floating above us

on a simple breeze
toward the earth;
like visitors
from another galaxy

tucked in with honest postage--

news from the trail
ahead of us
and sealed
with waxy
promises.

Resemblance

This oaken society,
this meeting of earth and mind,

quickens in a belly
ready for birth
at the root of all things
from a single seed,

ready to clear the mist
of ignorance and fear

away from the eyes
and point toward clear thinking

and the path
to the way
where we are  fully wake
from all dreams
that have become blackened
as skin left to mend after a wound,

lifeless as a motionless lung,

from not  enough
of any awareness
of anything that resembles
loving kindness.

Nothing but Their Silences

Dare to come closer
and I will invite you
to the place where my chin trembles
and whitening lips tighten
to keep the truth of everything
from streaming down my cheeks,

tears dripping
from the tremors
of my chin
crippling my voice--
unable to speak without breaking.

We are lost, my dear,
if we can't confide in each other--
if we can't look one another in the eye
and speak without reservation
about all we have shared.

This is what we women do
when we are brave as our mothers
who had nothing but their silences.
This is when we hold each other by the hand
and whisper what can not be said
out loud.

Slinking Toward the Beauty

Thoughts shreik 
in the back of my brain,
the uncontrollable children
naughty with too many words and
the mind shrouded in false wisdom
like a boastful man
slinking toward the beauty
of understanding.

I am lost in all that noise;
the clattering and chattering
of teeth and tongue
toward meaning
that is meaningless.

Instead, let peace waft
over the surface of consciousness
like fog rising up from the river
or smoke from a fall fire.

Here, around this simple flame,
the observer takes control of the situation
by letting the ego burn
like karma finally released
into the night sky.

Slouching my Way Towards Sleep

Slouching my way towards sleep
I drift quiet
with only my thoughts
to keep me from walking
to the edges of green

mowed and bristling grasses
beckoning for happiness
to come close

stretch supine
and relaxed
on my back.

Stretching

My mistakes are accrued
in the spaces between the bones
of my spine.

Lumbar seizing
with memory of wrong moves
and words that might have gone
unspoken.

Today I stretch
in a pose
that twists
and turns around
like the vine
of a morning glory
seeking the sun
with my purple blossoms
of hope.

Bones of a Tree

 Listen to the leaves rattle,
the bones of a tree
blessed with so much strength

so vibrant
even the decay of fall
can't detract from the beauty
of bark and branches.

Don't be afraid of acorns
and on cold days
rest your body near that roughness
of the great spread of wings
and breathe
until you feel the spirit shutter
with the life of earth

mined from the soil
and plucked
from the sky

like love or sadness,
so close to God ,
so sweetly given
at the end
of a barren
and broken day.

The Numbness of Water

Skating in February
I dreamed of leaps
and grace above the cold gliding;
the scrapes that would freeze
solid along the river,

freeze at the seam of the banks
of that northern place
near Canada and the superior lake.

But  I fell through
the crust of crystal
and cracking  on the Rum River
where the sun was strong enough
to ruin bright days--

let me fall through
to the numbness
of water--

hips and legs soaking,
aching for more
as I slipped
into the white boot
of my simple skates
to keep from drowning
in all that glowing snow.

When We Were Girl Scouts

When we were Girl Scouts,
our tired feet pounding the trails
and wonder swirling about us,

we climbed the lookout tower
to see the place where fires
and Smokey the Bear
knew better.

The ladder
was so tall
the girl
with braids
ahead of me froze.

Her fear held me back.

I wanted to race around her to the platform
and gaze out at the beauty above the trees;
gasp at the way clouds
skimmed the tops
of all the burning
torches of pine.

Instead,
I perfected my calmest voice
and talked my way into reason.

The view
was amazing
and I learned the power
of the sound of my voice
over  Baby Jesus prayers
and the threat
of death by flames. 

Rushing Waters

This land of foreign joy
speaks to me in a tongue
I do not recognize

My memory is gone
over some distant hill
and vanishes
without even a hint
of where understanding
might come.

Trust
that the leather
that has formed
to protect your hands
will heal
and the toughness
that has protected
will eventually
wear away.

Even granite
is worn smooth
by rushing waters.

Heaven

When life as we know it
is gone

I will not rush to the other side,
gasp at the promised white light

demand miracles of heaven.

Instead, I will walk slowly
as a monk into the dream,

like meditation
waiting to erase
the mind.

More

Walk near a nearly dry brook on these fall days,
when the sky has fallen from burning
into embers on the thirsty ground,
and you will hear
the wings of geese--

flown so many miles until dusk
overtakes them.

This husky honking
is Nature calling out
with the desire for more.

More today than yesterday
and always less than each moment
that follows in the shadow
of too much joy.

Given for No One

In a sanctuary of solitude
put fire to the votive
and kneel at the feet
of your grief.

The world you have known
depends on your tears
and unending sorrow
like the earth looks to the horizon
for new light.

Listen for the sigh
that will escape your lungs
at the end of a joyful day.

Here you will celebrate
what is rightfully yours
with a smile
given for no one
but the mirror.

Daring to Blossom

Shield yourself from the gaze
of the wickedness that has come to rest
within yourself;

that place of punishment
no one else can see
but you
standing
in your own corner
of bad.

Find the force
to walk past the statues
other souls have become
in their day in
and day out worlds,

frozen in their sadness,
still as stone
in lives that make no sense,
unable to move from a posture
of anger or fear.

On the edge of this final resting place
sit quietly and examine
a single flower
coming up through the cracks

daring to blossom
in the harsh and rocky
daylight,
in the quiet
that has become a song
waiting for you to stand up
and dance.

The Scent of Sleep

The scent of sleep
is forbidden tonight

as the soft rain
tempts Love
to enter this chamber

only to crawl

cold and wet
from the dark
into these fall sheets--

curl warm and needy
into the backs of knees,


belly heat against this strong back


arms and hands tucked just so.

