The Last Hours

The sky clears

suddenly

as the year quietly closes her door

and we count our blessings--

everything we’ve lost.


We scramble,

shuffle,
sift

through the dust

of another year,

as if we’ll not get another,

and the honest truth

will be found

staring us in the face
eye to eye,

breath into precious breath,

as the sun awakens to new day.


For now,

it is enough

to place a hand
on the warm skin

of your breast;

chest rising and falling,

and feel
the loneliness
of a solitary heart.


For now,

it is enough

to notice the last hours

of silence and wine

and remember all

that will be left at the altar

of longing for endless

heavy days of all this humanity.

Near Midnight

The tea
in my cup
has gone cold
near these abandoned poems
and the pen that has written them.

I sip the sweetness
without heating
the dark comfort again;
letting the unwanted
losses empty into my mouth.

It is a long ritual
to read the words aloud,
scratch out a word or two,
and surrender to the call
of midnight
and the longing
for the false hope
of sleep.

I pick up the cup,
wander through the kitchen
like a dream,
and climb the stairs
to the singleness
of my bed.

Potage

The simple menu
is bread and hearty potage
made of the abundance of the land
nearest us.

We light the candles,
bow our heads,
and look one another in the eye
long enough to notice gratitude
for the loving kindness
present at the table.

Laugh with me.
Sip table wine.
Tell me a story
to sustain me
another day.

Into The Darkness

The night awakens slowly
to an Advent sky
awaiting some old sun
that is long gone
under the cawing
of darkness.

We are breathless
and cold on these days,
forgetting comfort
and the weightless light
that allows us to fly.

Crouch nearer to me, Love,
nearer the gravity of earth
and help me to launch,
push into the darkness,
past the waning moon
and into all the inspired stars.

What We Carry
-for Ruth

Open any woman’s abundant pocketbook
and you will see
what she carries
to make it through
her days.

The shopping list.
The list “to do” jotted
on the back of an old envelope,
A comb
and a few coins
for the ferryman, pens, cough drops,
lip stick, ticket stubs,
earrings, apple slices and a few almonds.

Tissues and tablets for pain,
a wallet for photos of so many children
and a license to drive—
keys to everything.

But you carried us all
in your womb,
in your heart,
in your arms.

You carried us
in your dreams,
in your prayers,
in your hands.

You carried us in the river
of your body’s blood
to lighten our load,
to help us to see

to the ends of the earth
where memory
of the great ocean
of laughter
and peaceful words
lives in each wave
that touches our feet
on that path
across the sandy shore.

Harvesting the Bodies

It was the November day
for harvesting the bodies
of the many flowering souls
who lifted arms
and smiling faces to God
all summer long.

I waited for the blue bachelor's buttons
and the brown husks of sunflowers,
cosmos pink,
and abundant purple moon flowers
as they gasped their last breath of the season--
as they fell to the earth to be gathered
and put to rest.

Such daisies danced near the black eyed Susans.
False indigo and bee balm,
mint and foxglove tumbled
after the blade and my small hands
said goodbye for the winter.

The sharp spade cut the skin of dirt and grasses open
just long enough to tuck the hearts of daffodils,
a few tulips, crocus, and snowdrops
into the cold chest of darkness
to wait for silence to unfold
one petal at a time.

Contemplating an Afternoon Nap, November

The grasses are honey
and swaying liquid light
where the swamp chirped and croaked
last summer, fire flies twinkling
and flirting with the night.

The bones of these slender bodies
chatter in the breezes now,
barely able to speak
except to balance between the whisper
of November shivering
and the howl
when the darkest blizzard
is yet to come.

I huddle with my strong tea
while the ocean of honest autumn
laps at the shore of my consciousness
and begs me to close my eyes for a few moments.

It is enough to rest
while the afternoon
gulps and rushes off,
slamming the door
before another day escapes.

Time Change

The darkness comes early again
and the stars are neon signs
along the galactic highway

engine brakes sputter
and shake my frame,

like stopping at the bottom
of this hill

really matters.

The words of the priest this morning
reminded me that I am worthy
when I am at my worst--

that my hunger, poverty, and tears
are enough to change nothing
into something almost
as easily
as turning
back

time.

November Morning

The morning is copper
according to this oak
and the sun that casts her line
into the waters of another autumn mist.

I am still on this shore
waiting for something to happen,
like happiness or mindful laughter.

Who wouldn't be breathless
with the anticipation
of another moment
like this frosty
polished joy?

Making Sabbath While the Game is On

On this ordinary Sunday
I escape into the kitchen
while the game is on
to put together chicken pot pie.

My sons, these men in the making,
will be hungry in a few hours

the way they always are
after a weekend of sleeping
and silence the other days of the week
won't allow.

My compassionate companion, the radio
plays while I cut potatoes, carrots,
celery, leeks, broccoli,
and add corn and peas--
exactly bite-sized morsels.

It is easy to find comfort
in all that has come from the garden.

I will tuck each offering
under a buttery crust
and allow abundant steam
and cream,
warm and true
as hands on aproned hips--

Mama calling the beloved
to the glowing supper table.

We will bow our heads,
thankful for the touch
of grace and the ringing of cups,
clinking a joyful toast
to this sabbath meal.

On the Last Day of Summer at a Beach in Maine

The wind reminds me
that this is the end,

cool and bright
yet warm, almost spring
in the texture of the escaping heat.

I walk
like I have
so many times,
shuffling
this time in my tall,
green mud boots
and not bare toed,

blazing a trail
toward the quiet that comes
as I pace the sand
along the edges of the water
searching for shells and stones
to hold me--

to keep me from flying away.

I am the last pink and wild rose.
I am the cluster of birds ready to head south.
I am a visitor who longs to stay
where the sea embraces the sky.

Novena

I have prayed
for nine straight days
and even longer
on the way down
the steepest paths
paved with glass

My skin did all it could
and worked a shard
from the sole of my foot--
a diamond glittering
from the flesh
ready for harvest.

Fear not.

Pray for indifference
when the cruel sliver slips out

a drop of blood, red and sticky,
cleaning the wound that has opened
with each step toward freedom.

It is an exhausting relief
to breathe into this birth
knowing the pain
wasn't all in your imagination.

Repeat after me.

At My Expense

Grind the substance of your daily life
like grains of wheat between two rocks
and imagine what truths have been lost
like the chaff to the wind of too much
effort at finding the comfort
of a sweet companion.

This knowing is
like grinding teeth together
in a dream,
the slow exhale
into another pitiful death.

Know the sweating that soaks sheets
at two in the morning
that wakes you in heat
and freezes you as you turn your back
to the darkness
alone.

Know the darkness grinding the grains
of a fresh, youthful appearance
into dust--

into the lies and the false front
of a smile that charms your way
past the door of death
with the coins minted
at my expense.

Waking the Sleepers

Attune yourself
to the allure of morning
like you have slept soundly,
aroused by nothing in the night
that feels like pain
or pleasure at the brim
of falling into the abyss again

And again, just to broach the subject
of desire
stuck in your mind,
the breach birth that cannot be free
to rush out into the light of day,

the lamb bleating and popping up
into the fresh air,
lucid enough to notice
God sitting and waiting
to awaken the sleeping children.

