The supple skin of the ocean's twilight
flaunts God's variegated face with
waves of determined love.
We are only the audience
to this wide stage
waiting to be entertained
and purified as a baby dripping
with baptismal waters.
Leave this old life behind
and imagine the future
by the osmosis of the soul
into the many souls.
In that serrated understanding
we must make peace
with our very tears of farewell
like a bride finding her new home
on the shores of the Beloved.
Wednesday, December 31, 2014
Tuesday, December 30, 2014
Children and Their Mothers Will Walk Slowly
This city has practiced the evacuations
for decades waiting for the explosion
to cut with a polluted blade
into a sky that branches
toward heaven
every day.
Fear roamed free as a vagabond
hopping off the midnight trains.
But morning has come creeping in after the darkness
and the shop keepers sweep the walkways with determined vigor.
Now it is gratitude that fills the air
with silence that peals as loudly as a heron's joyful wings
as she lifts herself and all the hopes of the quorum
and the milquetoast minds
in a sigh of relief.
Children and their mothers will walk slowly
toward the edge of the river
and lift bright eyes to watch all the birds fly
to a peaceful night's rest.
for decades waiting for the explosion
to cut with a polluted blade
into a sky that branches
toward heaven
every day.
Fear roamed free as a vagabond
hopping off the midnight trains.
But morning has come creeping in after the darkness
and the shop keepers sweep the walkways with determined vigor.
Now it is gratitude that fills the air
with silence that peals as loudly as a heron's joyful wings
as she lifts herself and all the hopes of the quorum
and the milquetoast minds
in a sigh of relief.
Children and their mothers will walk slowly
toward the edge of the river
and lift bright eyes to watch all the birds fly
to a peaceful night's rest.
Monday, December 29, 2014
End of the Year
Sometimes the expectations
at the end of the year
are stifling
when you'd rather sidle up
to the generous uncle
and his mirrors of impunity, the favored child
never held accountable
for the multitude of sins
that gather around,
appreciating the way he is disinclined
to tell the secrets
of the grueling work
of all our human frailties.
Walk with me, he says,
to the end of the street
to the grimy bus stop
and wait patiently
while the calendar folds
for the last time
and argues for the opportune moment
to breathe the diesel smoke
of change.
at the end of the year
are stifling
when you'd rather sidle up
to the generous uncle
and his mirrors of impunity, the favored child
never held accountable
for the multitude of sins
that gather around,
appreciating the way he is disinclined
to tell the secrets
of the grueling work
of all our human frailties.
Walk with me, he says,
to the end of the street
to the grimy bus stop
and wait patiently
while the calendar folds
for the last time
and argues for the opportune moment
to breathe the diesel smoke
of change.
Monday, December 22, 2014
The Last Day of Pleading
You've carried around the reproach
long enough in all this brackish longing
until the ghastly broadcast
permeates the nostrils,
every sensibility,
and offers divination
as a solution to the question
of where the soul belongs;
a sacrifice.
You've carried around the reproach
in a wheelbarrow
because the sin you found
is too heavy to lift
even with a strong back
pleading to be yoked to God.
The angels have given up their vigil
and have gone back to their gardens
to tend the sweet lavender of slumber
and to press you into deeper service
once you finally awaken
and the inquisition of the mind
yields to the wisdom of the heart.
long enough in all this brackish longing
until the ghastly broadcast
permeates the nostrils,
every sensibility,
and offers divination
as a solution to the question
of where the soul belongs;
a sacrifice.
You've carried around the reproach
in a wheelbarrow
because the sin you found
is too heavy to lift
even with a strong back
pleading to be yoked to God.
The angels have given up their vigil
and have gone back to their gardens
to tend the sweet lavender of slumber
and to press you into deeper service
once you finally awaken
and the inquisition of the mind
yields to the wisdom of the heart.
Sunday, December 21, 2014
Nightfall
The longest night is full
of sweet lullabies,
polite and skittish
in all this darkness
like shopworn lovers who forget
the language of the heart.
Stars are brusque in this land of sleeping
where the charred blackness of the sky
roosts with a certain
anticipation of the clamor
of a deeper dawn.
In this solitude
the question isn't
how much time has passed.
The question is
how much trust
was withdrawn
when Hope lost her way
and she had to walk blindly
with only the sound of her breath
to keep her from surrendering
to the panic that comes
at the sound of our own
vacant and echoing footsteps
at the edge of every nightfall.
of sweet lullabies,
polite and skittish
in all this darkness
like shopworn lovers who forget
the language of the heart.
Stars are brusque in this land of sleeping
where the charred blackness of the sky
roosts with a certain
anticipation of the clamor
of a deeper dawn.
In this solitude
the question isn't
how much time has passed.
The question is
how much trust
was withdrawn
when Hope lost her way
and she had to walk blindly
with only the sound of her breath
to keep her from surrendering
to the panic that comes
at the sound of our own
vacant and echoing footsteps
at the edge of every nightfall.
Monday, November 24, 2014
The Ways Love Calls Out
The pulse rides smoothly
under these shoulders today--
this enamel and a cursory edge
to the body is just a drum
that I have learned
to conquer before dawn
when the mind is crisp
and slightly awake
like the broken sky
at civil twilight.
The heart leaps up near these shores
and the ocean cannot contain
the brightness here.
The heart cannot contain
the ways Love calls out
in rose and clementine at the seam
between night and the bursting
open,
the smile of God rushes forward,
embraces a flower that splits
this inexact beauty
into a thousand petals
of prayer.
Tuesday, November 18, 2014
Hastening Home
In the charred and curved motion of the morning
let me hasten home to justify my flammable self.
Let me hasten to the home where God smiles with verification
and justice for the small things that collect in the corners
of the heart waiting to burst into flame
only to be shaped and moved to the middle
of this constant longing.
These volumes of words and contracts with the mind
are bound together in themes of color like dreams
and other lives unlived
or unloved.
I want the urgent love
that has me watching the clock
until the minutes drag me to the finish line
and I anticipate the exact fluttering breath
just before turning the key in the lock
and calling out your holiest name
in welcome and surprise.
let me hasten home to justify my flammable self.
Let me hasten to the home where God smiles with verification
and justice for the small things that collect in the corners
of the heart waiting to burst into flame
only to be shaped and moved to the middle
of this constant longing.
These volumes of words and contracts with the mind
are bound together in themes of color like dreams
and other lives unlived
or unloved.
I want the urgent love
that has me watching the clock
until the minutes drag me to the finish line
and I anticipate the exact fluttering breath
just before turning the key in the lock
and calling out your holiest name
in welcome and surprise.
Monday, September 29, 2014
I Will Not
It is not my mission
to ever be the martyr.
I will not grovel
at the feet of the fractures
fallen and broken on the ground;
edges sharp and spiritually dangerous.
There will be no sighing
or gnashing of words
to make an impression
or grabbing the hand
of a vulnerable stranger
for sympathy.
Instead, let me volunteer
the drab truth:
Life is messy,
love is often
imperfectly cruel,
and fair is fictionally
dysfunctional.
This heart is the seldom wise guide
we must learn to trust.
to ever be the martyr.
I will not grovel
at the feet of the fractures
fallen and broken on the ground;
edges sharp and spiritually dangerous.
There will be no sighing
or gnashing of words
to make an impression
or grabbing the hand
of a vulnerable stranger
for sympathy.
Instead, let me volunteer
the drab truth:
Life is messy,
love is often
imperfectly cruel,
and fair is fictionally
dysfunctional.
This heart is the seldom wise guide
we must learn to trust.
Tuesday, September 23, 2014
The Single Strand
Most mornings my mind
is the detective
finding clues after sleep,
grimacing at the exhibition
of the exact ways
the night has undone me,
torn apart my confidence
like a bundle of tattered sheets
and forced the mandatory examination
of what was the past.
This endurance race
is a competition against
the time kept by the heart.
The heart sits silently
arms crossed in judgement
waiting for the thief
to give himself up
for good.
Finally, giving back
that precious gift
of light shining
on the single strand
of a delicate web thread
that was missing all along.
is the detective
finding clues after sleep,
grimacing at the exhibition
of the exact ways
the night has undone me,
torn apart my confidence
like a bundle of tattered sheets
and forced the mandatory examination
of what was the past.
This endurance race
is a competition against
the time kept by the heart.
The heart sits silently
arms crossed in judgement
waiting for the thief
to give himself up
for good.
Finally, giving back
that precious gift
of light shining
on the single strand
of a delicate web thread
that was missing all along.
Monday, September 22, 2014
The Companion of a Man
This is the story
of how we were all
once the companion of a man
who mauled our soul
with corrosive emotion
and grief.
The hand was bound
as it always is
in a shield
over another silent mouth
where no singing
was aloud.
The man didn't love the warble of our days,
but only counted the abundance of others
who were not his to count.
We wriggled free of the confines
of that greed and cloying closet of untruths
and walked as if our kettle was fully of new wine
and not of bitter boiled and then cold tea.
"Be faithful,"
he said
"Why do you loveth me not?"
We are gone to the sea
and the light of another
where he will never find the lonely heart
or the wise mind of many again.
This is that story
of loss and so much
more than grief.
of how we were all
once the companion of a man
who mauled our soul
with corrosive emotion
and grief.
The hand was bound
as it always is
in a shield
over another silent mouth
where no singing
was aloud.
The man didn't love the warble of our days,
but only counted the abundance of others
who were not his to count.