Breathe shallow
and know how good it is
to be awake.

Triggers

Basil
sage
lemon balm
mint
chives
thyme--
all so fresh
after the wetness
of rain
on this trusted morning.

Go back.

Walk slowly and with a smile
to the smell of fennel
at the counter
in the warmth
of a sunny kitchen
where quiet
bruises
soft flesh
as you strip the veins
from the tenderness of that fruit.

The pungent freshness
triggers you to cry out
like you had just opened
the many layers
of an onion

or crushed
the sulpher
of a single
clove
of
garlic.

Where Memory Disappears

This liquid day shimmers
with the cold rain of late September
and we shiver knowing the rattle of Winter
just around the corner.

Her footsteps approach the door
keys jangling
and giving us warning
that she will enter the house
all too soon.

Pull the covers over your head,
children.  Don't let her take your warm
and the joy of your play in the sun.

She will find you soon enough
and take you back to that dark
forgetful dreaming
where memory disappears.

The Queen of All Your Tomorrows

Only fools rush
toward a finish

flushed and glancing behind them
to see what cruel beast nips
at the hem of the heavy memory
of her gowns.

Let your soul fly,
like your mother
or your father,
toward heaven
and that faith that carried them
to the end of their joy.

Imagine you have wings, or
better yet, are carried out of the city
by angels,
far from the bottles
and the labels
and the bodies tangled
and lashing out at God,

and release the earth
from your white-knuckled hold
and fall into the air
like you own it;

like you are the queen
of all your tomorrows.

Mary and Her Long Hair

Falling into the darkness
of the year
feel your feet ache

for oil and the warmth
of soul that might take them,
even before the cold,
into healing hands
and bring rest;
blessings.

Mary and her long hair
walk into the room,
follow you to your chair,
ask you to sit
quiet

while she takes you into her arms
with her smile
with only her attention
and words
to hold you.

When Winter Comes

This verse,
these words full of wonder
and discovery,
leave me content
as a lover adored
with the fever of a body
that voyaged through distances
and the depths of space and time,
to find another shore.

I am newly born here;
a pilgrim with a pen,
waiting to weave these words
into a simple poem-

the strongest pretty patterns offered
lovingly from the soft place
of a safe soul.

When winter comes
I will be ready.

The coals of my heart gasp
waiting for the breath
that awakens,
fully present
and wise
in the glow
of that fire.

The Edge of Everything

The dreaming I do most days now
includes a hammock
and a small cabin
where I draw my knees
to my chest,
embrace the meditation
of each moment,
and sigh
deep in a life
that guesses easily
at what stone to skip
across the imagination
toward a shore
of satisfied new vision.

It is a solid place
of earth warmed and wealthy,
where common ground
blossoms with gardens
full of flowers 
and joy is a fist
rich with abundant blossoms;
the sky discovering
the horizon
at unexpected hours
without fear
of falling
off the edge
of everything.

Alone

Alone.
I am bereft.

Haunted by shadows
of expectations
who abandon me
with their silences.

The whiskers and softness
of the future
slinks, quiet as a whisper,
near my ankles
purring and reminding me
that the longer I live

the more I must find comfort
in my own company;
love what I know
is living in trembling
just under my skin.

 

This is my son, Jonah's music. . .so amazed at his creative energy.  Wanted to share it with others here.

Above Remorse

I am fond of grace
that arrives in the fountain
of my life
like a heron
arriving, wings stretched
and floating to the edge
of some shimmering liquid space,

above remorse
for his awkward beauty.

The valley of loneliness
is behind him now.

He sits quietly
waiting for the earth
and sky to spew wisdom.

Meanwhile, the light leaves us with the summer
like water draining into the pinpoints
of the stars.

Take Aim

Assume nothing
as you take aim
and look down the barrel
of your life,
cock the hammer
and slowly pull the trigger

with your breath
that steadies everything
standing abreast;
hand at the ready
if things go wrong.

She is the constituent
of your thoughts
that wanders
off the path
and begs you
to hit the mark.

First Frost

Shade your eyes.
The sharp light of the sun
is about to make way
over these hills
and explode into
another day.

The shrill voice
of time
will not stop
the ringing in your ears

until you shrivel
and fade
like these flowers
that stand cold
on the edge
of this first frost.

The Ministry of the Body

The ministry of the body
is a mystery tonight.

Sinew and bone
woven together tightly;
arms and legs entwined
and fingers grasp
at the sweetness
before it escapes.

In this rare place
the mist of forgetfulness
wanders past fear
and crouches low,
waiting for a voice
to remind us to speak.

What was seen
is now heard. 
What was touched
is closer to God
than any hand dares
to offer comfort
until invited
to this sacred table.

The Silence Between Us

I hesitate,
a coy mistress
of the moon,
and quiver,
startled at the sound
of my lover's voice
echoing
on the water.

This reflection
in this mirror of night;
the prize I have waited for

and forgot
I already
possess,

is the silence
between us.

The Trap

The space between bread
and the breaking point
of the profit
of a happy life
is smaller than the gap
in the foundation
below the kitchen sink

where another field mouse
shimmies up the pipes
and along some edge

of metal or wood
to make her way
to the crumbs
on the counter
under the toaster.

Consent to the heat
that will erase the stale
drought of the morning.
Slather the crispiness
with butter and raspberry jam
and ignore it all

until you hear fate scratching
in that dark place near your feet
and fear will drown
in a thimble
filled with
coffee
and sweet
cream.

Gone

--For Uncle Don

When the call came in
on the Sunday morning you left us
it was more than I expected.

Gone.
Like a piece of mail
lost among the papers
and slick colorful ads.

Gone.
Like a private thought
not shared with others,
held close to the heart
so as not to hurt.

Gone.
An old joke told
where we all laugh
but don't know why
it was funny.

Gone.
Like the departing summer
trapped in the fog that gathers
near the earth at twilight
only to burn away with the sun.