The Revolution

I have taken to my bed
to write the revolution
of tender words
that will move the heart
and ensnare the mind
of a lover.

Imagine no escape
once the eyes follow the path,
following the crumbs of truth
and letters scattered,
forming these new worlds
into which one can fall
helplessly
into joy.

The poetry
of the solution
is tangled up in the breathless
arms and legs of an embrace--
heart racing
toward the open skies
of surrender.

Escape

Utter the words of escape
and you will have to leave your old uniform
at the edge of battle,

you will have to remove your fragile skin
and ego that have lost all usefulness
and step into the cool air,

beyond the barbed wire
and past the old usery

like a silent prayer
standing absolutely still

while you wash out to sea
with your next
precious breath.

Lovely Piquant Skin

The velvet thoughts of this day
joust and vanish smoothly
into the night
where insight is immune
to the vehement need of the ashen
urgency of grasping at straws
that will only disappoint me.

I am strong as I close my eyes
and take a breath falling into my body
like a woman falling in love
after years alone and forgetting
what it means to touch the warmth
of delicious piquant skin.

The Hat I Left Behind

There once was a hat that I left behind
sweating on the seat of the bus,
fanning herself on the benches at church,
chatting at a table over coffee.

I bustled away to work,
I bowed my head like a vessel of God,
I bristled at the conversation,

But I left her,
full to the brim,
like I had so many other
important places to be.

Beating Our Forgetful Drums

The advent of so many dawns
has me weaving verses again

alone and wanting my breath
to transport me to waters
where childhood is played
with avarice, sinning in that joy
and with all the greedy laughter
I can gather.

All the grandmothers cry
when I depart on the wind that takes us all
away to the other side of hearts that beat,
thumping our forgetful drums
for the last time.

Ten Thousand Things

They wake me in the night now
like babes crying for the warmth of the breast,
hungry bellies of thought
unsettled and unsatisfied
to sleep.

Perhaps it is the lover that nudges me awake,
wants something deeper
as his hand rests absently on my bare hip,
warm and insisting on the attention
that only skin can convey.

Perhaps as I arise, unmoved, slip on my pink robe
like the tired queen I am,
I cannot help but notice
that Honesty is the most urgent
of the ten thousand things.

She flashes across the lawn
like June fireflies
making me pick up a pen
at 2 a.m. to make a list
that will soothe my aching shoulder,
organize so many thoughtless tasks into neat rows,
and give me courage to forgive myself
for what I have left undone.

Of Nothingness

This molten moment
meanders past the mind
hot and dreaming of morning.

It is possible,
from the place you are sitting
near the window,
to touch the face of some mordant comment
with generous thoughts.

The heat of this cup of kindness
is enough to release the madness
that has been trapped
in the spaces between your fingers
while gripping the edges of something
that looks like sanity.

Confusion is a word you have used
and know as well as the lines on your face.
You are a mirror
that will not let go
of the images of too much
of nothingness
and grief.

Open Water

Labor long
at the edge
of another wave,
of another birth,
where it is simple to list
the ways you have been lost

at sea before,
the ocean lovely,
the enormous confusion a leviathan
who wanders leeway
past the bow of this ship.

Set the sails free
and cast away into the watery blue.

Taste the salt on your lips
as you disappear into the nothingness
of open water.

Agonizing

In the intricacy of this morning,
just like any other morning,
I am fragile as a husk of the juvenile ghost
I once was.

I cling to the idleness of that haughty girl
as graceful as granite
jostled by the plumage of a body,
exhumed flaunting the deft hands

engorged with wanting,
consumed by thinking
I could keep myself
from the agonizing arrows

of another chance
to disappear into a cleft
of a day of organic despair
and measuring the blue of the sky.

Calling Out My Name

Biding my breath,
I have been waiting far too long
in the shadows of my head
to be honest.

But the mist and these abundant bird songs
remind me of days when I was a maiden,
chaste in thoughts undefiled by anger
or worry of the discovery of my hidden gifts.

This inspired thinking is brash
as it dares to step into the open meadow
and announce itself
like the bells ringing
in a clear voice

without apology
for calling out
a name given to me
by the goodness
of universal kindness
and unconditional love.

Getting Somewhere

What difference does this abrupt undulation,
this current of smooth radiation of a smile
and the balm of loving kindness make?

What difference if I levitate a little
when I walk in a spell under a small invasion of joy
with my hands submerged in the morning dishes and eyes
tracing the edges of bleeding hearts peeking over the deck

crouched and at the ready to disappear
at the slightest friction; sparks of unpleasant radio news,

tremors of the invasion we hoped would never arrive.

Rather let us notice the explosion of spring chanting freedom,
the waft of pink voiced apple blossoms off the veranda--

a chronicle of the evolution of fruit and women marching
on their way to harvest,

arms swinging at the urgency
of getting somewhere fast.

Storm Raging

This storm rages like a giant suffocating
and finally gasping the entire vermillion sky
in one long and angry breath.

The defiant thoughts implanted in rain
and pine-shattering wind
will not be traded in a commerce
that continues pleading for leniency
against nature's flashing justice.

Regret nothing
and gather your beloved
as if you will not wake to find
another day.

Regret nothing
and open your eyes
to the violent dreaming night.

On the Night I Emptied My Womb

The fever of the spirit of God
and the allure of relief
over took me on the night
I emptied my womb.

I did not sway from the truth.
I was not ready
for the brevity of life
and so I chose, instead, to escape.

Escaped pathetically like a prophet
who would not accept
the order from heaven
to serve.

I am cast
again and again
from the side of the ship
and will be swallowed up
by the voices of angels
singing in languages
I will never understand.

Surfers Waiting

Look past this cleve;
this deep misunderstanding,
and I will gird myself--

like one who must itch that itch
at the end of one's nose
or on the elbow during deepest meditation,
or at the place where wisdom meets the heart,

and we will bob on the ocean,
surfers waiting for the wave,
and ready to meet the water with courage and fascination

with the salty green of prana
and the universe calling us home.

Universal Yes

Finally, spring has absolved us of our transgressions as frost melts and dissolves into the leaves that will evolve into the longest days. This carousel of a planet tingles at the brush of the rain; the embrace of the sun who was embarrassed to evolve astride the light. Now her face is a tower on the horizon. The brilliance breaking the withered and weary into dancing bits of laughter. Giggles and spasms of joy in the presence of green and blossoms buxom and bold. Finally, the earth revolves toward the universal yes of abundance.

Gravity Sings

Gravity sings to me on days like today, where the way the sun collects in the tender cells of my terminal skin is bitter sweet, Dreary profits who want me stranded in fear, parched and pinched in bitterness, a wastrel of myself where the pulse of energy I feel in the morning is severed from the beauty of apple blossoms and distant from the joy, aloft like a kite or a bird just flying above the ridges because she can, I test the wind on these days and launch away from the heaviness of bones and into the sky just at the edges of leaves at the edge of the horizon of so much light at sunrise caught in the mirrored presence of a single droplet of night collected for bees to drink as sweetest tea.