We wriggled free of the confines
of that greed and cloying closet of untruths
and walked as if our kettle was fully of new wine
and not of bitter boiled and then cold tea.
"Be faithful,"
he said
"Why do you loveth me not?"
We are gone to the sea
and the light of another
where he will never find the lonely heart
or the wise mind of many again.
This is that story
of loss and so much
more than grief.
Sunday, September 21, 2014
Bringing Back the Living
The supple curve of the mind
beseeches a distant thought
to venture out
into the open spaces
where I left you
like a shard
of a shattered clay pot,
admonished for an unknown sin
or some unspoken emotion forgotten,
slouching near a silent cradle,
lost in a dark cravasse
or a echoing tomb
waiting for prayers
and intercessions
to bring back
the living.
beseeches a distant thought
to venture out
into the open spaces
where I left you
like a shard
of a shattered clay pot,
admonished for an unknown sin
or some unspoken emotion forgotten,
slouching near a silent cradle,
lost in a dark cravasse
or a echoing tomb
waiting for prayers
and intercessions
to bring back
the living.
Wednesday, August 13, 2014
Before We Fly
Robins gather together
like we do
sensing the end
of abundance will arrive
soon
breath cold
and shivering together
like we do
in the darkness
lonely
Our breasts,
once bright as feathers
and full of hope,
are fading
and falling
silently.
Where we are going
there will be stars
and moving winds
and rain
like endless love
before we fly.
like we do
sensing the end
of abundance will arrive
soon
breath cold
and shivering together
like we do
in the darkness
lonely
Our breasts,
once bright as feathers
and full of hope,
are fading
and falling
silently.
Where we are going
there will be stars
and moving winds
and rain
like endless love
before we fly.
Sunday, August 3, 2014
Lighting A Candle
It is simple.
Light a candle.
Let it glow
in the window
so that love
might travel
to the heart
of the one
that is leaving
and pray,
pray,
pray.
Let the simplicity of a welcome smile
walk with confidence on the same path
where kindness of gathers
around a table open to grace
holding the hand of the departing soul
and prays;
prays,
prays.
It is simple.
Light a candle.
Pray.
Light a candle.
Let it glow
in the window
so that love
might travel
to the heart
of the one
that is leaving
and pray,
pray,
pray.
Let the simplicity of a welcome smile
walk with confidence on the same path
where kindness of gathers
around a table open to grace
holding the hand of the departing soul
and prays;
prays,
prays.
It is simple.
Light a candle.
Pray.
Thursday, July 24, 2014
The Hopeful Heart
In these well used bodies
we can no longer do it;
fill the fallow spaces that were once vast
and fertile fields where the soul played God,
fill the senses with the wonder of electric storms
and bees buzzing with yellow pollen,
fill the air with deep vibrations,
the voices of violet pleasure
and whispered secrets to the Divine.
But the hopeful heart and love that dances,
laughing in these tattered spirit shells,
dreams abundantly outside the garden walls
no longer confined or taken for granted
like an unattended vine.
We lovers are eager
in the husky fruit of our imaginations,
farmers cultivating earthen joy
silently in the early morning sun
before the heat of another day
wilts the white petals of our courage.
Tuesday, July 15, 2014
I Volunteered
I volunteered for the wounding
so long ago
wondering how I would survive
that much love.
No matter how agitated
or discrete,
I could not suffer enough
loss to make up for
all my sins.
I volunteered to ricochet
and echo through the silences of loss.
Nobody was listening.
Nobody wanted reflection
or silence.
It was a solitary assignment.
It was a smoke tower
waiting to see the first
blue plumes from the fires
hidden in the lush green
that looked like something
out of forever.
so long ago
wondering how I would survive
that much love.
No matter how agitated
or discrete,
I could not suffer enough
loss to make up for
all my sins.
I volunteered to ricochet
and echo through the silences of loss.
Nobody was listening.
Nobody wanted reflection
or silence.
It was a solitary assignment.
It was a smoke tower
waiting to see the first
blue plumes from the fires
hidden in the lush green
that looked like something
out of forever.
Sunday, June 29, 2014
The Way North
Any quiet moment can be magnetic,
the world gone off on the usual path
of enthusiastic overload,
a fossil more critical and drowsy
than the bruised truth of any jealous lover.
Walk with authority
like a patient away from illness.
Open your guarded heart,
concealed and damaged,
who benefits from soft God light
like the soldier who shoulders
constant shelling.
The way north
is slow
and worth the trip.
the world gone off on the usual path
of enthusiastic overload,
a fossil more critical and drowsy
than the bruised truth of any jealous lover.
Walk with authority
like a patient away from illness.
Open your guarded heart,
concealed and damaged,
who benefits from soft God light
like the soldier who shoulders
constant shelling.
The way north
is slow
and worth the trip.
Monday, June 23, 2014
Right Before My Eyes
The night is foggy and I feel the humming
of these splendid fireflies hovering in the fields
that analyze darkness and moisture's influence on the longest days
disappearing right before my eyes.
I can't help
but feel the longing of words
that might disintegrate
like sins in the confessional.
Each credible thought, each promise
disappears as if never mentioned
out loud.
All these secrets mature
and fall like a leaf
from an October branch,
forgotten and left alone
and completely silent.
of these splendid fireflies hovering in the fields
that analyze darkness and moisture's influence on the longest days
disappearing right before my eyes.
I can't help
but feel the longing of words
that might disintegrate
like sins in the confessional.
Each credible thought, each promise
disappears as if never mentioned
out loud.
All these secrets mature
and fall like a leaf
from an October branch,
forgotten and left alone
and completely silent.
Sunday, June 22, 2014
The Lightest Hand
I am bargaining again
with the ambiguity
of my emotional cornerstones;
joy at waking to the gold finch
at the window feeder
is non-negotiable,
and the callous attitude
regarding the dynasty
of breath after breath;
a willing wisdom,
requires safe discernment.
Laughter will transpire
to overtake me
before despair or silent suffering
can find a foothold on the climb
out of bed.
The spirit of love
will not be deleted
or crushed into ash at my feet.
The essential nature of all kindness
is a contract written
with the lightest hand
in the ink of the heart.
with the ambiguity
of my emotional cornerstones;
joy at waking to the gold finch
at the window feeder
is non-negotiable,
and the callous attitude
regarding the dynasty
of breath after breath;
a willing wisdom,
requires safe discernment.
Laughter will transpire
to overtake me
before despair or silent suffering
can find a foothold on the climb
out of bed.
The spirit of love
will not be deleted
or crushed into ash at my feet.
The essential nature of all kindness
is a contract written
with the lightest hand
in the ink of the heart.
Wednesday, May 21, 2014
Let Love Yammer On
Let love yammer on,
let that affection bloom
like a lily
out of the quagmire
of confusion and dread.
Let love tell tales of joy
and find amenable answers
to full bodied life
where laughter isn't forbidden
by the sins of a generation.
Let love cover you in the night
when you are lonely and want warmth
up close to your skin.
The heat of that contact
was once enough
to inspire poetry,
children made of souls,
and undefinable understanding of God.
let that affection bloom
like a lily
out of the quagmire
of confusion and dread.
Let love tell tales of joy
and find amenable answers
to full bodied life
where laughter isn't forbidden
by the sins of a generation.
Let love cover you in the night
when you are lonely and want warmth
up close to your skin.
The heat of that contact
was once enough
to inspire poetry,
children made of souls,
and undefinable understanding of God.
Tuesday, May 20, 2014
Investments
Invest wisely in this gnarled world
and the engine of your heart
may find peace.
Invest wisely in the songs
that escape your mouth
and your temporary joy
may find a home with the birds.
Invest wisely in the people you call home
and you may find laughter flowing
and easy words and dancing
like every day is a glittering celebration.
Invest wisely in a lifetime
and you will find ways to terminate
the constant grinding of bone
against bone
against the stones
of granite days
that have always
managed to rain.
and the engine of your heart
may find peace.
Invest wisely in the songs
that escape your mouth
and your temporary joy
may find a home with the birds.
Invest wisely in the people you call home
and you may find laughter flowing
and easy words and dancing
like every day is a glittering celebration.
Invest wisely in a lifetime
and you will find ways to terminate
the constant grinding of bone
against bone
against the stones
of granite days
that have always
managed to rain.
Jangling Truth
The rusting vestige of this body
is a gallery of so many bold mistakes.
This classic archway to nowhere
is defined by temporary bridges
and foreign phrases meant to insure
survival and little else--
bread and water for the crossing.
Bring me a coin,
some small talisman I can believe in.
Bring me a pocket full of jangling truth
that doesn't tarnish with time.
Bring a poem wrapped in securely in light
and I will believe
we are worthy
of the blue blossoms
of forgiveness.
is a gallery of so many bold mistakes.
This classic archway to nowhere
is defined by temporary bridges
and foreign phrases meant to insure
survival and little else--
bread and water for the crossing.
Bring me a coin,
some small talisman I can believe in.
Bring me a pocket full of jangling truth
that doesn't tarnish with time.
Bring a poem wrapped in securely in light
and I will believe
we are worthy
of the blue blossoms
of forgiveness.
Monday, May 12, 2014
Rivalry
This rivalry
is the uninvited guest
whose tongue waggles endlessly,
thrumming the same tired tune
like a stevedore unloading
endless thoughts
just to avoid
another death.
is the uninvited guest
whose tongue waggles endlessly,
thrumming the same tired tune
like a stevedore unloading
endless thoughts
just to avoid
another death.