I say words
that I have said a million times
and I can feel you so near
I wait for you to walk up the stairs                  
with some important bit of news
to crush this silence.

Like you were here.
Like you were smiling.
Like you had finally won
the race against all time.

Like you

were never

gone.

                                    

Growling Dark

So much
of where I have been
nips at my heels
like a hungry hound
who won't let me forget.

Some day,
like this day,
I will be even more
hungry and tired
as I reach into my pack
for some shaft of light--
some morsel I might share
with these ragged bones.

Knowing history,
my scent stronger than ever,
I will be discovered easily--
paws clicking on stones
near me.

At a cautious stop
near the summit
the sack I carry
will be nearly weightless--

only crumbs
and grains of sand 
to carry to the peak
as I follow my own karma
into the growling dark.

Flutter

Days flutter and curl around me
like butterflies flirting with flowers

before flying south.

I close the lids of my eyes
and open my heart and mind

in the breath that brings peace.

There is no fluster or fussing here.
I am silent as these wings

where everything has gone
quietly home.

Overcome

I am aghast
with belief
in the days
that dissolve
and crumble quietly
before my eyes.

A fever has overcome me
and only faith in the unseen
can cure this heat that has come up
in the center of all of who I am.

I am the prairie on fire
in the winds of each moment.

The Coins of My Good Fortune

Paint a picture
of a life worth spending
and shiver at the possibilities.

The coins
of my good fortune
will not last
in these travel clothes;
my boots worn thin
by so many miles.

The silver jingles
and is meant to be given
to the poorest days
who hold out their hands
for something more.

I cinch my belt tighter
and gather the courage
to walk with focused joy
toward the destinations

where I collapse
in laughter

and no reward
is greater
than abundant kindness.

The Stranger

Fear crawls on her belly
out of the current of ignorance
and through the shadows of doubt
with a knife clutched in her teeth.

Just like in the movies,
she is stronger than you expect,
silently plotting her way
into the peaceful life

you hoped
to find in a small,
yet cheerful, cottage of comfort.

Breathe through the discovery
that she is right there with you
and closer than you could have ever
imagined.

Hands on my Hips

Some days when I stand
hands on my nude hips
in the cape of a towel
over the slope of my shoulders
and stare at the blemishes,
deep scars,
and imperfections of time,

this old and leaking ship
of a body says to me
in the honest mirror,

 "Go home."

Knowing that there are only
so many calendars pages to turn
until I have used this one up;

I count the days,
one precious sunrise at a time,
and can't help
but smile
as I give them all
away with so much joy.

Not Soon Enough

My memory chirps
with the days I was limp
from heat
and waiting for
the last flutters of robin red
or flash of blue birds

A gull in the turned fields
and the smell of the earth,
fresh after harvesting the last hay,
makes so much sense
on the top of the rake
pulled behind the old International.

I welcome the crunch of leaves
and the chill that has me
hightailing it
under the thick layers
of blankets
and early nightfall.

Mirage of Myself

The fall comes to these hills
draped in the red leaves
of the whispering trees.

Even with these voices
I am lonely
and as parched
as the shimmering
mirage of myself
I have become
after summer's tiring heat.

Who would I be if not filled
with these forgotten sands
of the desert?

Courage now
let's me cross alone
with nothing to guide me
but the stars and words
I can barely remember.

Prayers for loving
rise up
and the moon
gathers them gently
to her abundant breast
and blows cool
on the cruel burns
left by the
sun.

A Cup of Tea

Place your palm gently
on the curve of my cheek
as you tell me another story.

I can see that your fingers are crooked
and screeching with constant ache
of joints that have done
many hard days of work.

At this small table
with a cloth as bright as morning,
I will spoon honey
into your tea
and forgive you for your distance--

remind you how far
you have wandered
away from the place
that was always meant to be
your home.

Sunrise II

Stir these prayers
until they bond with
all the villains
and struggles of the day
and help me to understand

where I begin
and where I end.

Is it my hand that stops
the touch of a child from getting in?

Is it my ears that have forgotten
the tune of a favorite old song?

Is it my eyes that won't see the words
that were written to give relief
and comfort?

Is it my mouth
that speaks words
that are empty
like a vessel barren
of hope?

I am the hurt
that we all carry
heavy from the fields.
I am the tears
on the face of a dirty
and hungry child.
I am the confusion
and longing
in the heart of a lover
left alone to find
herself.
I am the insult,
the ignored joy;
the laughter
never shared.

I press my palms together
and bow my head
in thanksgiving.

The guilt
for the anger
that crosses my day
slows me down
long enough
to catch my breath,
to look up from
my feet on the path,
and to really see the sun
rising.

Sunrise I

On this day
that has risen to the top
of joy
like cream
on mornings at the farm

I drink deeply,
swallowing the comfort
of a clear mind,

climb to the top of a hill
where I can see the horizon
and the seam
where sky meets
the edge of the day

and smile
knowing the smooth
line will slide
with nearly no resistance

into tomorrow.

Meeting Blue Moon at the Shore

How can I
wrestle my mind free
of the guilt
that arrives with
this lovely escape
to the ocean
and the intimate company
of Blue Moon.

I have missed her so
and the way she tucks herself
shy under the cover of clouds.

To my delight,
she slides smooth
out of the darkness
to greet me.

I cross the sand,
holding my breath
and all these secrets--
cool under my feet,
and laugh quietly
knowing joy
comes with the playful
sound of water
gentle at this shore
of all this
shining possibility.

The Sin of My Poetry

There is gold in these words;
greed hammered from the earth
and from a lifetime
of looking at the skies
waiting for heaven to arrive
with a fanfare and angels.

God will punish me
for the words I have come
to say out loud,
the sin of my poetry
describing the contours
of the body and the ways
in which joy
is gathered at the tips
of fingers and trembles
in my skin
like silent
frequencies of light--
like the rumbling ridges
of faultlines
deep in the granite ledges
beneath my home.