Spirited Set of Losses

Discount the velocity of the way this daily bondage of mindless escapes into simple traffic and you will know my life. There is no elevation of thinking. There is no grain sewn on fertile ground. There is no rip tide to pull me under and release the pain through the thoroughly saline fascia. Instead I endure the panic of standing in line at the grocery store waiting for the phone to ring or the cashier to notice me with something more than wondering words-- if I found the paper products and strawberries and a crisp white wine to drown myself in that spirited set of losses.

All the Angels

The abrasion of the places my heart has worn thin are brittle and blackened by the denials of simple movement every soul must make. These places cry, throaty and bereft of hope, for soothing balm to heal, begging to bring air and light, and so I sob and wait. I chant and call to Jesus, Mother,Father Krishna, Buddha, Quan Yin, Mary, and all the angels and saints to touch me with hands so very gentle and carry me with prayers to the companion who knows how to walk beside bowing so that I almost miss the nod to the light that lives in both of us so that we might be whole again like each moment we can step together again. throaty abrade session blacken

Making Home

The vestibule of the heart holds me again like I am someone worthy of this much love. I have suppressed my voice for so long it is clear that I have shaved the marrow of time from my bones toward the end of all days and in the sound of my words. But the truth of spirit stood next to me on this day spoke with the clarity of a solar burst and burned through the fog in an instant in the words "No more." No more silence. No more getting by. No more swallowing bitter herbs that do no good. I am worthy of this home I have made in the sun. I am the keeper of this much joy in fragrant lilies. I am the mother of abundant skies that open to the smiles of my children's beautiful minds.

Not Knowing

The mystery speaks to the stroke of brilliance,
mandible wagging deliberately oblivious to the ensemble
of thoughts in my mind.

Float on the surface of the water
or look carefully through the woody vines in the arbor
and you may deliberate joy caught in the clouds above.

As for me, I won't inspect the color blue too closely,
nor will I ask for proof of vitality.

Instead I will listen with each breath
to the sound of peepers,
imagine the color of daffodils,
and wait for the sun to dip below the horizon
of all thought.

The moon will rise slowly
where peaceful chirping of the night
drifts into not knowing anything.

The Outline of Fear

 The blush of a cheek errupts
without warning of hazard or the shaking of nerves
that swamps the irrational boat of memory like your voice.

Nothing percolates that cubby of churning visions
that moves me swooning with anticipation of a window
that might open at night when I am most vulnerable
to the stars and other distant light
like the outline of your face
mistaken on the street
where I sleepwalk.

I stumble
grabbing on to a doorknob
or the bark of a tree
to disappear
into the shadows
where I am quiet with my breath
and mercifully
alone.

The Stuff of Haunting

Gristle and cartilage traces the turgid fingers
of the body that winds itself, serpentine,
around the soul's incandescent light

where the ghosts hover near the pinnacle of the days
and wait for the whelping of the darkest howls of the night
to stop lonesome smiles, so sad with their disappointments,

from standing and casting caution toward promised peace
but, instead, moving the stones of sleep
more sad than any intimate whispering
would ever allow.

Sailing Red

There is a particle
of dust, from the spring festival
just down the road
where even the air
is embraced with the creation stories,
that has traveled carefully
into my left eye.

I have furnished abundant tears,
watery losses enough for a lifetime of sorrow,
to wash the remnant of celebration
from my sight.

The music has drifted softly away.
The smells of animals and frying foods
disappeared with the nightly rain.
The foot traffic and movement of bodies
in their finery is gone,

but the dust remains
on the surface of the lens
and the view is marked oddly
by the color of a balloon
that sails beating red,
opaque and heart-like,
flowing silent past the almost full moon.

Never Mind

The succor of the mind
smuggles thoughts of disquieted comfort

where bondage often lives
and is anointed with doubt.

I am lost in a body
that will eventually fail me

even as I stroke the edges
and locks to sooth so much suffering-

neutered and erased
by a soul that seeks the path of truth.

Awake To the Sky

I am crippled
by the way spring saturates my mind

compressing the thoughts of winter
and all that frozen grief, white and unending,

rain nuzzling the end of my bed
near toes and dreaming.

If the sun returns again tomorrow
and the bright yellow of daffodils smile

I may launch into laughter
knowing I will go to the sea

and dance on the wet sands so alone
I may take flight with every feather

awake to the sky
and the warmth
of all these changing winds.

Spring Poem

The twitch of birches
in the back yard have begun to green
and hang their flowers and fruit
like a chandelier
holding the pretense
of summer submerged
in the delicate white branches;

donning a dress for a wedding
on the slender frame of beauty itself
waiting to dance another dance
with the earth and sky,
nervous as a bride
just touched by her beloved.

Morning Salvage

Trying to salvage
the radiance of mind
in another morning where the fissure of fear
crawled next to my skin at the darkest hour
on the premise that I might find some shining

promise of dust
and sweat
and the blood that moves
from nothing
into everything we ever shared.

Red as a door
on a New Year's day,
freshly painted
and welcoming the stranger
to the table overflowing
with anxious breath
and doubts as ripe
as a sugary, sticky fig.

The Prophet

It takes everything to harbor this shame
of taking wrong turns toward hope
and investing in false gods.

My sacrifices have fallen
like soldiers on the battlefield,
torn and bloodied,
unloved and without respect
for my longing to please.

It is true
that the prophet is a begger
in her own home town.
The locals have nothing to compare this insanity to
but the common fool in her stumbling
with words that make no sense
in the context of so many losses.

Today I will dress myself
in sackcloth and ashes,
comb my hair with my fingers,
and wash my face again

quietly demanding
to finally find someone
who will listen.

Witness

What is it to witness
the spectacle of decay

witness the severe abuse
of a swan who thinks himself

ugly, unworthy, unloved?

Witness the pecking of the duck,
bold with jealousy and fear
and the desire to tear

feather by feather,
joy from joy,

until the beauty
of one soul

is damaged
and unable
to fly.

Let the wounds
weep and crust over.

Let the cruel creatures
forget their egos

and know that love
can only be given
when it is found
in the witness within.

The darkest call across the pond
is from the abandonment
of pride like a loon
diving deep into the muddy
losses at midnight.

Abundant with the Body

The sacred motion of this verse
moves me to laughter

the trial of my brother
fosters forgiveness

suffering in each breath
before the gentle hands
of God lifts the earth.

Plant the roots deep here,
where tears mix with the sky
and the forester
is given the gift
of nurturing
love from soil
and stretching
to the stars.

Joy is easy here.
As easy as leaning into
all that is awake
and abundant
with the body.

Terminal

Spin around
until you are dizzy
dancing with the galaxy

Terminal with loving kindness
that is the healing salve,

the lowly
offering of relief
from all the urgent pain
we all suffer

just to suffer
until we open our eyes,

awake to our simple call
to prayer.