Why Quibble?
Why quibble over the minion of words
in a sea shanty where the pilot of the rising
and the falling of meaning
is lost in the depths so blue?
The oast house that dries the barley and hops for this strong ale
is hot and tempers are sure to flare in these nascent tunes,
roasting before the fire only to be served up to deliberate maidens
and children who will not withstand the bawdy songs
and backroom ballads.
It is lost on all of the innocents
who can't find a voice to speak,
much less sing.
in a sea shanty where the pilot of the rising
and the falling of meaning
is lost in the depths so blue?
The oast house that dries the barley and hops for this strong ale
is hot and tempers are sure to flare in these nascent tunes,
roasting before the fire only to be served up to deliberate maidens
and children who will not withstand the bawdy songs
and backroom ballads.
It is lost on all of the innocents
who can't find a voice to speak,
much less sing.
Eventually Everything Blossoms
Eventually everything blossoms.
It is efficient to assure Mother Nature,
the ultimate performer,
that even the hornet can learn
not to sting himself.
Eventually everything breaks free of the petals.
Invisible jarring of joy
can't contain itself
and must gallop across the face
as a smile.
Eventually everything that complains must laugh.
The old woman kvetching at the edge of the monger's counter
catches her last breath and exhales in a sudden gaffaw.
Try as she might, even her hand can't stop the world
from flying free in uncontrollable delight
like bells on the edge of the wind.
It is efficient to assure Mother Nature,
the ultimate performer,
that even the hornet can learn
not to sting himself.
Eventually everything breaks free of the petals.
Invisible jarring of joy
can't contain itself
and must gallop across the face
as a smile.
Eventually everything that complains must laugh.
The old woman kvetching at the edge of the monger's counter
catches her last breath and exhales in a sudden gaffaw.
Try as she might, even her hand can't stop the world
from flying free in uncontrollable delight
like bells on the edge of the wind.
Burnishing the Death
This infection,this rush of cells
toward the damage and invasion of the body,
does me no good.
The suspension of faith in healing
from a distance, like a mother calling from home,
impatient for details flush with rosy predictions
will never work.
This maneuver is a reflection of how bad
the disposal of flesh can be,
rotting and septic cannot be made new
by burnishing the death
with words that have no meaning.
I am fading
into spirit
with no attachment
to the death
that lingers
around these weary bones.
toward the damage and invasion of the body,
does me no good.
The suspension of faith in healing
from a distance, like a mother calling from home,
impatient for details flush with rosy predictions
will never work.
This maneuver is a reflection of how bad
the disposal of flesh can be,
rotting and septic cannot be made new
by burnishing the death
with words that have no meaning.
I am fading
into spirit
with no attachment
to the death
that lingers
around these weary bones.
On the Trail to Nowhere
Strum that old sad song.
You know it so well.
The one that barters
with the smoking barrel.
Hum that lonesome tune.
You know it so very well.
The pigment of your skin
is no longer pink
and you have given up
on ever finding sunrise again.
Pick up the howling at the moon.
You know that exact pitch.
The cold blue light
suits you from the shadows
like a trapped animal
waiting for the pack to arrive.
You know it so well.
The one that barters
with the smoking barrel.
Hum that lonesome tune.
You know it so very well.
The pigment of your skin
is no longer pink
and you have given up
on ever finding sunrise again.
Pick up the howling at the moon.
You know that exact pitch.
The cold blue light
suits you from the shadows
like a trapped animal
waiting for the pack to arrive.
Tuesday, May 6, 2014
Detecting Love
Suspect the anonymous love letters
that sashay into your mailbox at midnight.
It is elementary, my dear,
to remember that simple affection
burns the skin,
will brand you, flesh smoking
with a powerful show of force
like extradition
after conviction
and the discovery of betrayal
at the scene of another
bloody crime.
that sashay into your mailbox at midnight.
It is elementary, my dear,
to remember that simple affection
burns the skin,
will brand you, flesh smoking
with a powerful show of force
like extradition
after conviction
and the discovery of betrayal
at the scene of another
bloody crime.
Sunday, May 4, 2014
Closing the Shop
It is time to close the shop
where the undertow of pleasure
abruptly disappears into darkness
and what some women call the end.
The signs are simple.
The spine curls forward.
Hands pose on the lap. Feet cross
daintily at the ankles.
Wrinkles
and worried looks are all part of
the way the flock of old birds gather
waiting uninformed for death.
where the undertow of pleasure
abruptly disappears into darkness
and what some women call the end.
The signs are simple.
The spine curls forward.
Hands pose on the lap. Feet cross
daintily at the ankles.
Wrinkles
and worried looks are all part of
the way the flock of old birds gather
waiting uninformed for death.
Release
In the aftermath of all this grief
I have begun to drape myself in inquiry.
This black mourning for the signature
that identified my words with beauty
is the crosshatching I have needed to escape
the obtuse and unfeeling magnets of light.
If I cry again
maybe this time I will release the poison
like a waterway after the thawing snows.
In the aftermath of all this grief
I will ask the hardest questions
so that I might understand
what I've always missed before.
I have begun to drape myself in inquiry.
This black mourning for the signature
that identified my words with beauty
is the crosshatching I have needed to escape
the obtuse and unfeeling magnets of light.
If I cry again
maybe this time I will release the poison
like a waterway after the thawing snows.
In the aftermath of all this grief
I will ask the hardest questions
so that I might understand
what I've always missed before.
Justification
When it is time to justify everything
I know you will be grasping at every word.
You are not the braggart
or the man with too much ego.
You are not the undernourished soul
who needs to be rescued.
You are not the crazy
who forgets his manners and swears
this is the end.
You are different than anyone
I have ever known.
When it comes to justifying joy,
come into to kitchen.
Sit down.
It is time to talk.
I know you will be grasping at every word.
You are not the braggart
or the man with too much ego.
You are not the undernourished soul
who needs to be rescued.
You are not the crazy
who forgets his manners and swears
this is the end.
You are different than anyone
I have ever known.
When it comes to justifying joy,
come into to kitchen.
Sit down.
It is time to talk.
Wednesday, April 30, 2014
Bound
My sight is dimly focused
in the twilight of another day
that trickles meekly
and then drifts off to the edge
of nothing
to clang like a rope
on a flagpole
in the wind.
I am bound to this place
and the sadness of enduring rain.
I pray that the warmth of God's supple breath
will warm these cold and aching hands.
in the twilight of another day
that trickles meekly
and then drifts off to the edge
of nothing
to clang like a rope
on a flagpole
in the wind.
I am bound to this place
and the sadness of enduring rain.
I pray that the warmth of God's supple breath
will warm these cold and aching hands.
Tuesday, April 29, 2014
Why Not Draw a Map?
Why not draw a map,
a map with a volume of missteps
and mistakes sketched
along each knuckle,
a map where quest is part of the din,
shins scraped and bloody,
insects crawling and raising welts,
and the mind traipses bravely
whacking at the underbrush of doubt
with the cold blade of a machete?
"You are here," says this map.
No need to panic.
The heart is standing close,
holding your hand,
leading the way
past the familiar scene
and on to the next breath
taking vista.
a map with a volume of missteps
and mistakes sketched
along each knuckle,
a map where quest is part of the din,
shins scraped and bloody,
insects crawling and raising welts,
and the mind traipses bravely
whacking at the underbrush of doubt
with the cold blade of a machete?
"You are here," says this map.
No need to panic.
The heart is standing close,
holding your hand,
leading the way
past the familiar scene
and on to the next breath
taking vista.
Monday, April 28, 2014
How Fear Knows
You think you must hurt
to build a lattice between today
and the exhale of the past.
The statute of provocation
is trapped in your every breath
and will not be ferreted out
of those dark and weary places.
The corridor to the heart
is cluttered and so fractured
and fragile and waiting
to repeat the impossible
claim on all you are worth.
Sunday, April 27, 2014
Speak the Word
In the reckoning of my voice with learning to sing,
I stumble near the precipice of truth.
Though I don't fall into the churning
of waters that boil and could easily take me under,
I am changed in these solitary days.
My walking has been so heavy.
The yoke has been formed to my strong shoulders
and a back that is not afraid of working.
And yet, if I could open my mouth
and let the notes of joy that wait in the cave of my throat
fly free of this silence with music so sweet,
the Divine would speak the word
with quiet prayer
and the flowing water
would be the rush
of abundant thanksgiving.
I stumble near the precipice of truth.
Though I don't fall into the churning
of waters that boil and could easily take me under,
I am changed in these solitary days.
My walking has been so heavy.
The yoke has been formed to my strong shoulders
and a back that is not afraid of working.
And yet, if I could open my mouth
and let the notes of joy that wait in the cave of my throat
fly free of this silence with music so sweet,
the Divine would speak the word
with quiet prayer
and the flowing water
would be the rush
of abundant thanksgiving.
Saturday, April 26, 2014
The Eternal Sounds
When I retire for the night,
fresh with timid words
and exhausted from the strain of the day,
let me slog slowly
into the darkness
weaving stars
and sunshine
into my dreaming.
I jostle all day long
like a wagon full of heavy stones
and when I finally arrive at my place of rest
I am eternally embossed with prayers of gratitude.
My face is pocked with the weariness of the world.
My heart is the filter for all that must be done.