Yet I sit still
and ask quietly
where to touch
the paper with ink,
and on which
I will write
the words
that tell the truth
of my days,
and of all the nights

I have begged
to be taken away
in my sleep;
to fly free
of all that holds me
too tightly.

I long to be naked,
arms lifted up like a child
wanting to be held,
with only the exhalation
of a single breath
between me
and the God
who will take me,

show me
the brilliance
of repentance
in counting
the endless gems
of stars
in the arrival
of another
glistening winter.

Yield

This boiling pot.
This simmering anger
waited to erupt
and claim
the life I wanted
for just a moment

until I remembered to surrender
to the ways at the end of a day;
relaxes into sleepiness
and yields to the stillness

that is enough
to force even to most
reluctant smile
to appear over the horizon
of all my hope.

Toward Home

My body
leaks,
impressed by
the statue of your body

not perfect but

belly is sculpted
just as it was meant
to be;

wishing mine was too.

The contour of my hip
is not stiff.
 but smooth
and rounds us
with comfort

so that hands
that might grasp
with mindfulness
and purpose

before we walk the next leg
of the journey
toward home.

Late August

Every day now
my hair
slips
more and more
toward grey.

I don't mind
as youth oozes out
and the pages
of the calendar
wander past

nonchalantly
sipping nectar
sweetly

noticing it is a matter
of time
until darkness falls.

Vermilion

Color my world vermilion--
the China red
that forces abundance
into the palm,

assumes the personality of prosperity
and the purity of steam--
that little engine tugging away
at a long row of cars rolling slowly
down a shining track.

The whistle blows in warning.

It is too much.  It is too steep.
It is. . .

But tomorrow is a new day
and I know I can do
what must be done.

I know it
like a soldier knows
the battle is won or lost
almost always before
the first shot
is fired.

Before any bodies
go missing.

Long before
the white flag goes up
and the enemy takes all.

Crumbling of Bridges

The milky edges
of the fog
trace heavenly fingers
along the lusty curves
of the river.

These sermons are damp and wet,
wanting the cool of August nights
to burn off and fly away before 
chill of  morning,naked and looking
for morning

like the cutting
of the raven's wing before flight
and the crumbling of bridges

--the last swim
before the water
and winter frees.

Simple Gift

Imagine
that life is simple.

The shade of a tree
gives us the footprint
of comfort and light.

We weave our lives together
in so much joy it is hard
to know what it might be
to go on without the others.

Pluck that peach off the tree
and sample the sweetness
so that you might know
it is good and right
to enjoy the taste.

Pleasure
floods the mouth,
and all the senses,
for a moment

and then
is gone.

Like the harvest,

winter not far away,

rejoice

and know
what it is to examine
this

simple

gift

of

time.

Thread This Life

When I consider
the eye of the needle
that I must thread
this life  through,

I understand
that I am most wise
to let the universe come to me,
language rolling
like prayer off the tongue

and leading my words
like music
to God's open heart;
unafraid of loving
too much.

Gather My Sins

Let me gather my sins
in a satin basket;

let the heaviness
of that delicate collection

hold me to the earth
like ballast.

I will eventually give them all away,
one heartache, hurt, and worry at a time,

until I burn
like karma
on the horizon
of heaven;

golden in my leaving
and hot from the fires
of that flame.

Moon Swoon

Press your lips
sweetly against the pastel
of that crescent of a moon.

I swoon
just thinking
about a swim
in those waters.

Surrender Everything

Surrender everything.

The way you make your bed
or your coffee with brown sugar and cream--
the crusty bread of the day
slathered, thick and sweet,
with apricot jam
for breakfast.

Forget the decaying of clocks
that try to keep you on time;
the journal
and the words
that seem
surprisingly sane.

Surrender suffering
and the floundering
of work; the polite banter
of tasks that have long ago
lost their meaning.

Give up grasp of the earth between toes
and, better yet, under your nails,
as you dig up witch weeds that grow
faster than flowers, fava beans,
or garlic, chives; even purple and green
 bruises of mint leaves.

Pry yourself loose from the fat fingers
of children who touched your face
and looked you daringly in the eyes;
who kissed you on the mouth
with real passion,
and love kindness--
not to be matched
in the careless exchanges
of adult currency.

But most of all,
tear it down,
that ramshackle dwelling
where memory drags you
into the grave
crying, misunderstanding,
arguing again and again
with a longing
that you never really owned.

It was, after all, just a roof
over your head
lacking a real foundation
and nothing but cold stone
to build a life around.

Fair Weather

If there is something I have learned
it is that lightning strikes
in the same bitter place
twice.

The smoke of that fire
welcomes me again,
making me feel sure of myself;
like nothing ever happened.

The sun shining
on a cloudless day
could never turn dark
or the grey green
of twisters;
nothing like that
ever happened.

But I fall
on my knees
and pray
to remember
myself
even when the forecast
predicts fair weather.

I remember
that blue skies
are exactly what  I must
watch the horizon for
and prepare for any signs
of storms  I will make for myself.

The sweetness of rain
is a smell I know--
electric and charged
with the source
of God's laughter.

Into the Wind

The spray at the bow
of the ship freshens my face
on this day of sailing into  a wind

that has no trace of regret
but lifts me up:
as a bouy in the night

with a fuse for light
charged by the sun-
eternally grateful

for a way to find my way
even when the hull is damaged
and there are no stars
to guide me home. 

Perfect

Deep inside everyone
there is a breath
waiting to be taken

by a breeze
that moves
hard and so clean
against everything
and is perfect
for drying clean sheets
and is perfect
for children running
and laughing out loud
and perfect

for building a life
filled with so much ease and joy.

Like the Worms Do

Taste the earthiness
of this day
like the worms do

Mortar between
the sunrise
and the setting
that will rise
in the night.