Chosen

Let me be frank
as I punctuate
the ways we choose sides

The games of children
hosey and chisel the hope
from even the brightest spirits

I  am lost.
The last to be remembered.
The last to be asked
about my own life.

I ask someone
to take my hand
in a holy circle
and lead me
to the other side.

Let me be chosen
for something
that means anything
to God.

Endless Winter

The wattle of too much pride
hangs from the wizened experiences
of the winter that wouldn't end.

Even as the warmth and light
wake me into a pinkish flush,
it does no good to try and convince
the mind to let well enough alone
and rest.

I cough into the cave of disbelief
and sigh, exhausted
from the repetition of my mistakes.

Lungs wheeze and contract
with breath that must struggle
and blow like a wind
across the parched prairie
of day after day
of denial.

Lie Like a Fox

I wither
in the heat of this sun,
bound like a poor slave
and unable to steer my way
onto a peaceful path
where cool shadows of ferns
and flowers whisper relief.

The lobe of my ear waits
patiently for patient truth to guide me
toward the light of home.

I am listening for the joy of birds
but there is no rest in the night
for the fox has stirred all the branches
with his rough and hungry mind.

I Love My Children

Healthy
Whole
Kind
Patient
Funny
Creative
Smart
Intelligent
Peaceful
Thoughtful
Strong
Beautiful
Handsome
Focused
Determined
Wise
Sensitive
Attentive
Curious
Stubborn
Hungry
Thirsty
Angry
Sad
Lazy
Sleepy
Flexible
Entertaining
Loving
Mine

Outside the Simplicity of Skin

What do I know of the journey
dreary as I meander
on a damp and slithering trail?

By the lamp that watches the slight
variations of air as I exhale,
you might think that the breath
was something to flop past
and trounce before it gets control.

That is not necessarily the case
and we can, instead, watch summer bugs
with hard shells and wings
know the way,
the slime and abandoned places to avoid
just long enough to retreat
and make a new life in the simplicity
and solitude

outside of skin.

The Damage is Done

Sharpen the blade,
an old fashioned strop will do nicely,
and sulk away from the smirk
carried in the dream
where someone always beats me
to the finish.

My mood droops again
and I am caught wishing
these swings were something
to cut away swiftly--
like the removal of bandages
that must be changed
so that healing might
be apparent.

Walk,
or run,
near that glistening edge.
My mother was right.
The damage is done
even when you don't mean
to fall.

The Way Your Skin Moves

In another life, maybe your next life
or your last life . . .
Notice the way the slack in your skin moves
and pledge to make things stronger,
tighter so that your children and other strangers
have no need to stare, cocking their heads
and squinting their eyes to see if they might crop
that part of their view.

You might promise anything to keep the well worn
paths free of rubbish and instead plant flowers
and leafy greens and vines that tangle themselves up
in the sweetness of cucumbers and melons
you had no idea
would grow
in this climate.

Loosely Dressed Morning

This loosely dressed morning
falls asleep on her hand,
a drivel of drool at the corner of her mouth
anticipating nothing.

The nausea
of long skirting the subject
to be debated is finished. 
The awaited anxiety
disappears
only to be discovered
under the bed
by the woman
who cleans every other week.

If we exhale too quickly,
we blow out the candle
waiting in the window.

If we inhale too slowly,
we risk meditating
on grief
and the pain
of knowing
too much.

No Questions Asked

Glisten.
Let the sun swell
on the horizon of this day
and shine, hot and brilliant
as mornings often do
while we shuffle.

Bustle.
Move, move, move
your hands like you are busy
making lunch for a child
or for someone who really matters.
but move so you sweat,
lightly at first and then run
like your life depends on it.

Because your life does
depend on that speed
and the density of everything
coming to a stop at the corner sign,
no questions asked.

Generous Suffering

Be generous as you carry your hidden hurts
out of those dark places, concealed
and, frankly, dangerously balanced

until your soul pleads
to be given permission
to bundle the small sheaf
of plump and nourishing truth

until you walk a thousand miles
on your knees nearly arriving at the dooryard
of everything you love

weeping at the familiar faces
who welcome you home,
no longer a stranger
at the holiest table.

Audience Of One

The pink rose in the tall blue vase
might be the focal point of all beauty today.

My flaxen self flees into the peace of that softest color.
My heart is the bee that knows nothing of the flower
collecting grains of attention
gently on every fiber,
weaving loving kindness
like pollen on a sunny morning in June.

If I were not so alone
I would be that much closer
to the solitude

of the single stem
resting like a dancer
before her audience
of one.

Holding Our Hands

Dine on loving kindness
like each moment is a savory morsel
of beauty and words
the lingual equivalent
of something sticky and double chocolate.

Fill yourself with joy;
a banquet armed with laughing
until you cry,
until your sides ache,
until you surrender your face
to endless smiles that cause wrinkles
that prove happiness
at the end of your days.

Take, eat
all that is given up for you
in friendship and the shared sorrows
that are delivered to your door,
unexpected as an embrace,
for no good reason
other than to carry the warmth
of our soul's home fire
to the stranger
who has become
our sweetest companion
holding our hands
around the table
in prayer.

Right With the World

Figure this--
the harvest will be early
and the skies will be bright someday.

On most days the sheen of happiness
is the only varnish you need
to make it through,

God willing.

When we kneel to pray,
don't forget to think of those
you don't love.

It is what we are called to do.

Love is all there is
to make things right
with the world.

In Respect for Spring

This coy day
folds in on itself
as winter wears out
like sweaty hands
wiped on an apron
or thrust into deep pockets.

This tired hour
has us longing for more
before the clock runs out
and we are asleep again
against the cold and dark grief
that is caught as a lump
in my throat
just like the churning tangle
of my belly.

So many losses
to keep in one basket.
So many goodbyes
I have lost count
of endings.

Fool the stars
and pretend it is spring
on our doorstep
and the tulips can't wait
to pay respect to the warming
earth.

The Turning

In New York
sleep was a  blessing,
A simple gift of grace
that crept past the sound of horns
and the backing and clanging gongs
of trash trucks,
of sleepless dreamers
dancing below and screaming
in the way city people do
at night.

In the filth of constant lights
there is a joy that lazes
and is less and less detectable
below the patina
where everyone must scrape and scratch
to the joy that lazes like laughter
in copper.

The rapid walking;
heels clicking
with collar turned up
against the wind--
enough to make
everyone turn and look
at silence fallen like blocks
pushed over again and again
by an eager toddler.

Stop at the window of the bakery
and catch a glimpse
of the gray ghost
you are becoming.

Lost in the vapor,
less than an exhale.

Lost in the vision
disappearing around the corner
of my eye.

Clearing My Voice

I claw at this voice
hoarse and full of thorns.

My words are trapped in the briars
like a rabbit not clever enough
to escape.

I would be immortal,
a scarab of golden permanence,
if only I could find the way

to clear my throat
of all that is misplaced
and unholy.