Rock me slowly in the twilight
and the eternal sounds of God's voice
will sing to us all.
fresh with timid words
and exhausted from the strain of the day,
let me slog slowly
into the darkness
weaving stars
and sunshine
into my dreaming.
I jostle all day long
like a wagon full of heavy stones
and when I finally arrive at my place of rest
I am eternally embossed with prayers of gratitude.
My face is pocked with the weariness of the world.
My heart is the filter for all that must be done.
Rock me slowly in the twilight
and the eternal sounds of God's voice
will sing to us all.
Tuesday, April 22, 2014
False Front
The charged heat that arrives in the body
with the force of aging weaponry
on my doorstep again. War on youth
cannot be submerged for long.
This bottleneck of hormones
is part of the passage
from the serene flow of blood
that rises and falls by the phases
of the moon to nothingness.
I become a mannequin of myself again,
soul walking out of the body
just to survive the stiff and false front
that life has become.
And the breath--
is just the fire
that will remind me
where home really lives.
with the force of aging weaponry
on my doorstep again. War on youth
cannot be submerged for long.
This bottleneck of hormones
is part of the passage
from the serene flow of blood
that rises and falls by the phases
of the moon to nothingness.
I become a mannequin of myself again,
soul walking out of the body
just to survive the stiff and false front
that life has become.
And the breath--
is just the fire
that will remind me
where home really lives.
Monday, April 21, 2014
Finally
Finally 70 degrees
I planned to play hooky,
dig in the dirt,
play whiffle ball,
and make left overs
because it is easier.
Why squander a day like today indoors
after a long and dark winter
that everyone complained would never end?
In haste, I changed my tires to all season
in hopes of driving away the cold and whiteness.
It is a gamble to plant sweet peas and lily of the valley
on the same day, but I've thrown caution to the wind
and even harvested a tiny burn to my nose and cheeks.
Freckles aren't far
from this pink
and sun drenched day.
I planned to play hooky,
dig in the dirt,
play whiffle ball,
and make left overs
because it is easier.
Why squander a day like today indoors
after a long and dark winter
that everyone complained would never end?
In haste, I changed my tires to all season
in hopes of driving away the cold and whiteness.
It is a gamble to plant sweet peas and lily of the valley
on the same day, but I've thrown caution to the wind
and even harvested a tiny burn to my nose and cheeks.
Freckles aren't far
from this pink
and sun drenched day.
Sunday, April 20, 2014
Yoga Class
Such a rich and anonymous cuisine
I taste in this flexible body
posed in saline rich skin
and arching, riveted
to the soul.
I am more alive
in this simple movement
than any other nourishment
I have ever let pass into
my hungry and thirsty
self.
I taste in this flexible body
posed in saline rich skin
and arching, riveted
to the soul.
I am more alive
in this simple movement
than any other nourishment
I have ever let pass into
my hungry and thirsty
self.
Saturday, April 19, 2014
When He Called My Name
When he called my name
I was drunk with incense, oils,
and the volume of loss,
my heart searching everywhere
for the warmth of a body
gone cold.
When he called my name
I imagined illusion
and the way the mind plays tricks
like a hand grasping for something stable
to prevent a fall, the quizzical game
with no quick answer to questions.
When he called my name
it took everything the teacher had taught me
to conquer my fear of all that I did not know,
to dismiss my doubt, look at the risen man,
and to answer in the voice I was trained
to lift up.
When he called my name
I cast off my blindness
and walked for the first time
into the brilliance of God.
I was drunk with incense, oils,
and the volume of loss,
my heart searching everywhere
for the warmth of a body
gone cold.
When he called my name
I imagined illusion
and the way the mind plays tricks
like a hand grasping for something stable
to prevent a fall, the quizzical game
with no quick answer to questions.
When he called my name
it took everything the teacher had taught me
to conquer my fear of all that I did not know,
to dismiss my doubt, look at the risen man,
and to answer in the voice I was trained
to lift up.
When he called my name
I cast off my blindness
and walked for the first time
into the brilliance of God.
Friday, April 18, 2014
Simple Flight of Souls
Swing widely and disturb the eternal
like another angel on the trapeze who releases herself
into nothingness.
It doesn't take much pressure
or prayer after the gasp of relief
to believe that love is a simple flight of souls
when you watch beauty dance
in the coming and going of birds at first light
from the edges of protection
into the vulnerability of space.
Take your pen
and write on the blank pages of your diary
about forgiveness and perhaps the Beloved
will respond with a smiling truth.
Know your heart
and what devotion requires
and you will never launch skyward
alone.
like another angel on the trapeze who releases herself
into nothingness.
It doesn't take much pressure
or prayer after the gasp of relief
to believe that love is a simple flight of souls
when you watch beauty dance
in the coming and going of birds at first light
from the edges of protection
into the vulnerability of space.
Take your pen
and write on the blank pages of your diary
about forgiveness and perhaps the Beloved
will respond with a smiling truth.
Know your heart
and what devotion requires
and you will never launch skyward
alone.
Thursday, April 17, 2014
Moon Rise
One day flannel will not be armor
used as a guardian of buttons
and instead be ready to explore
the broken jigsaw puzzle of quiet
and moons that rise after
the fire is started.
The radio will play music
to dance to
and the stars
will forget themselves
and fall down
like rain.
Unscarred
How I long for the succulent kiss
of a spring without cold breath
of wind on my neck.
Where is the temple of warmth
and longest days
that hush me without warning
to the craft of relaxation
and mindful relief?
Break my longing from the burl
in the bark of the maple
and let my joy ooze like sap
from the wound
until I heal
in the sun
unscarred.
of a spring without cold breath
of wind on my neck.
Where is the temple of warmth
and longest days
that hush me without warning
to the craft of relaxation
and mindful relief?
Break my longing from the burl
in the bark of the maple
and let my joy ooze like sap
from the wound
until I heal
in the sun
unscarred.
Tuesday, April 15, 2014
The Currency of Survival
When the embargo on happiness was announced
it was more than anyone could withstand
without a descent into a darkness
from which there was no returning.
It wasn't long before the most coveted possession
was laughter and a song sung with others.
This music of mind and soul
warmed us like the newly washed fleece of lambs
and was softer than a child cooing
at the breast of her mother.
This laughter was gold
and the currency of survival.
it was more than anyone could withstand
without a descent into a darkness
from which there was no returning.
It wasn't long before the most coveted possession
was laughter and a song sung with others.
This music of mind and soul
warmed us like the newly washed fleece of lambs
and was softer than a child cooing
at the breast of her mother.
This laughter was gold
and the currency of survival.
Monday, April 14, 2014
To Exhale
In France,
or maybe Montreal,
I will smile more
over strong coffee
and buttery croissant
with apricot jam
and unsalted fat.
My walk will bounce elegantly,
buoyant as a dancer
and with joyful purpose.
Astride this romantic culture
I will fall in love,
skip vowels
with wine soaked ease
and exhale like a contented smoker
at the denouement of each blessed day.
or maybe Montreal,
I will smile more
over strong coffee
and buttery croissant
with apricot jam
and unsalted fat.
My walk will bounce elegantly,
buoyant as a dancer
and with joyful purpose.
Astride this romantic culture
I will fall in love,
skip vowels
with wine soaked ease
and exhale like a contented smoker
at the denouement of each blessed day.
Sunday, April 13, 2014
Alone, for my Own Good
Drain me
of all that is not alive,
like a corpse
left with
arteries open,
the trapdoor
to the soul
empty.
Anesthetize my heart
and leave me alone,
solitary and abandoned
for my own good
in the impoverished body
where light excavates love
from bones
sun bleached
and forgiven.
Teach me
to swim in heaven
with my lungs breaking free
of this horizontal plane
taking easy breaths
from the smooth surface
of God's sweet ocean
and awake in the waters
of that much divinity.
of all that is not alive,
like a corpse
left with
arteries open,
the trapdoor
to the soul
empty.
Anesthetize my heart
and leave me alone,
solitary and abandoned
for my own good
in the impoverished body
where light excavates love
from bones
sun bleached
and forgiven.
Teach me
to swim in heaven
with my lungs breaking free
of this horizontal plane
taking easy breaths
from the smooth surface
of God's sweet ocean
and awake in the waters
of that much divinity.
Saturday, April 12, 2014
Laughing Greedily with Wine in her Fist
The shimmer of my soul
has moved beyond the war of
any obstruction that might be
observed on the glowing horizon
of another weary trail.
The sound of that beating heart
rings out, hums and peals clear
over the tops of trees
and mossy emotion and will not be silenced
into some small cage of ribs.
The locus of this dark and raging love
is simply derived from the Beloved
and is woven with golden threads
of absolute joy.
That hungry friend
laughs greedily
with wine in her fist
and invites her guests
to eat and drink
of the Divine
in each drop
of crimson
and hardtack.
has moved beyond the war of
any obstruction that might be
observed on the glowing horizon
of another weary trail.
The sound of that beating heart
rings out, hums and peals clear
over the tops of trees
and mossy emotion and will not be silenced
into some small cage of ribs.
The locus of this dark and raging love
is simply derived from the Beloved
and is woven with golden threads
of absolute joy.
That hungry friend
laughs greedily
with wine in her fist
and invites her guests
to eat and drink
of the Divine
in each drop
of crimson
and hardtack.
Friday, April 11, 2014
Finding Whimsey After Winter
The momentum of whimsey
is dancing in these warm breezes
and wander like osmosis in and out
of my cells.