Dress in a gown of stars
made by your mother,
perfect in every way,

and dance
as if tomorrow
was only
a dream.

Grit
between
your hungry
teeth
devouring
each moment
as a sweet gift.

Dharma Punx

In the garden
the chill of August arrives
after the fever of summer
put us all into the sleepy haze
of forgetting the sinew and bone
of winter's stark mornings
where sea ice creeps onto shore
and builds castles
with the frosty tongue
of solstice.

Golden globes of tomatoes are popped
into my mouth for dinner.
Green beans are tucked into the front
of my daring black tee shirt
that reads
"Dharma Punx"
and makes me feel stronger

for meditating
on beginnings
and endings of breath

and these thoughts
at the seams long days
running into long nights
and the sculpted arms
and smooth lines of legs
that will pose prettily
and stretch
to do all they can
to finally make me whole.

Journey of Discovery

Tell me about solitude
and I will invite you to visit

ferry yourself across the morass
on the raft I left on the other shore
just in case I needed a friend.

The moat I have dug
around my foundation
crumbles in quiet confusion.
Not even a mouse dares
to scale these walls
fearing the earth
will melt
under her feet
causing her to fall
victim to these dark waters.

I am alone
waiting for a story
about recovery,
redemption,
or something
that looks like love
to sail her ship
toward these shores
unafraid of what
the journey of discovery
might bring.

Breaking Glass

Skate or glide with light
the waves on this sea break glass
bring the stars near home.

Blink

 Blink
and the day
that you had before you
is gone
and you are a ghost
of who you thought you wanted
to be.

Conceal joy
for one moment
and it is lost
like a cinder tossed
by heat into the sky
above the roaring
of the fire
that was your life.

Table of the Chosen

Nibble on the toe of a radish
or a musty piece of bread
like they were a feast
and know that you are sitting
at the table of the chosen.

We care not
when laughter and loving company
thrives and expands with the seasons;
the abundance of so much awareness
of the gift we are given to have
each moment.

Walk the beach
and lick the salt from your lips
or look into the distance at the lighting
that brings the storm crashing next to the sea.
The foaming waters
cleanse you as you swim toward shore
where you will find
your true companion
waiting to take you home.

The sand is cool under your feet
and you will circle back to this edge
like a saint
hovering near the oak
strong and sure
of the way
the wind
will not break these branches
until it is too late to care.

Burn Like Karma Leaving

This anger, a raging fire in my heart,
has risen up in defiance of the sting of suffering.
There is no cool water
or lush green in this place.
No soft pillow
on which to rest
my weariness.

I am inconsolable
as a child without her mother.

I want to lash out
and turn the venom
of my mind's enemies
into mist, smoke, sweat,

the ghost of another soul,

and let this violence, like karma,
leave me as all dream does. . .
a wisp of the poison
I serve myself
after feasting
on another dance
that leaves
my feet bleeding;
my lessons learned
too late.

Walls

Building walls
was never easier
when the the plaster
made of anger and frustration
poured into my blood
and bricks hardened
before my eyes
and between my clenched teeth.

But this new life
near gardens and growing green
folds me in the arms of god
like sheets billowing
in the spring air
and the luster of light
has me laughing
with so much joy.

Walls crumble
in so much loving kindness.

Sacrifices of a Full Heart

Why laze in bed on this day
when I am already fully awake
as the sun rises over the ridge
and paints the hills of Vermont
creaamy like the foam on an ocean
swaying and fluttering golden as prairie grasses?

Find me scurrying up these departed stones of emotion
toward the places where joy lashes herself to the bold face
of wind that scrapes heavy hurts away
one grain of sand at a time.

I will pretend no more.
No more darkness when morning, like this one,
restores me with color of August flowers
and a sea of healing words.

Only gratitude for life's gifts.
Sorrow and regret
will be left
to dissolve
in these mists
of forgetfulness.

Sacrifices of a full heart.

Beloved

I vanish again tonight,
seeking peace in a sluggish world
where selfish vision
clouds our view.

Almost lost, often confused
by this senseless way,
I reach for the hand
of your spirit self;
sturdy and strong
as if the eclipse of many lives
never separated us.

I want to somehow remember
that this game of time
never taught us anything
but to pretend to say goodbye. . .
nothing less than
a slit to the wrists;
a dagger sharp
and full of suffering.

 I spread my darkest wings
in this sky of longing
and search the tides and moonlight
for the stars to guide my way
back to the arms
of the beloved
and all the ways
we know love.

Prayer

This prayer,
this soothing chant,
voice of mystery made human,
settles into my breast
like a mother's milk
comforting a child
at the end of a long day
of struggle.

Let me rest my head
at the crook of your arm
and place my face
warm on that open strength
and I will sleep
with the peace of knowing
loving kindness
forget everything--
the suffering
of the mind.

Suffice it to say
that we all suffer.
The path is full of clutter
and weapons  we will never see
until we stumble and find ourselves
lost in the jumbled heap
that we call living.

Restore order
and peace will find you.
Restore peace
and loving kindness
that comes from the soul
will be your constant companion.

From peace and loving kindness
chaos matters not.

Breath of the Earth

The world,
divided at the great river,
contracts and expands
like a breath
in the morning.

Today I am aware of my roots
like a willow looking for water.
There are photographs
and smells of home.
The sound of laughter
tames me as I match my experience of love
with the cells of the people who raised me.

Bring me home
to the edge of the prairie
and let the breath of the earth
transform the frame of my body
into shelter for my children;
the the memory of sacred space
that will sustain their
hearts until they drift
into the stars to find me.

Atonement

How does one atone
for the days
when you grit your teeth
and let the knot in your belly
spill bile
into the spite you carry
like prayer beads
through your days?

Count the errors,
the harm,
the harsh words,
the deeds done
and left undone,
one sin at a time,
and you will know
your suffering
a thousand times over.

Here you are a shadow of yourself
that joy forgot to cultivate
and that laughter
will never truly find.