Umbra

This darkness,
this place of abandoned light,
is stuck in my throat
like the dark side of the moon
and colder.

I am a vacuum
in the shade of my life
with no chance
to find a full breath.

Leave me
and my deepest bleeding
like generations of crones
who can't see themselves
in the mirror.

I am lost
without hope.
The brilliance of that sun
is forever in the shade
of another tree
and her many leaves.

These branches
sway in a wind
that cries
with nothing
to lose.

Anything, but Gracefully

The aging body churns
as if the spirit that is growing strong
might need protection--

mail to keep the punishment away,
flagellation of thoughts not worthy,

stung by a whipping
that will not be forgotten.

My voice is nasal and raw
from crying.
I cannot comprehend the way past
rivers and ferrymen.

I have given away so many coins
I must wait and pray
with my hands cupped
as a beggar

or silent
in meditation
for wisdom to bless me
with riches of a youthful mind.

Before the Light Leaves

Milling around the corners of my mind
slick thoughts tumble like fish migrating home.

It is not enough to sit still for hours
willing my heart to be silent.

The imagination is always looking
for memory that whistles before the light leaves.

The Color of Sky

 I weave the fabric of days,
lost and gathered into quilts
and downey comfort,
to be the art of our lives
with no question of unexplainable value.

The trough where we feed the creatures
of burden is clean.
There is no mildew or foul smell
in the stalls or on the earth.
There is only the soft sounds of a warm barn
and the breath of all who sleep
is peaceful and full of life.

When spring comes again
the earth will take me by the hands
and ask me to touch the warmth of the body
with healing and seeds of new life.

When the sun melts all that is frozen
it will be more than enough
to open my mouth
and sing again.
These songs will carry me
until everything is green
and there is no mistaking
the fragrance of cotton, or wool,
or flax the color of sky.

Turning On My Own Cells

As my body folds in on itself,
I become the cannibal
turning on my my own cells,
the flesh surrendering to a hungry mind
that will not stop repeating herself.
A work song, the hymn that will not
leave my thoughts alone.

I salivate. Gag.
I choke on my own words.
The sounds of forgiveness
stuck in my throat
like a fine fish bone
pointed and sharply
embedded in that darkness.

What more can I slip into this sheath
like a blade, sharp and shining for blood?

I cut carefully
at the threads
that become the stitches
that hold me together
at the end of the day.

A Body Forgetting

In the incline of our days
we all must meld our memory of joy
with the common sense of watches, walking shoes,
and lists made to burnish our ego,

to feel accomplished and shining,
a trophy to bring home,

to varnish the wounds we carry
as we forget to be tough
and forget there are words
and so many nights
that are far better alone
than suffering

near a body
that has forgotten
to breathe.

Substitute

In the depths of the sinful mind
I substitute everything I know
with the truth.

Simple explanations
open conversation like an oyster,
pearl at the center
blushing,
with irrefutable evidence
of all my failings.

My skin sags
and has been gouged
by time.
And yet, I smile
infectiously
despite the  risks
of appearing
uninformed.

I refuse to hide what I know
like a spy on a mission.
I will abandon the ignorant paths
that have not served me.

This time I have vowed to acquire a map
and ask questions
often.

The Arc of My Confusion

The arc of my confusion
and fear are near geometry

while my mouth dries,
dessication plods onto the scene

like an animal
injured and lost,

I stumble senile
across the desert mind

Waiting for wisdom
to save the day from the winds

of so much sadness
and the recognition

that robins flying are not to be scattered
like leaves blown free

from cracked and broken branches
mistaken for signs
of spring.

The Wailing

 I wail,
suffering the ways of shame,
embarrassed and broken
by an embrace
so tight
I can't escape.

I wail,
enduring the weeping
and the moaning of those left behind
to carry the load
without companion
to sing the hyms
and the work songs
of those who harvest joyfully
in the golden fields
and the heat
of summer.

Wailing,
I clutch my throat
and cast my voice to the winds.
Take me with hurricane force from this silence
of a prison cell of my own making
so that I might learn to sing.

The Dirt Eaten by the Roots

Thoughts leach from my head
like soil in an old potted plant;

the dirt eaten by the roots,
absorbed by the hungry base
of hunger and brilliant sun
united.

Bond with the steady
and sturdy exchange of bodies
where a story opens us up
and makes us whole,

just like the man
who stumbles
in the shallow river
and a storm takes us
from everything

but the darkness
after the light of one long day
is like coming home.

A Poem for Love

The heart has no idea of the vigilance present
each morning
the mind must court constant despair and threat
of ruin while guarding
a vast kingdom of kindness
armored in solid emotional steel
before we fall
victim to the blade
that will cleave the beating,
the motion of the traveler,
blood from bone,
muscle from gristle
until we are all free to love
what we love
and give the keys
to the angels
armed with arrows
and  flattery.

A simple poem
for all the love
in the heavens--

singing until you know
better.

Ashes

Ashes and this crude body always intrude
on the peace made in the soul place
away from the stunned and shaking faithful
who no not what to do with all this love.

Take the scythe and carefully cut away the unsightly grasses
that have gathered around the base of fence posts
and under the feet of strangers who travel
not for God, but for the ways of so many men.

I crumble in prayer
on holy days
like these
and only hope for heat and hope
to light the way for the promise
of ashes.

 The gaudy color of peace
is just out of reach,

the faucet turned to kill the flow
only to hear the dripping continue, hoping
against this tide.

I will mediate with this language of silence
and whet my soul's whistle long enough to hear me sing
before the lever turns and opens the floodgates
to everything.

Western Dreaming

In the repeating dream of my childhood
I am the oldest child again
shielding my siblings from evil,

a giant in a valley who hunts us,
wants to take us prisoner
or worse.

In these night movies
we walk endlessly,
perspire as we try to find our breath
and hide behind greenest vegetation,
mounds of dirt.

My sister's red hair flounces
attracting attention
as if she glows.  I cover her head
so that the gods can't find her
and she becomes invisible.

I feel guilty
when we lose her.
She drifts off
and my brothers
have no idea what direction is north
nor do they have access to the power
of violence that eats us alive.

We back into cave after cave
and know the only safety
is to keep moving.

Silences

The calliope of sound turns quickly in my head,
pressure builds as if these thoughts might split my skull,

a fissure racing the mind to the finish
of days where peace might never be found.

Hairline cracks build momentum.
walking too far out on ice
that will never support me.

The sounds explode under my feet
deep booming before I sink under the cold water,
before any warm hand dares to grasp for me
and pull me to the disappointing surface.

There is no device that can bring the breath
back into these lungs that wonder about red birds
and singing. There is nothing that remembers flight.

Let the winds take this soul of grief
to the ends of the prairie
where the silences are as great as the sky
and I can become dizzy with so much emptiness.



Pressure device fissure calliope

In My Pocket

Feed me.
Nourish the soul that was given to this body
and move me from this languid pool
of dark water and a mind that hides in fear.

Let the horses of your heart
nuzzle my hand
coaxing the sweetness
into spaces I have forgotten.