Winter traipses away
from my memory like blood washed
with warm water from bandages
and wounds that have been left
covered for far too long.
Healing is found in the earth
and in the whistle found at the wetting
of my parched and cracking lips.
It is enough to know
the song is still something
to be shared.
is dancing in these warm breezes
and wander like osmosis in and out
of my cells.
Winter traipses away
from my memory like blood washed
with warm water from bandages
and wounds that have been left
covered for far too long.
Healing is found in the earth
and in the whistle found at the wetting
of my parched and cracking lips.
It is enough to know
the song is still something
to be shared.
Wednesday, April 9, 2014
Elastic Boundaries
The elastic boundaries
of love are no boundary
as you trace my mind
with the fingers of your kindness
and your intelligence.
You trickle this emotional stream
with every tear, giggle, and frustrated sigh.
I am a twin conjoined with the blunt attention
to the flesh woven with a soul
shared and unable to ravel
even if we knew how
to give up on each other.
The sand is no line to draw
impermanent figures
that will only be washed away
with a single, delicate
wave goodbye.
of love are no boundary
as you trace my mind
with the fingers of your kindness
and your intelligence.
You trickle this emotional stream
with every tear, giggle, and frustrated sigh.
I am a twin conjoined with the blunt attention
to the flesh woven with a soul
shared and unable to ravel
even if we knew how
to give up on each other.
The sand is no line to draw
impermanent figures
that will only be washed away
with a single, delicate
wave goodbye.
Tuesday, April 8, 2014
The First Heron
The first heron
has flown across my path today,
the tumbling gray clouds
shook the dust of the winter
out of their cloak
and there he flew
like a slow moth
drunk before the flame.
I stood quiet
as he flapped his inching magic,
cutting the cords of cold,
steady as the tailor
slicing steel blades
through light blue silk.
has flown across my path today,
the tumbling gray clouds
shook the dust of the winter
out of their cloak
and there he flew
like a slow moth
drunk before the flame.
I stood quiet
as he flapped his inching magic,
cutting the cords of cold,
steady as the tailor
slicing steel blades
through light blue silk.
Monday, April 7, 2014
After a Sudden and Violent Storm
The joy of the day
cannot be diminished
by the minutia of details.
There will be no
amputation of laughter by a serious
morsel of news
or clogging satisfaction
with undigested struggles.
The truth of the breath
taken deep into the lungs
will flush all doubt
into the open air
and leave behind
the joy like a cool puddle
after a sudden and violent storm.
cannot be diminished
by the minutia of details.
There will be no
amputation of laughter by a serious
morsel of news
or clogging satisfaction
with undigested struggles.
The truth of the breath
taken deep into the lungs
will flush all doubt
into the open air
and leave behind
the joy like a cool puddle
after a sudden and violent storm.
Sunday, April 6, 2014
Presage
This is a warning
to all those who wish to detour
The detour will not soothe
or winnow away at the baggage of suffering
you carry.
The detour will only prolong your grief
and drain all the vital juices
from the limited youth you have
on your side.
Apropos of everything,
jettison the daily sins
that were never yours.
Never force your foot
into the boot too small
for your tremulous
spirit. This is a long journey
no matter which way you turn.
The signs of danger
were not an attempt to frighten
the stranger away.
The praises of the kingdom
are only attainable
if you follow the most simple
rules.
to all those who wish to detour
The detour will not soothe
or winnow away at the baggage of suffering
you carry.
The detour will only prolong your grief
and drain all the vital juices
from the limited youth you have
on your side.
Apropos of everything,
jettison the daily sins
that were never yours.
Never force your foot
into the boot too small
for your tremulous
spirit. This is a long journey
no matter which way you turn.
The signs of danger
were not an attempt to frighten
the stranger away.
The praises of the kingdom
are only attainable
if you follow the most simple
rules.
Thursday, April 3, 2014
Swirling Prayer
These glottal days of sadness
where tears sting like wasps
and liquify the heart,
are the unyielding vendors of love.
We do not waffle in sobs,
nor resist the delight
of unexpected belly laughs
wedged against deep despair
and desire.
The inflection of the heart
is not to be manipulated by man's will,
but, instead sacrificed
in the low, and nearly silent chant
of the soul
in dizzy, swirling
prayer.
where tears sting like wasps
and liquify the heart,
are the unyielding vendors of love.
We do not waffle in sobs,
nor resist the delight
of unexpected belly laughs
wedged against deep despair
and desire.
The inflection of the heart
is not to be manipulated by man's will,
but, instead sacrificed
in the low, and nearly silent chant
of the soul
in dizzy, swirling
prayer.
Wednesday, April 2, 2014
Another Paradise
A posse of formic creatures
crawls at my feet.
It is spring and the broadcast
threatens to annul the long winter
with sun and fifty degrees.
That long, cold proxy of real life
is nearly gone,
like the snow that leeches past the frost
into the brown sod that will soon
become another paradise.
crawls at my feet.
It is spring and the broadcast
threatens to annul the long winter
with sun and fifty degrees.
That long, cold proxy of real life
is nearly gone,
like the snow that leeches past the frost
into the brown sod that will soon
become another paradise.
Tuesday, April 1, 2014
April Fool
On a day where I am determined to repossess
all the days I have lost
to events or attitudes
where mildew would gladly
take residence,
I am chilly and want to lance
the illness under my skin
so that decompression from the world
releases into ease.
I am encouraged to malinger
and let the world pass by
in all the hurry and hustle of the mind.
Let me pull the covers over my head
and sink into the luxury of sleep.
Let me pull the covers over my head
and push the snooze alarm for hours.
Let me pull the covers over my head
and ignore all the ruckus
for just one peaceful day alone.
No one the wiser
for this April fool.
all the days I have lost
to events or attitudes
where mildew would gladly
take residence,
I am chilly and want to lance
the illness under my skin
so that decompression from the world
releases into ease.
I am encouraged to malinger
and let the world pass by
in all the hurry and hustle of the mind.
Let me pull the covers over my head
and sink into the luxury of sleep.
Let me pull the covers over my head
and push the snooze alarm for hours.
Let me pull the covers over my head
and ignore all the ruckus
for just one peaceful day alone.
No one the wiser
for this April fool.
Monday, March 31, 2014
Biting the Hand
I have a penchant to love
what cannot be loved
with my heart awake and open.
God plumbs a line
from heaven to that beacon
in a spiral formation
and whispers, "Love your neighbor."
I can't help myself as I stoop
to gather the dirty and tired
withers of the unloved;
of the lost,
to my breast,
forgetting sometimes
that cornered and untrained souls
are prone to bite
even the kindest hand.
what cannot be loved
with my heart awake and open.
God plumbs a line
from heaven to that beacon
in a spiral formation
and whispers, "Love your neighbor."
I can't help myself as I stoop
to gather the dirty and tired
withers of the unloved;
of the lost,
to my breast,
forgetting sometimes
that cornered and untrained souls
are prone to bite
even the kindest hand.
Sunday, March 30, 2014
In the Dream
In this dream I don't want to dream
there is a noose
loose around my neck
and the devil teases,
attempts to palliate the situation
playing footsie with feet;
squirming just inches above the chair
on which I stand.
My throat is sour as vinegar
just thinking of this dream I don't want to have,
a pill caught, dry in my esophagus
and I choke
waiting for catastrophe
to fall.
In this dream I don't want to dream
there is a dagger in my hand,
damp with crimson and poised
at my vulnerable wrist.
The devil whispers
sweet nothings about wanting more
and offering so little it is embarrassing
to even consider what he says,
and yet there is something promising
about nothing in a dream
about nothing.
there is a noose
loose around my neck
and the devil teases,
attempts to palliate the situation
playing footsie with feet;
squirming just inches above the chair
on which I stand.
My throat is sour as vinegar
just thinking of this dream I don't want to have,
a pill caught, dry in my esophagus
and I choke
waiting for catastrophe
to fall.
In this dream I don't want to dream
there is a dagger in my hand,
damp with crimson and poised
at my vulnerable wrist.
The devil whispers
sweet nothings about wanting more
and offering so little it is embarrassing
to even consider what he says,
and yet there is something promising
about nothing in a dream
about nothing.
Saturday, March 29, 2014
All That Must Be Done
The day ambushed the percussion of the rhythm of my body
like the legacy of all women who endeavor to accomplish anything.
My plans are quashed,
extinguished
in the fracas of all that must be done.
Acceleration, in this instance,
does not assume anything
that won't also be overcome,
like the runner at the end of a long race
by a few deep and steady breaths
from the observer's perspective
and silence from deep within
the inner room.
like the legacy of all women who endeavor to accomplish anything.
My plans are quashed,
extinguished
in the fracas of all that must be done.
Acceleration, in this instance,
does not assume anything
that won't also be overcome,
like the runner at the end of a long race
by a few deep and steady breaths
from the observer's perspective
and silence from deep within
the inner room.
Friday, March 28, 2014
Finding Each Other in Love
Remember a time before we were withered,
tethered to the earth
full of questions and quizzical prodding
of the truth from quince
and from the haunches of humanity.
Remember a whisper in the dark
like a child calling out from the depths
of a bad dream or for a drink of water.
Repeat the chant
over and over again
until you remember
what it all means
to be completely awake.
This is where we find God
and each other
in love.
tethered to the earth
full of questions and quizzical prodding
of the truth from quince
and from the haunches of humanity.
Remember a whisper in the dark
like a child calling out from the depths
of a bad dream or for a drink of water.