Give it away,
this ill gotten treasure,
this inheritance of grief,
Give it all away to the passing breezes
where no thought stays for long
and be free to walk away
into the arms of the beloved.

Singing Prayers

I chant
loving kindness
with the Master.

Metta  
May you be safe and protected.
May you be strong and healthy.
May you find love and peace.
May you live at ease and with so much joy.

My voice directs my prayers
to sail to the ears of God
as my heart,
the magnet for all suffering,
releases the pain gathered
in a fire that warms us
and takes the shiver
from the lonely nights.

Metta 
May you be safe and protected.

May you be strong and healthy.

May you find love and peace.
May you live at ease and with so much joy.
I see you
and I bow, brow to the earth,
knowing this illusion
will fade
and flow away
like the river
takes the petals
of summer
to the sea.

Om Namo Bagavate Vasudevaya.

Om
Om
Om

Subsume

This trial

of the setting sun

where the skies suffer

with light;

flashes with color

and a hint of the man

in the moon,

with his knowing

and all that wisdom,

is almost more than

I can endure

after so much darkness.

I would do anything

to ascend those stairs

and be subsumed

by the strength

of that body.

But my bones are weak

from bearing the weight

of others and their stories

of so much pain.

I ache for

renewal.

I look at the

waxing moon

and wail

for the next 

world to come.

Letting Go

This curtain,
white and beautiful,
is my respite;

the quiet swish
of all that pursues
my mind,

makes the thoughts scurry
and rush through the days
and the nights.

I am a woman in thrall
to the promise
of small steps

toward understanding,
the peace of solving puzzles,
and finding

that nothing
can be free
that is offered
with a smile.

Only the bowing act
of prayer
and the curve
of the expanding heart,
or perhaps the dusty foot
on the path,

make it possible
to let go.

Untitled

I bristle at the ways I have tangled myself
into trust.

My lip quivers at the truth
pleading to release
all the fear and anger
at what I must see.

There is nothing to figure out
on this path along the waters
where negotiation is lost among the rushes.

Release all that holds me to the thorns
and thistles.  Let me sink into the flowers
and the enchantment of everything
that sets me free. 

More

Harvest the stars
like a whistle of blue
and peel back the veneer
of summer like siding
on the old homestead
bubbling off of all memory
in the heat.

Paw your way
through the green and yellow beans
and you will  feel the itch of your skin
and the anticipation of your mouth watering
with delight at the ways that butter
and a little salt
light up when you
place the tender bites
between the chewing
of delight.

Pick a perfect peach.
Peel the husk
of a squeeking ear
and find treasure.
Tomatoes full of juice
and flavor like nothing else
you will ever taste.

 Stand bare foot
in the cool of the grass
at dawn
and know
that you are more alive
on this day
than you ever imagined
was possible.

Tomorrow,
more.

This Wild Longing

Nodding to Mary Oliver

You do not have to be good.
You do not have to know the intimate ways
of the world to be sure
you are worthy
of love.

Brush your finger along the back of my hand
or smooth the softest skin of my cheek
and know that the gristle
of the uninvited sorrow
and unrequited love
is all I have had
at my meager table
until you.

This wild longing,
this rain on the dry and damaged fields,
is what heals and gives hope for a new way
where lonely is forgiven
and I offer myself,
harsh and exciting,
to the universe
full of the flight
of migration
toward
the soul's home.

Tuck into the Night

Yield to the way
that the night hushes
at the leaving of the day.

You have had to haggle
with the mind
and all that wandered
near you.

At midnight you,
the auger of your own life
the wise one within,
is just a bird
tucking into the next
for sleeping.

Let Sleep Come

Let sleep come.
Let me surrender to the silence
of the mind and relax into dreaming.
Let sleep come.
Let the body renew
and rest like it must do.

Let sleep come.
It is as easy as this breath
and letting go
of everything.

Ashes

 Embrace the ways you are attached
to the world. . . .pungent and moist with life
like a loving embrace on the hottest days
of August.

The air is stale and full of the ashes
of so much grief and memory
it hurts to breathe.

Bring the rain,
or so many tears,
to wash the body clean
and let the spirit soar free.

Wounded

 Let the sliver of the idea
fester in the mind
and it will begin to throb
like a thorny gouge under the skin
activating the nerves and inviting infection
until you debride the soul
of the ooze,
puncture the slippery sack
of white cells and the ways
you've tried to protect yourself
and failed.

Break it open.
Clean it out.
Let the wound heal,
scar over,
and live to tell
the story
about the battle
that left all these marks.

What Else

Breathe.

What else is there 
on a day where I wear grief
so close to my skin
and sweat at the real heat
clinging to life
like the one I am living?

The beads of prayer
that act honorably to hold my spirit,
and all the days I have,
with small and loving knots
are mysterious clues
to the universe.
The tiny globes of stone
are wrapped around my wrist
and in the sound of air that enters
and leaves me
one
after
another.

Remind me
of the gift,
the one of a child,
like the petals
on a thousand flowers
in a field where friends
and souls know where
to meet
and laugh
like sadness
was forgotten
so long ago.

Pardon

Pardon me.

Forgive me for my sins.
Let that grace of loss
erase all the suffering
from heart and mind
and expand toward an ease
between us.

Let peace flow
as if the dam burst
and washed all that was
unclean and clean
toward the shore
of renewal
and let me breathe
as if nothing ever happened.

Words

Without them
I feel lost
and unready to make my way
toward meaning.

The buttons are lost,
torn from the seams and away
from the convenient places
they used to fit.

I am left
looking at the blank sky
and waiting
for the moon
to rise
so that I might remember
the rhythm and the rhyme
that spell the words
that trace each letter
into the small
of my back.

I sweat
just thinking
of the ink
that dissolves
into the flow
of blood
under
this
skin.

Tarry Not

Spare me.