I hear the beating of hooves of knowledge
gallop to the edges of the fields
where poems and purple clover
gather in the cool shade.

I will walk slowly
so as not to panic the beauty
into running.
There is a single apple cut
and waiting
in my pocket.

Falling Fragrant

Your florid absence overwhelms me tonight.
Petals falling fragrant to the floor in disbelief and invite
this cudgel of losses to be evidence enough
to set me to weeping.

The privileges of the snow
seem effervescent as we stare
silent, without a single sigh
into the vastness of blizzard winds.

Be brave and turn your back to the storm
while you curl in with all the flutes
and with the unlikely preditor
who will consume
your beating self.

Devout in the Winds of Constant Change

The little feathers at the back of my neck
bristle with electricity as the storm approaches.

These soft fibers of the body
blush at the tenderness in the gaps we finger,
surprised again,
in the armor
we pretend to have.

Until I try to resist
there is no way to wrest
the thoughts of kindness of your face
even as it shines black
with the sin of the world--
casting out evil with a smile.

Death keeps knocking
and inviting us to join the festival of leaving.
Sit here with me and pray for another day
to dance slowly wrapped in the peace
of our protectors.

This cloth is sacred as it unfurls
devout in the winds of constant change.

Soul's Children

Lighten this load.
I wish to be free.

To lose any ties
that encumber my dancing.

After all, I am armed with laughter
when the weeping is over.
I will shake the heavy burden
until all the layers fall away.

For a smile
will breach the darkness
of any sorrow.

The shaking of shoulders
trembling with the hope of humor,
we find the spaces we make
between life and the marrow of our bones
is the birdsong,
the worksong we learn to sing

when we remember
we are not alone
with the prayers of the faithful
held in the embrace
of the soul's children.

The Bones of Lonely Places

Let me sit here at the edge of a cliff
watching the world from this high tower
and feeling the gusts of sorrow,

bereft and empty
knowing
nothing

but the bones of lonely places
is as close as my skin
and as deep as a lifetime
that waits for kindness
to arrive without ever knowing
the comfort of a single word
of forgiveness.

Bury me under the memory
where we all forget
to reach out and embrace
the stranger
who looks us in the reflection
each early morning.

Praise for Losses Found

The vestiges of my days
are dreams,
a chasm of losses
caught in the shadows of the mind
like silences between the wind
and the cold darkness of winter.

Walk through the melting snow,
crisp and crunching under foot
as if this time I will not be left behind,
as if someone misses me at the end of the day
and fills the pilgrim light of the lamp,
so that I might find my way
with words and the vessel of my faith,
and I am welcomed into the warmth
of the communion of breath
and take to singing
these sustaining hymns of praise.

Unobscured

The smile on my mouth curdles
as I imagine the ways I have been fooled
and my thirst for something like grace is denied

Dawn, again and again, unable to lift the sun up
over the horizon until golden light that glows
bursts like a floodgate bringing spirit
to the shriveled hearts and minds that
want the smooth coolness of words
or the comfort of a hand
to a burning brow.

Instead the sky is ablaze with darkness
and stars that blink out
like bulbs that pop into a quiet death
that only the keeper of that source  of narrow passages
is released for a day in the unobscured sweetness of these milky landscapes
and morning that is awake and rejoicing with hands placed over
the heart.

Whistle

What it would be to whistle,
thrill to a shiver
like a loyal canine
to the master
precise and at the heel,

but I wander
lost and full of burrs and thistle seeds in my coat,
roam through the fields
waiting for my own heart to call me
to bed and hearth
and a place to call my home.

No Words

When there are no words
I am left to my imagination,
to my prayers and to the place where my skin
ends and the parts
that cannot be touched
live.

When there are no words
I thrash about like a fussy child,
to where the wind and fire of the northern sky
started the force of my will to burning
wild on the canvas of the night.
howling.

When there are no words
I crumble in despair,
tears falling
to the blank pages of the dictionary in my mind,
scanning the paper for the dust of letters uttered softly,
that might give meaning to the empty bowl
I am becoming,

giving away days like they aren't numbered,
casting them into the waters that flow
fast and cold away,
speechless,
poems
with
no
sound.

Taking Her Place

The evulsion of reality from fiction
is a tired and haunting history of suffering --
a certain kind of given
on days, like today, when the neck is vulnerable.
shaved to the nape
and instinctively exposed
like the Beta dog
waiting to be bitten
like a lactating bitch
taking her place
in the pack.

Understanding the Defiance of Rain

Rebuke the sky for letting Heaven's tears
cloud the sky when Orion is so set on shining.

This astral display of defiance is like an adolescent
sulking in his room alone after disappointment
when this brilliant song of water was meant to be shared,

a diurnal celebration of the ordinary 
gains strength in all the ways
memory gathers in annual clusters
until the calendric rhythm of the universe

forgives us for wanting
the glossy pink assurance of sunrise.

The Deacon of My Ancestors

The deacon of my ancestors
knocks at the door of my memory
asking me to consider the hunger of the soul
that we all feel
when we wake in the morning
the pangs of this glottal stop
clouds our aura, darkens the skies
with doubt.

The deacon of my ancestors
would rather sleep in.
Would gladly pass the time
at the beach while fanning the flies
from her trashy novel about nothing
than distribute another century of needs
to unwilling followers
facile in their beliefs
that they know best
how to serve the poor
their rations of humility.

Instead, the deacon of my ancestors
is heavy of heart
hanging her head in shame
for so many failures.

We are unworthy
of even her scorn.

We deserve the swift judgement of 
 an angry God
who loves us while he teaches
us a lesson.

Splitting Her Skin

Touch me, bathed and processing slowly
from salty waters and high tide,
the ordinand for this priesthood
filled with obscene laughter,
and I might split in two,

body separating from soul
like a snake
splitting her skin
and leaving the remnants behind in the sand
with no pain but for the growth in the spaces
between bones,

the ligaments lengthened and separated with gentle tugging
at all the unclean and confusing junctions
of loss and humanity swirling around me.

Glance at these smooth shadows of thoughts and judgements
that are following me like a thief and you might see sweat rolling
impossibly from the poetry of my lips.

I slither
on my belly,
low and straddle the earth
knowing, finally, that I understand all this sin

and all the ways we have forgotten
we are one with the flesh of God.

We Must Come Home to Remember

The baptism of the awake mind,
the sacred flux of spirit into body,
is hungry like fire
needs air
to breathe.

This garden, peckish for flowers
and the fruit, that flummoxed
mothers and fathers into pitching
the good sense to listen
to God, is fading at the edge
of the coldest of seasons.

Eyes wide open
we dive in to the icy current

forgiving ourselves

for forgetting

what we must come home
to remember.

Hear the language of love
and weep for joy
at that sweet song.

Before Sleep Overtakes Us

The way light shines through your smile
is refraction sipping calmly on tea
under the moon's great pull to the sea.

Meditate here, kneeler or cushion sacred space,
and you
grinding molars for the proof
that the body can only carry so much burden
before sleep overtakes us.

