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.