Listen to the lingering Soul
near the doorway

where you will leave me again
in this lifetime,

just like all the others,
hand on the window--

tapping as you catch my attention
on your way down the tracks.

It is like that
as the breath leaves a body.

The vapors of decay
suddenly sweet,

like wine,

and then the life
you have been living

is cradled in the arms
of  the angels of transition

and you are released
like a thousand petals

into the wind
where no memory

holds you to this place.

You are a child again
full of joy,

and the pain
you owned is given away

to another soul who,
like a fire burning at the candle's wick,

must do all that is possible
to snuff itself out.

Tarry not near the smiling  stories.
Make your way into the darkness
and find my hand.

Here I will promise you
never to cry again.

Morning

Jump with a lean force
into the keen view of morning.

Find clarity
not with reason
but with the wisdom
of heart and the healing
of a new day.

Slipping Away from Solstice

Savor these days of solstice
as the sun slips away,
swerving across the white line
of summer in the sky
toward oblivion
and back again,
sidling the truth
of winter
and the silvery slices
of the moon
and all these increasingly vibrant
stars.

Walk into the water
without shivering
and saddle the joy
that wakes
within.
Let the liquidity
of quiet surround you.

Sigh deeply
after you surface,
completely aware
of the subtle energy;
the pull of gravity
on the core of your body,
like the planets
coming into alignment
with God.

A Few More Days

Longing for the serene mind
that soothes the flapping flag
frayed with all these thoughts
bandaged again
with gauze and cool ointments
into the core of the wounds
carried from day to day.

Tip-toe from one cut
or gash to another bloody tear
and place the back of the hand
gently on the heat of the infection
until the skin is comforted
and relief is obvious.

Hold my hand
and tell me lovingly
that the end is not so near
that we can't find our way
toward joy
for a few more days
and let the sun
glow
lovely on
our cheeks as we drift
into sleeping
for a little while.

The Healing Place We Begin Again

Refresh the air with the prism of peace and let the ocean surge with such quiet power.
Prana, the force of life, is a place where
we all can meet under
the green calm of the fir
and understand the healing place
where we begin again.

Future

I am so full tonight

The world overtaking me with the will

and speed of asking too much.

Feeling cursed by what I know and by the ways

healing is not enough to make me whole again.

What if I could predict the future?

Flip a coin in the air-

silvery circles in flight to determine

my fate.  Not enough to bring

pure understanding

of every move that could be made

and universal knowledge

that would make us god and goddess

deciding on abundance and privation

just like every life

traced in the palm

of a single, lonely hand.

Forgiveness

Tap at my window,
urgent with thoughts
that will pacify the ways my heart
speaks into the darkness
of this night.

There are so many ways
to rectify all the wrongs
that haunt my waking and sleeping
by listening to the crickets
and watching the moon rise
slowly into the stars.

I am breathless
knowing I am not alone.

Untitled II

Sometimes I am
the intrepid interloper
into my own life,
this covert mission of awakening
as if I am alien to all these days
launching grief
into the places
where kindness thrives
in the gardens
among the flowers
and inside the pods of peas
and the lengths of spinach
on a stem.

I have forgotten
after so long
that I don't speak the language
and have no way of gathering hope
into the baskets of experience
that are disguised and carried home
from the village center.

It is a relief
to know
that I am
sustained
and will not
be discovered
until after the moon rises
and blankets the earth
with silvery silence.

Sanctuary

My home-
the territory I have claimed
for myself-
is full of the energy
of the ways I have crafted
the beginning of something new.

 We pray
and light candles
at the altar of my table.

We sing and dance
in the practice of leonine ways-
strong and full of voice
that  rings true with mighty force
of will and kindness for the world.

My slavish ways to flowers
and elders
and my children
can not to be helped.

These beings
are full of wisdom.

This place
my sanctuary
of peace.

The Fraternity of Avian Beings

Each morning
at my window,
my face swollen
from the night of slumber
and succulent dreaming,
coffee hot in my mug
and mind fresh with thinking,
I surrender my attachment to the earth
as it has come to hold me still
and join the fraternity of avian beings
beckoning me
from just outside the glass
and wooden nest
I have built for myself
on the edge of the dancing grasses
and light of this field.

In this place
I sing,
not for a mate
or to mark my territory,
but rather
for the joy
of my life
and the honorable gift
that can only be given away
when the voice
and the heart
are taken into flight.

Crescent Angel

 When the moon is high,
glide past joy
in that delicate glacial light
to the edges of the crescent angel.

Be courageous.
Let  your heart sing
knowing the depths
of your soul
have been given away,

the crevasses
of greed
gone,

the mountain
of kindness
ascended

and nothing left
of your spirit
remains
to be desired.

Umbra

I am a shadow of myself
as I ascend into the market
of the streets
after the silence of mind
in meditation.

I stop at the edge of the world
to buckle my soul into a safe place
for the path to enlightened dreaming
smiling, knowing all the others
who have made their way
before I will join them

chant with so much joy
as the prayers pour
through a voice
that is the light
behind the darkness;
the impression
of the hand
at the small of the back
of a partner
ready to dance.

Know that our play
with the shadow puppets of this life
is the abundant love we wish
to light at the wick and wax
 of each day.

The eclipse of heart
over thinking
is almost more
than I can carry alone.
Black is, after all,
the garmet
of all color
gathered
in one
weaving
of space
between the stars.

Fool's Errand

Deplete the reason.
Make the mind go wanting
in a whorl of  feeling-
the great unknown-

like the water rushing and spinning
toward the opening
of a funnel,
ready to syphon every drop
of kindness
from the day,

only to discover
the velvet comfort
of soothing words
that bypass logic
and the ways letters
find cruel paths
to make the strong
stumble and stutter
on a fool's errand

near the place
we always bargain
with joy.

Consumed

On the last day at the beach
I walk full of words
and full of love
that collects in me
like all the days
of a lifetime
in one moment

I am the sands
after the storm
that displays the beauty
and the bounty of the sea.