Repeat the chant
over and over again
until you remember
what it all means
to be completely awake.
This is where we find God
and each other
in love.
Thursday, March 27, 2014
Swinging Pendulum
Sidle up close
In the glade of this new spring
And,perhaps, burrow
Into the chasm
Where we all watch the pendulum
Swing and flow in rhythm with
The moon and her desire.
In the glade of this new spring
And,perhaps, burrow
Into the chasm
Where we all watch the pendulum
Swing and flow in rhythm with
The moon and her desire.
Wednesday, March 26, 2014
Violaceous
The color purple
scales my mind,
the abrasions of my past
healed by the coiled auora
of the heart.
These flagrant gestures
of love are unstoppable
and surrender only
to the Beloved.
scales my mind,
the abrasions of my past
healed by the coiled auora
of the heart.
These flagrant gestures
of love are unstoppable
and surrender only
to the Beloved.
Tuesday, March 25, 2014
Each day we muddle along,
jostling the tasks that boggle
the heart.
The mind makes out like a bandit
with deftness to follow the twists and turns
of too much to do. It is in that over done labyrinth
that she is in her element.
This breach of trust
between between heart
and mind is inevitable.
The heart is wiser
and secure in the fullness
of life forces at the edge of grace
where the sea touches the earth.
Nothing can steal the wealth
of that place where God breathes.
jostling the tasks that boggle
the heart.
The mind makes out like a bandit
with deftness to follow the twists and turns
of too much to do. It is in that over done labyrinth
that she is in her element.
This breach of trust
between between heart
and mind is inevitable.
The heart is wiser
and secure in the fullness
of life forces at the edge of grace
where the sea touches the earth.
Nothing can steal the wealth
of that place where God breathes.
Monday, March 24, 2014
At Ease
On days I am jumpy with jitters,
like a new contestant on the game show, Jeopardy,
waiting for the hazard of the wrong answer
to throttle me
I say a prayer
a million times, the benediction
to the rest of my life
"My servile ways are over."
There is a harmony that reverberates
to the sound of that simplicity
of taking charge of all that is in front of me.
There is no one to blame,
no one to blame me.
I am responsible for my own way
with the help of love alone.
From that perspective
my heart slows, my breath is even
and fills my belly
with life. My shoulders fall loosely
into their sockets and I am ready
to fall into step and conversation
with the Beloved.
This yoke is so easy.
like a new contestant on the game show, Jeopardy,
waiting for the hazard of the wrong answer
to throttle me
I say a prayer
a million times, the benediction
to the rest of my life
"My servile ways are over."
There is a harmony that reverberates
to the sound of that simplicity
of taking charge of all that is in front of me.
There is no one to blame,
no one to blame me.
I am responsible for my own way
with the help of love alone.
From that perspective
my heart slows, my breath is even
and fills my belly
with life. My shoulders fall loosely
into their sockets and I am ready
to fall into step and conversation
with the Beloved.
This yoke is so easy.
Sunday, March 23, 2014
The Beloved Arises
These cavalier thoughts
are the tincture imposed
strictly as an overbearing father
with a beautiful daughter,
fair and pure
as any damsel
to be protected,
the quill of her body
expressing itself
in words of a defiant child.
But the Spirit is God's centrifuge,
reducing the mind to chanting
until the Beloved arises
and takes the day by the hand
like an ordinary rosy sunrise.
are the tincture imposed
strictly as an overbearing father
with a beautiful daughter,
fair and pure
as any damsel
to be protected,
the quill of her body
expressing itself
in words of a defiant child.
But the Spirit is God's centrifuge,
reducing the mind to chanting
until the Beloved arises
and takes the day by the hand
like an ordinary rosy sunrise.
Saturday, March 22, 2014
Flying a Kite in the Storm
This night of acrid anxiety
is just as I remember
the brash voices of reprimand
and doing all I could
in my small body
to absorb the shock
of constant disapproval.
Who the hell do I think I am
to dare to find joy
in the face of a stranger?
The axiom of this decision
is as if I must choose
which child I love more.
Equanimity is not an option.
Let me tie a key to the string of this kite
and let her slowly into the approaching storm.
These clouds, grey-green and boiling angry
with flashing temper of revenge.
is just as I remember
the brash voices of reprimand
and doing all I could
in my small body
to absorb the shock
of constant disapproval.
Who the hell do I think I am
to dare to find joy
in the face of a stranger?
The axiom of this decision
is as if I must choose
which child I love more.
Equanimity is not an option.
Let me tie a key to the string of this kite
and let her slowly into the approaching storm.
These clouds, grey-green and boiling angry
with flashing temper of revenge.
Friday, March 21, 2014
Spring Waits for Tulips
Snow, no longer white,
melted down to the brown grass.
Spring waits for tulips.
melted down to the brown grass.
Spring waits for tulips.
Thursday, March 20, 2014
Bring Joy
Bring to me soft whisperings at sunrise
and warm drinks and sweet things to eat
and I will go feral
for that kind of love.
Bring me to the edge of each day
with breath and chanting
and I will dance with joy
like giddy birds coaxing black oil seeds
from a welcoming feeder after snow.
Bring to me a scabbard
to hold the blade of doubt
and I will tuck that sin
deeply into the leather so that
there is no glint of betrayal
to blind us.
Bring to me a flint
to strike with metal
and flash hot
with these dry shavings
of unconditional love.
I won't settle for emotion
that will be quenched
with wine or cool water.
Let me burn bright
within the hearth
of sturdy and truest self.
Bring to me a mirror
to hold in front of you
so that you might see
the beautiful outline
of the Divine
in the many changing seasons
of your eroding expressions.
and warm drinks and sweet things to eat
and I will go feral
for that kind of love.
Bring me to the edge of each day
with breath and chanting
and I will dance with joy
like giddy birds coaxing black oil seeds
from a welcoming feeder after snow.
Bring to me a scabbard
to hold the blade of doubt
and I will tuck that sin
deeply into the leather so that
there is no glint of betrayal
to blind us.
Bring to me a flint
to strike with metal
and flash hot
with these dry shavings
of unconditional love.
I won't settle for emotion
that will be quenched
with wine or cool water.
Let me burn bright
within the hearth
of sturdy and truest self.
Bring to me a mirror
to hold in front of you
so that you might see
the beautiful outline
of the Divine
in the many changing seasons
of your eroding expressions.
Wednesday, March 19, 2014
From Pakistan to Picayune
The vinegar
of the lofty mind
puckers with the pervading trends
of arguing for the sake of disagreement
and gathers creased brows that will never smooth.
We lose real estate
and hearts that might heal
when bitter words
and thoughtless policy
take seats at the table
when chocolates and tea are served
from great, earthen vessels
and platters overflowing.
Cast your mind
into the pit of a prosperous soul
and let it burn with the white heat
of abundant love.
The alchemy of those shining elements
will hold the universe
like a bride first kissed
on her wedding night.
of the lofty mind
puckers with the pervading trends
of arguing for the sake of disagreement
and gathers creased brows that will never smooth.
We lose real estate
and hearts that might heal
when bitter words
and thoughtless policy
take seats at the table
when chocolates and tea are served
from great, earthen vessels
and platters overflowing.
Cast your mind
into the pit of a prosperous soul
and let it burn with the white heat
of abundant love.
The alchemy of those shining elements
will hold the universe
like a bride first kissed
on her wedding night.
Tuesday, March 18, 2014
Breaking of the Spell
Don't flounder
in that chronic slumber
where nobody rescues you
from a bad potion
by an inadequate enchantress.
This witch is really quite lovely
if you ignore the raspy voice
and the wailing when the moon rises,
the orb speaking beautifully
in the heavens with an accent
slightly glottal, yet not German.
Don't stumble
in that stuttering conversation
about commitment and contracts.
These formulas won't work any better
than those of the trolls, the fairies,
and the Chinese herbalist combined.
It is you
who must prepare
for breaking the spell
with a mirror
or a small kiss on the lips
of a frog,
or the slipping
of a small foot
into a sturdy dance shoe
before midnight.
in that chronic slumber
where nobody rescues you
from a bad potion
by an inadequate enchantress.
This witch is really quite lovely
if you ignore the raspy voice
and the wailing when the moon rises,
the orb speaking beautifully
in the heavens with an accent
slightly glottal, yet not German.
Don't stumble
in that stuttering conversation
about commitment and contracts.
These formulas won't work any better
than those of the trolls, the fairies,
and the Chinese herbalist combined.
It is you
who must prepare
for breaking the spell
with a mirror
or a small kiss on the lips
of a frog,
or the slipping
of a small foot
into a sturdy dance shoe
before midnight.
Monday, March 17, 2014
My Arms Ache With Nothing: A Dream
In the dream I was dreaming,
the baby came in an unexpected way;
naturally, by osmosis of love and blood,
from the craggy depths of my womb,
my belly round and full as a spring moon
gorged with new silvery life,
unrestrained and fluid power of water
and light to create a new being.
Confused and drunk with night,
as dreaming so often can be,
I searched, unrewarded for the child
I was applauded to have brought forth,
asking the question,
"Where is the baby?"
He was nowhere to be found.
He is nowhere to be found.
My arms ache to hold him.
My heart is bursting
with all that emptiness
can offer.
the baby came in an unexpected way;
naturally, by osmosis of love and blood,
from the craggy depths of my womb,
my belly round and full as a spring moon
gorged with new silvery life,
unrestrained and fluid power of water
and light to create a new being.