Chart your course
past the refusals and human frailties.
Record your music on the tablet of time
so that I might sing with you
forever.

Jack White - Love Interruption

Lingual States of Sleep

Time means nothing on this morning of early waking
as I look to the screen, blinking at the face of a clock
enameled with age.

I genuflect to that ritual that defies time,
so engrained in my being that I can't help myself
any more than I can resist my next breath
or the firing of the impulses of the thoughts
that line up
moment after moment
for attention.

The moon is setting
outside to the west
and I am reminded
of the soft animal of my body
loving what she loves.

This hibernating self
rolls over, yawns into comfort
and into the warm and lingual states of sleep,
eliding the consonants and vowels of days
into the whispers of forgotten foreskin
and dreaming deeply
of Love's sacred power.

January Below Zero

Snarl at the brilliant night sky,
the moon a ball teasing the dog
mad with gnats gnawing at his ears
and eyes so tired of paws that scratch
deeply into the soul of all of us.

The magic of the woods, gnome-like play,
is lost in the still cold of January
below zero, hiding,
waiting as if we didn't know
the depths of sorrow
as the temperature dips low.

Watch the corners of this dark place.
We shift nervously, expect something sinister
and we whisper to each other
a plan so far away from this day.

In the next chapter
we'll gather stones at the threshold
of the hereafter, sweet as a hand
around a cup of hot tea,
steam rising and cooling
on my face before
little things, words
slip like love
from between my lips.

Inara George-Fools Work

When Love Belongs

When love belongs to everyone
the current is strong,
pulling us under as if we've fallen
out of some spiritual canoe
to gestate in the waters of the universe.

When love belongs to everyone
the blemishes of our sins are erased
so that our flesh is as clear as new wine,
clean as the blade of a hatchet striking a sapling
for the first time.

When everyone belongs to love
we join our hands and stare joyfully into the faces
of our brothers with smiles that invite us to laugh
and  into the faces of suffering
like all our sisters who need us
to cup our hands gently on their faces
and touch foreheads in forgiveness
for everything we cannot heal.

Together, in that loving kindness,
we release spirit into the universe
to fly mindlessly where we are needed the most.




current, canoe hatchet blemish gestate

The Kindness of So Many Strangers

In the bemusement of a smooth day
imagine yourself, virginal,  nestled
in the kindness of so many strangers

In this dreaming time,
imagine yourself walking in balance,
complemented
spirit self with cultivated daisies
and succulent cucumbers harvested
at sunset, ready to be  the center of the feast.


If we are lucky, you will remove the bemused vendor,
hand over the keys to the only home you have known
and slip into innocence like an otter down the banks
of warm and fragrant sands.

At the Junction of Charm and Joy

At the junction of charm and joy
stands a man with an accent  you can't quite identify.
He looks familiar and smiles with kindness,
his teeth give nothing away of potential deception or imperfection.

His attire is appropriate and well pressed
with no filth or unpleasantness to give away
the clues to your mistrust, your intuition sounding alarms
like a local thief walking down the street near the police station
everyone aware of his faults and weaknesses.

Ask him to take the envelope from his pocket.
Demand that he read the contents in full daylight.

Perhaps it is a poem, sweet with words that will convince you
of the possibilities of love.
Better yet, a contract backed up by a guarantee of authenticity,
proof that happiness can be had.
Reassurances in writing that you will not be duped again
by your need to be satisfied
by someone
or something
outside the surface
of your own skin.

Read it yourself
and weep as the ink dissolves
as if the thinness of all these promises
were smoke released from the lungs
of just another common dragon.

Before We Raise Our Glasses

At the feast you will serve in my honor
please first examine the arrows in your quiver
and fletch them with freshly found feathers
before my enemies and wicked seekers approach the table
with casseroles and steaming dishes filled
with the footprints of poison
that might, if we aren't careful, take us all.

On nights like these, the humidity of humanity
almost overcomes us with a powerful stench of flesh
and comical discharge, and yet, we bring the best wine
knowing it is what we must do.

Before we raise our glasses in celebration,
run your fingers along the length of these truths,
hand steady, eyes sharp, and aim secure,
so that we might be sure to hit the mark
if we must find our way out of the crowds
toward the open country and air
that we call home.

Unseen

Preview this composition of a day.
Schedule full.
Location of the heart of things
clearly in view.
Gadgets with buttons and bells
allow the haste of the day
to multiply like hammers and the rasp
to wear us down--

penetrate our peace
with the steel tip
etching away at the surface
into the heart of things

until we disappear
into the din of despair,
unseen in the clutter of things.

Into View

Feast on the peaceful moon
that hangs silent with Orion
as winter settles into night
like a bovine dream.

The clouds mottle the sky,
the darkness and silver a puzzle,
pieces missing and gaps present
where there is plenty to share
of the blemishes of Spirit.

Take me by the hand and  breathe deeply
as if prayer was a remedy for anxious adolescence
and by tuning in to the inhalation
and the exhalation
we can wrestle the universe
clearly into view.

Everything

If I were queen
my shrine would not be hasty collections
of jewelry or shiny objects of desire.

No, if I were queen,
it would be different.

We would barter
face to face for loving kindness
and crisis would be given no heed.

That object of suffering
would be cast aside
with the beggars and thieves
of too much time.

If I were queen
we would hold hands, old friend,
and sing songs everyone knew
and pray to a Creator
who loves us all
enough to let us walk away
from the confines of a single lifetime
into the sunset -- dancing
as if nothing and no one
was more important that moving
our bodies in joy--

like our voice raised
meant harmony
and the attunement of  souls
who need to touch belly to belly
playing at everything
we ever wanted.

The Kindness of Intimacy

Drunk on the kindness of intimacy,
I presume the space shared only by the sweetest loving
and recite, with ease,
the prayers of a righteous woman.

The nuance of naked skin
is a festival dancing by warmth of wild firelight.
fingers tracing the edges of sanity
as if reading God precise words
and speaking of better times
in spirit tongue
to the angels.

Rejoice as lips touch strong water
and lift manna, delicate as wings,
from the harvest we gather
from the bones that remember
all the lives we've shared.

Headache

This dull ache,
this divine plague,
is an omen

a knowing
at the base of the skull

a nod of assent
to exhaustion
and lack of true peace

Suffice it to say
this mouth full of rust
is ready to speak

all that must be said
to heal
and drift off
into the forgotten
language of dust.

On Meditation

Wait for a while at the side of this path of meditation
and you will notice, if you are lucky,
the simplicity of each inhalation and exhalation
and fighting to just keep pace with the busy mind.

There is no way to quantify kindness
like this simple act of each human life.

The act of breathing is the skilled
and mindful mining of the essence of air.
That generous openness is all that is ever necessary
to let the lungs nurse a life
from each individual breath.

And on this morning,
sitting quite as a lily on the surface of the pond,
I will sojourn on the edge of a pillow
in the middle of abundant love.