Shell, pink sea weed,
stones the size of a hand
and glass washed smooth
next to cages and bits of frayed rope
at my feet.
I want to gather it all in my pockets
and drag myself back to the inland
with my treasures
no matter how heavy
and cumbersome
they become.

It is my gourd of water
on the desert.
The spray of saltiness
on my lips
the longing for more days
like this day.

I fall to my knees
at the edge of the sea
like falling
vulnerable,
enchanted
and gladly consumed
by so much love.

Shining and Heavy with Love

I owe the universe a great debt
for letting my soul
return to this much
joy once again.

The payment is lengthy
and has me swapping slumber
and a single breath at a time,
gasping with pleasure
toward the end
of all endings,

each small coin
shining and heavy
with love,

until the fuse
of this lifeline
fizzles
at the frayed ends
of  these measured days

and releases me back
to forgetting
how it all fits

together.

3:07 a.m.

Shave a sliver
of this silver moon

from the dark of the night
and I will shiver

as you whisper
my name.

Wake me
with the breath

of your breathing
and I will moan

low in my belly
wanting more

than the imagination
can promise.

Seascape

Sit for a moment in silence in my chair
and watch the way the sun makes a firey red path
away from the horizon,
accurate as any explorer with a well worn sextant
on the sea where the shore is in sight.

Come to me and I will gladly give you lodging, a berth,
in the oakum mess of my hair
and in the arms that ache for the warmth
of skin.  This journey is so long
and the sea so wide.

My ship is so small.

It means something to breathe quietly
from the chair of a woman
who sails into new waters
looking for calm harbors -

watching the horizon
for home.

Caution is a marking on the bow of a stranger,
a signal flag
that cannot be overlooked.

No Return

On the days the valley of the body is empty,
this place where stones are cold
and sand blows biting me
in the face,
I seek all that might
restore me
to the ghost
I once was.

I pray
that the ways
of pretending joy
are over.

Even on dark days
where clouds touch the water,
this shore, ocean and tides
fill me with healing
like the voice of God
whispering my name.

I can sleep here
and I dream
of only
the ways the winds
and the sun
make me whole.

Here I cast out my line
into the surf
knowing the hook
will drag the body
from where it has settled
and does not want to return.

Learning to Swim

I choke.
I sputter.
I give up
and rise to the surface
of the water and float,
resigned to the ways
that water releases me
even when I am lost
in the waves
of doubt
like today.

This clean and clear womb
comforts me under the open sky
and I swim in peace
under the stars
and watch the moon rise
over the mountain
and climb
toward heaven.

In this dreaming of no fear
I learn to swim
with so much strength
toward a shore
that welcomes me
like home.

Before We Were Born

There is no medal
given for the softness
of mothering.

No degree awarded
or measurement of the joy
 a woman gathers
as she gently offers her nipple
to the mouth of a child
and he attaches himself
hungrily to the milk
lifted from the center of her bones.

The body gleans
what it needs
from the warmth of skin
and the flow of the universe
from one soul to another
in the silent exchange
of these moments.

The soul is sustained
by the loving kindness
curled into the days and nights
of a lifetime of visiting
the bond made
before we were born.

Aura of Blue

Looking at the face
of the ocean,
I am in awe
of so much beauty.

The spark that reignites
my soul lives here
in the aura of blue
and green just at the surface
of the vast waters.

My smile
is automatic, almost spasm,
as I walk onto the sand.

It is joy to see this old friend.
It is peace that we share.

Galaxy of Souls

Somewhere,
hidden in the company of my blood
and with all the others who love me,
there is the tinder
that starts the fire in me
each morning

waking me
to the warmth
of the home
where this body
has learned
to live

and recognizes
the constellation
where the galaxy
of souls
began.

The Sound of Our Names

At midnight
under the dusting of stars
let me pad across the still warm pavement
to the sound of the waves
and renounce the world
where work and the sound  of busy days
dulls with each rise and fall of the tides
on the shore.

In the cloak
of the sky's dark laughter,
hold my hand
and tell me
a story
about the end
of the world.

Tell me about
how we leave this place
smiling and gasping
with so much love,

forgetting the words
for everything
except for the sound
of our names.

Asking for Forgiveness

Some Sundays
I plead with God,
bitter and bursting
with the bile of anger
mined from too many years
of cringing in my own private prison
waiting for a flare to show me
the way out-

fearing it might never come

pretending it doesn't matter
I've had to overlook
my own joy.

But today,
on this Sunday at the sea
I am at the House of God.

I pray in peace,
each step painless penance,
as I walk along the shore
and marvel at the color
of the light
as it flows through water
and into the stones
that used to be anchors
on the sand.

The breezes are perfect here
and the sun
burns away all traces
of the many sins
I have committed against
my own soul.

I kneel
under the blue of the sky
asking for
forgiveness.

On the Way to the Shore

In the long discussion
with my sacrum
about the trip to Maine
we argue
in a spasm
where only oil
and warm hands
of a professional
will get us talking again.

It is my impulse
to give up,
tired after a long day
of working with the plants
and in the garden,
let her win
and let her just complain
about needing to get out
of the car and walk,
get a drink
and a hand full
of pills.

I resist
and remember
the yoga
and the way that breathing
puts my feet on the ground,
and stretches gently
and frees the body
from the demands
of the mind.

Tomorrow we will walk
peacefully, knowing we both win,
on the shore
in the morning
at dawn.

Served

Grate fragrant cheeses
over beautifully made penne,
serve with lightly sauteed
asparagus and musky mushrooms
like this is how you eat
every day-

pluck the quills of rosemary
from the arboreal branches outside
the kitchen
and toss them into
the bowl 
with abandon,

olive oil
and a twist of lemon.

Swish and splash a bit of red wine
the color of Christ
into the round globes
of glasses and tip them
carefully toward each other
until the light chime
of longing disappears

and dinner
is finally served.