Confused and drunk with night,
as dreaming so often can be,
I searched, unrewarded for the child
I was applauded to have brought forth,
asking the question,
"Where is the baby?"
He was nowhere to be found.
He is nowhere to be found.
My arms ache to hold him.
My heart is bursting
with all that emptiness
can offer.
Sunday, March 16, 2014
Steadfast Intention
A sleight of spring
has fooled us again
into believing that Love
was the fire breathing dragon
that would save us
from the leaded burden
of being alone.
The air is often light
and the moon brilliantly hopeful
in the stories where romance
takes us galloping away.
The fabric of this longing
is torn and battered
by storms and so many journeys
that sentence us to solitude.
Wait a little longer
and listen for the song of the cardinal
as he calls again for his mate.
The swivel of his red wingspan
is a sure sign of a contract
with steadfast intention.
has fooled us again
into believing that Love
was the fire breathing dragon
that would save us
from the leaded burden
of being alone.
The air is often light
and the moon brilliantly hopeful
in the stories where romance
takes us galloping away.
The fabric of this longing
is torn and battered
by storms and so many journeys
that sentence us to solitude.
Wait a little longer
and listen for the song of the cardinal
as he calls again for his mate.
The swivel of his red wingspan
is a sure sign of a contract
with steadfast intention.
Saturday, March 15, 2014
Wind in Maple Branches
The moonlight
and the soft and steady
wind in maple branches
are a testimony to the sweet water
brought gently from the roots,
against gravity,
common sense,
and all the exotic forces
of the spacious sky;
the aromatic night
extracts beams of flavor
from the wormwood energy
that is more harsh, bitter
than a broken promise
and digs deeply
into the loam
rich with knowing
what will never
come close
to confection
at the tip
of so many betrayals.
and the soft and steady
wind in maple branches
are a testimony to the sweet water
brought gently from the roots,
against gravity,
common sense,
and all the exotic forces
of the spacious sky;
the aromatic night
extracts beams of flavor
from the wormwood energy
that is more harsh, bitter
than a broken promise
and digs deeply
into the loam
rich with knowing
what will never
come close
to confection
at the tip
of so many betrayals.
Friday, March 14, 2014
Leggy and Aching for Warm Earth
This bright morning is crisp,
festooned with the transient light
that always tumbles into a new day,
an eager heart
done with the rambling
and the telling of constant mourning
transformed into the joyful faces of red blossoms,
like geraniums in tin cans
on a windowsill, leggy
and aching for warm earth
and room to spread roots
into the mother's breast
and stretch into awakening
and laughter with a breath of spring.
festooned with the transient light
that always tumbles into a new day,
an eager heart
done with the rambling
and the telling of constant mourning
transformed into the joyful faces of red blossoms,
like geraniums in tin cans
on a windowsill, leggy
and aching for warm earth
and room to spread roots
into the mother's breast
and stretch into awakening
and laughter with a breath of spring.
Thursday, March 13, 2014
Limping Past the Tomb
The splinter of a thistle
meddles with the burden
of my feet as I walk along
a path away
from the steel bars
on the open door
of another dungeon
from which I have escaped.
Just in time,
I scrape my own shadow
away from the way
she seems to have ensconced herself
in all the patterns
of freedom I'd forgotten
while bending away
from all sources
of light.
I limp,
wince as I struggle
to carry the true self
past the tomb
and pass by all the others
who will never feel
the royal thorns that bring blood
to the surface
of this mortal skin.
meddles with the burden
of my feet as I walk along
a path away
from the steel bars
on the open door
of another dungeon
from which I have escaped.
Just in time,
I scrape my own shadow
away from the way
she seems to have ensconced herself
in all the patterns
of freedom I'd forgotten
while bending away
from all sources
of light.
I limp,
wince as I struggle
to carry the true self
past the tomb
and pass by all the others
who will never feel
the royal thorns that bring blood
to the surface
of this mortal skin.
Wednesday, March 12, 2014
Antidotes
The wasp of desire stings me,
sharp and deep as any craving
that always pilfers
the calm I cultivate
on the meditation pillow
at dawn.
I will wash my mind,
cleanse the tongue of my thoughts
that clatter on about antidotes
for the common cold.
Instead, let my breath take me
to bed where I will gentle my soul
with the ease of pillows
and heavy comforters.
Let me drift into that place where night
becomes day, death becomes life,
hate becomes love,
and nothing becomes everything.
sharp and deep as any craving
that always pilfers
the calm I cultivate
on the meditation pillow
at dawn.
I will wash my mind,
cleanse the tongue of my thoughts
that clatter on about antidotes
for the common cold.
Instead, let my breath take me
to bed where I will gentle my soul
with the ease of pillows
and heavy comforters.
Let me drift into that place where night
becomes day, death becomes life,
hate becomes love,
and nothing becomes everything.
Tuesday, March 11, 2014
Climate Change
Rumor has it
that the mercury
in this global climate
is festering with deep infection
that melts us,
folds in on itself
and then disappears
into the faces of our neighbors.
His brown face
and black eyes, glancing,
will touch the tender skin
of a blond body
at the moment of meditation,
and souls switch, in silence,
without anyone knowing
any better.
Her red curls
skip and sing
against the prayer rug
of a total stranger
and never miss
a thing.
that the mercury
in this global climate
is festering with deep infection
that melts us,
folds in on itself
and then disappears
into the faces of our neighbors.
His brown face
and black eyes, glancing,
will touch the tender skin
of a blond body
at the moment of meditation,
and souls switch, in silence,
without anyone knowing
any better.
Her red curls
skip and sing
against the prayer rug
of a total stranger
and never miss
a thing.
Monday, March 10, 2014
Every Trail
The sliver of wind
that lands on a chapped cheek
as March roars in
delays the heart
from falling
in love with spring.
This fierce lover
is not to be trusted
with all he brings so fast
and biting like one too eager
to prove himself against the night
or some other gunslinger.
Remember the baptism
to which all those who are awake
are called.
These waters are the rains
that will bring blossoms.
These waters are the soothing ties
of all healing.
These waters anoint us
with tears that wash
the dust from our feet
that carries all the sorrows we gather
from every trail
we have ever walked.
that lands on a chapped cheek
as March roars in
delays the heart
from falling
in love with spring.
This fierce lover
is not to be trusted
with all he brings so fast
and biting like one too eager
to prove himself against the night
or some other gunslinger.
Remember the baptism
to which all those who are awake
are called.
These waters are the rains
that will bring blossoms.
These waters are the soothing ties
of all healing.
These waters anoint us
with tears that wash
the dust from our feet
that carries all the sorrows we gather
from every trail
we have ever walked.
Sunday, March 9, 2014
Healing Cup
The pallor of my body
at this thinning time
of changing clocks--
full of moonlight,
soothes the florid mind
on a day needing the unguent
of abundant whispering touch.
Debride my wounds of the gritty gravel
of the dust from which we come
and deep silver slivers of unkind thoughts
and words that have damaged me so deeply.
Release me from the sin
of wanting to know
nothing of this world.
The cup I desire
is filled with the sweetest wine,
exhausted by the crumbs
falling from the lips
of so many mouths.
at this thinning time
of changing clocks--
full of moonlight,
soothes the florid mind
on a day needing the unguent
of abundant whispering touch.
Debride my wounds of the gritty gravel
of the dust from which we come
and deep silver slivers of unkind thoughts
and words that have damaged me so deeply.
Release me from the sin
of wanting to know
nothing of this world.
The cup I desire
is filled with the sweetest wine,
exhausted by the crumbs
falling from the lips
of so many mouths.
Saturday, March 8, 2014
Half the Moon
The sky swims
thick with light
and stars that hold
wishes like holding
the breath of a galaxy
until the laughter
of a woman opens her mouth
and the sound of water
springs into warm
and generous rains.
Half of a moon
is almost enough
when the earth stirs
beneath her brilliance,
a lover
waiting for his signal
to climb the trellis
falls through the window
into the arms of warm breezes
and sweetness of orange lily petals.
It won't be long until the moon is singing
and calls quiet as a nightingale
as the sun sets and darkness reflects
on the cool surface of enough sleep
to remember how to dream out loud.
thick with light
and stars that hold
wishes like holding
the breath of a galaxy
until the laughter
of a woman opens her mouth
and the sound of water
springs into warm
and generous rains.
Half of a moon
is almost enough
when the earth stirs
beneath her brilliance,
a lover
waiting for his signal
to climb the trellis
falls through the window
into the arms of warm breezes
and sweetness of orange lily petals.
It won't be long until the moon is singing
and calls quiet as a nightingale
as the sun sets and darkness reflects
on the cool surface of enough sleep
to remember how to dream out loud.
Friday, March 7, 2014
Shadows of Flight
Robins used to be the sign I looked for,
the day when out of nowhere
spring would launch herself desperately
toward the sun and the freezing puddles
that tear the roads into heaving messes.
But today, the ravens return
as if beaconed by the ashes
of Lent.
These dark birds;
these shadows of flight,
hurl beaks and claws
as if they recognize my face
all these years later.
I have walked out of the desert again
and yet, these winged creatures,
not from heaven as they rest in the trees
over my head, call out to me, jabbing my sense
of my self.
I see the path
and it is not my job
to watch them watching me,
Stretching out
wing tip to wing tip
and counting all the shiny
stems of gliding from on high
to peck at all nature
of things.
the day when out of nowhere
spring would launch herself desperately
toward the sun and the freezing puddles
that tear the roads into heaving messes.