The Midwives of Winter

In the deepest cold
we, the creatures of the north,
exchange pithy glances
beneath our layers

mumble under our breath,
nearly frozen and stiff-spined,
muttering something about the sun shining
or the lack of snow.

The most shrewd survivors
of the climate smile,
lips sticking to teeth
and eyelashes careless,
tears gathering like icicles,
yet non-responsive to the staring of strangers.

We are the midwives of winter
coaching the determined through the crowning
and toward the birth,
even when others have given up hope
of ever seeing spring slip through
without a bit of pushing.

We wait with faith and the understanding of the turning of everything
toward light and that the earth under the gathering snow
will warm and deliver us with the delicate joy
of the most secular of flowers.

Another Deliverance

These fruitful days,
these gifts of the universe,
exceed any lonely call in the night
I might ever imagine.

The prominent grace of the high clouds
on the face of sunset is pink and gold
against the leaving of the day--
all the forgiveness I need.

No one can imagine
another deliverance
as sweet as the rising
of these stars
that gather lovers together
like it was the last day.

Until it is the end of time,
make me change my mind
with words whispered
before the rising of the sun.

Enduring

I have pursued happiness
like any woman enduring patriarchy;
men shaking their heads in disapproval.

The source of my private redemption
is the recurrence of song
and in a private voice
that often serves
females of the tribe so well.

However, I am marked by my pleasure.
I am radiant with laughter and a smile
that does not allow me to hide--
does not make me eligible for initiation
into the silences or the suffering
of the mute mothers of my lineage.

The Spirit of Holiness
stirs in my belly.  I am confused
and saved by angels and winged creatures
who lift me up like a storm around the body--
glowing and frantic for a place to find rest.

This place of rest
is strong as my grandmothers,
open as a ripe flower,
and as peaceful as our people
who walk away from all the weapons
and every tear in the fabric
of all we have ever made.

Dervish Dances

Rehearse your words of escape
by repeating the truth

that you deserve the kindness of a single hand
that has slowly been extended in love

and the palm guides movement
where torture, on toes or the small
of the back,  is never close

Laughter inflames the horizon
of each day before us
and sets the world
into the dervish
dances of the moment.

The language of movement
drawn in circles and cycles
and lightness of bodies
channeling God.





Rehearse escape inflame torture

Supplicant

Raise your glass.
There is no excuse for not celebrating
the bubbles that rise to the surface
of the clear source,
this fundamental texture
of all elements of extraction.

Place your hands gently
on my face and breathe the breath
that escapes from my lips.
The intersection of our expiration
is inspired and full of God.

Embrace me,
oldest friend,
and observe my reverence
as I fall to my knees,
supplicant to all we share
in this moment of divine love.

I am not worthy
to received these gifts placed
quietly and with no expectation
of return,
and yet, I am rich
with the abundance
of your silent intention
uttered in the warmth
of the darkness
just before dawn.

The Litany of Sleep

The litany of sleep
has me listing the ways
in which this day reminds me
of how to love the recurrent thoughts
that foster all the ways I am broken open
to simple kindnesses.

I smile at the surprise of skin
on the back of a hand
painted with flowers.

I delight in miles traveled
with renewed prayers on my lips
like honey and sweetest
water from a generous well.

I sing as if my voice is silver
slipping through a ring of birds
who bless me, sacred and wise musicians
translating joy into sound.

My breath is shallow
and whispers quietly at this opening
where the birth of a new life
is an invitation to deepest truth
that we all understand
and have forgotten how to read.

Take the pages
from the purest white.
sheets soaked
and waiting for time
to rush in,

and divide the unexpected
into equal portions
of  inhalations
and the letting go
of our grip
on air
we've already
consumed.




recurrence, surgeon, litany supreme foster

Near the Grave

The clarity of the first light of a day
is a joyful space in this year of the water snake
where the old calendars are gone.

Thoughts are smooth as the edge of  distant awareness
and this mind gallivants and dances past the quiet
of a breath, taunting with proposals and promises,
that will go nowhere. 

Sit with me
on a single branch
near the grave of true Love
and know that he was thinking of a sweet smile
gazing peacefully at the night sky
as he drifted like a sparrow
shivering away from the snow
and endless cold.

No Turning Back

Scour your mind
for the scoundrel,
the common thief who crawled
mysterious into the unconsciousness,

into the places that were neutral,
safe from intruders,
that stranger who destroyed your confidence
with so much heaviness,
the soiled weight of doubt.

That was the unexpected storm
that caught you off guard.
That was the end
of the lightness of innocense,
like clothes left hanging to dry on the line,
that uninformed confidence
that left the house without an umbrella
and was, instead, soaked to the skin
and shivering with regret.

There is no way
to turn back
in time to close the windows
against the deluge of this betrayal,
this lie that was that forgotten key
to losing everything
you thought was yours
alone to leave behind.

Decomposition

I am decomposing
like the rest of the planet

our bodies are mayhem,
our minds are free to wander
with a pocket full of pearls

dropping them
along the path
like bread crumbs
to mark the way
for lost children,
abandoned, squandered
as if you can dissipate love.

Tonight, as I fall into my darkest dreaming,
wake me with a whisper
and tell me It is worth knowing
that the body knows the way home
if we will only let her
dance like no one
can see the joy
in that loving
dispursement
of singular,
radiant
power

to completely
disappear.

The Sound of the Breath

The pirate in me inhales the sea
discerning sky from water
like a beggar feeling the edge of a coin
with his teeth.

Today, like any other day,
I fuse with the light
and those who cannot give up
hope.

I will not abandon this voyage
until I have filled the belly
with the sweetest liquor
of this aging master
and the hearty laugh

of one who knows
everything.

A Simple Command

Let it all go,

dispose the uniform,
gaudy and oblivious,
that saddles up like a drunk
at the bar

asking for more
when nothing is needed,

where thirst will never leave
the well you  hold  at attention
for what might have been
a simple command
from a some private thought.

Make yourself small
enough so you might go
undetected into the night.

Not even careful inspection of all your seams
and the tucks on the edges of your emotional wanting
can uncover the bloody faces
of desire that will never come back
from the raids you commanded

for too many nights
when you might otherwise
have been sleeping
or enlisting out of despiration
and grief.

Gardens of Your Pride

Consume nothing
for a fortnight,

longer if you dare

parade your wealth
with caution

for the Holy Ones know
what you squander

each night accounting
the coins and paper
bills you hold tight
until the steam rises
in your palms

releasing the truth
of what you must weave
and wattle

around the gardens
of your pride.

Facing Winter

As I discharge my heart
into the cold of winter air

infused with the familiar
density of layers

where snow and ice
are nearly family
in a tomb of tundra
beneath my feet

Crystals of arctic memory
are a vaccine to my fear;

a crutch for the asking
while I slowly wander
numbed
and decreasing my steps
in this impossible dance,

come to me
as if a nymph from the frosty fields
and hold my hand through this constant storm.

I am a child dreaming

looking for the way
when the path is covered
by the blizzard.

of missing the sound of your voice
when the only color is a nothingness;

a desert of white
in the center
of my wounded chest.