But today, the ravens return
as if beaconed by the ashes
of Lent.
These dark birds;
these shadows of flight,
hurl beaks and claws
as if they recognize my face
all these years later.
I have walked out of the desert again
and yet, these winged creatures,
not from heaven as they rest in the trees
over my head, call out to me, jabbing my sense
of my self.
I see the path
and it is not my job
to watch them watching me,
Stretching out
wing tip to wing tip
and counting all the shiny
stems of gliding from on high
to peck at all nature
of things.
Thursday, March 6, 2014
God's Garden
In the morning
when my feet are naked,
cold and unattractive--
when my feet are nowhere near the softness
of a green and growing lawn
wet with dew,
let me admire
basil and dill seeds
that were given
as a gift of hope.
Let me dream about purple cabbage
and leeks, forget-me-nots
and marigolds,
that send delicate tongues
from the earth
to suckle the sun
like love at the breast
and love that is only understood
by touching the heart
that is cultivated
in God's garden.
when my feet are naked,
cold and unattractive--
when my feet are nowhere near the softness
of a green and growing lawn
wet with dew,
let me admire
basil and dill seeds
that were given
as a gift of hope.
Let me dream about purple cabbage
and leeks, forget-me-nots
and marigolds,
that send delicate tongues
from the earth
to suckle the sun
like love at the breast
and love that is only understood
by touching the heart
that is cultivated
in God's garden.
Wednesday, March 5, 2014
Ash Wednesday in Vermont
It happens this way
in Vermont,
when snow feathers
light as ashes from God's fire
drifting over us all,
reminding us of love
that dances from heaven,
soundless joy
given as a gift
on the dirtiest gray days
in March.
Beauty mixed with air
and water frozen with dust
into the absolutely perfect faces
of children smiling
at tiny miracles landing
as angel kisses
on risen rosy cheeks.
in Vermont,
when snow feathers
light as ashes from God's fire
drifting over us all,
reminding us of love
that dances from heaven,
soundless joy
given as a gift
on the dirtiest gray days
in March.
Beauty mixed with air
and water frozen with dust
into the absolutely perfect faces
of children smiling
at tiny miracles landing
as angel kisses
on risen rosy cheeks.
Tuesday, March 4, 2014
Absolute Zero
I nearly forgot them,
these letters strung together
into meaning,
meaning into phrases,
phrases into something bigger
than the way sound emerges
from the mouth
and sings
like we never forgot
the word defined
for this kind of cold
and snow that hardens
into impossible ice.
I nearly forgot
that I matter
in that cold
destination
and that my heart
was not shattered
at some unrealistic touch.
I nearly forgot
that love often displays
a glowing light of neon
in the darkest March
that pulses
and gradually erases
winter and that loneliness
is not frozen into everything
like generational glaciers
that will never thaw
even over steaming black coffee
and daring cream with raw
sugar.
Help me forget
the grip of icy breath
that held me so still
for so long
and threatened to crack,
surrender soundlessly,
and once witnessed
absolute zero
and all that stark
and jagged truth.
these letters strung together
into meaning,
meaning into phrases,
phrases into something bigger
than the way sound emerges
from the mouth
and sings
like we never forgot
the word defined
for this kind of cold
and snow that hardens
into impossible ice.
I nearly forgot
that I matter
in that cold
destination
and that my heart
was not shattered
at some unrealistic touch.
I nearly forgot
that love often displays
a glowing light of neon
in the darkest March
that pulses
and gradually erases
winter and that loneliness
is not frozen into everything
like generational glaciers
that will never thaw
even over steaming black coffee
and daring cream with raw
sugar.
Help me forget
the grip of icy breath
that held me so still
for so long
and threatened to crack,
surrender soundlessly,
and once witnessed
absolute zero
and all that stark
and jagged truth.
Wednesday, January 15, 2014
Measuring the Day
These are small victories
for which measurement
seems impossible
or at the very least
impractical.
Joy doesn't arrive
to be cut up and evaluated.
It is with us
to be shivered with
as it passes
like a breeze
on the surface of
the mind's liquid longing
for permanent grasps
on a child's smile.
Sunday, January 12, 2014
The Gathering
In places of prayer
and ecstatic music
my heart sends tethers
out into the heavens
with no hope of landing
but instead
lets these ribbons
of secret wishes
escape and fly free
to wherever they might
find a hand to hold.
The child of wonder
looks up at a rainbow of color
and gasps, smiles, laughs
jumping up to grasp
just one simple string
of joy to hold onto
if only for a lost
and lingering moment
gathered in the palm
of a small and impermanent
hand.
In places of prayer
and ecstatic music
my heart sends tethers
out into the heavens
with no hope of landing
but instead
lets these ribbons
of secret wishes
escape and fly free
to wherever they might
find a hand to hold.
The child of wonder
looks up at a rainbow of color
and gasps, smiles, laughs
jumping up to grasp
just one simple string
of joy to hold onto
if only for a lost
and lingering moment
gathered in the palm
of a small and impermanent
hand.
Saturday, January 11, 2014
Unseasonably Precipitation
The rain fell
in January
with the same soothing sounds
as it has in June and July.
There was lightning at noon
and thunder just past the flashing.
I was reluctantly surprised
that even in the cold
the rumble of thunder
can make all the difference
in warming the soul
with the force
of the unseasonably
precipitation;
thawing the ice
just in time to watch it all
turn into an untimely spring.
The rain fell
in January
with the same soothing sounds
as it has in June and July.
There was lightning at noon
and thunder just past the flashing.
I was reluctantly surprised
that even in the cold
the rumble of thunder
can make all the difference
in warming the soul
with the force
of the unseasonably
precipitation;
thawing the ice
just in time to watch it all
turn into an untimely spring.
Tuesday, January 7, 2014
Cold
Remember the days when the snow was deep as your thighs,
the days of wind lasted forever,
and we stood as still as the thermometer
at 40 below?
This is where we scraped the windows of lacy frost
and peer into the darkness
of all white and absolute zero.
It was enough to watch
a Minnesota parlour trick
when water turns solid
thrown in the air
and lands on earth
as frozen angels.
In this barren wasteland
the innocent became aware of block heaters
and the sin of owning a diesel.
Even from a distance
I can feel the small hairs
inside my nose
and light in my eyelashes
freeze immediately. . .
first breath
impossible.
We waited for the day when 6 degrees
felt like spring
and you could leave your coat unzipped.
Leave your gloves on the counter
and not have to turn back
to survive the cold
turning your hands
to icicles
that couldn't
get a grip
on anything
close
to warm.
Monday, January 6, 2014
The Breaking of My Own Voice
Suddenly
you turn,
like the six words
of an almost forgotten song,
“Leave me with what I have.”
With that
unfortunate turn of phrase,
I am no longer on your quest.
I am no longer your sherpa
who must endure
the emotional tumble
that congeals in my throat.
I create my own life,
no longer measuring time,
one atom at a time at your pace
so as not to reveal
my own weaknesses;
an amalgam of losses
and tasks left undone.
My transgressions abraded
one fiber of disappointment
undone by more than I can count-
more than the breaking
of my own voice.
Sunday, January 5, 2014
V. Saying Farewell
The curve of a barren hand,
extending five fingers
like the porcelain smoothness
of prison bars,
is a gift I will not accept
as the calendar flutters her pages
to a new chapter.
I have straggled long
and lost my way
on the bad advice
given me,
betrayed and stumbling
by trusting
in the goodness
of all souls.
Let me return the favor
by offering you
these simple words--
Do not reach out
with false hope
on your smiling lips.
Do not greet me as a friend.
I already am a stranger
you have never met.
Put your hand into your own pocket
for the change you will need
to call on someone
whom you have
not yet used up.
The click of the receiver
will be all the clue you need
to get this final message.
The curve of a barren hand,
extending five fingers
like the porcelain smoothness
of prison bars,
is a gift I will not accept
as the calendar flutters her pages
to a new chapter.
I have straggled long
and lost my way
on the bad advice
given me,
betrayed and stumbling
by trusting
in the goodness
of all souls.
Let me return the favor
by offering you
these simple words--
Do not reach out
with false hope
on your smiling lips.
Do not greet me as a friend.
I already am a stranger
you have never met.
Put your hand into your own pocket
for the change you will need
to call on someone
whom you have
not yet used up.
The click of the receiver
will be all the clue you need
to get this final message.
Saturday, January 4, 2014
For Time
We all fumble
in the sheer darkness
of the speed of one day’s time.
How were we supposed to know
at the breach of our birth
that we were meant to breathe deeply,
let our skin flush with life at that inhalation
and never stop running
for the grave of all clocks
would be nipping at our heels?
This shadow;
this coaxing back,
the ticking
of a vintage
taste of wine
disappears at the tip
of our tongues
and with the ceasing
of all laughter.
Friday, January 3, 2014
III
The fissure of a thought
collides with another synapse
and understanding becomes crystal
clear and bright as blue January.
You think no one
has ever thought
these exact random thoughts
until you find the journal
of your soul in another’s body
and trace the letters on the page
with your beautiful pen
and write a mutual poem
about the charm
of the number
three
and can’t help
but smile.
Thursday, January 2, 2014
2.
The spark of you
is numb,
lost in the dramatically crisp night--
a storm that knocks you down
and leaves you
flat on your face,
wounded
and bleeding,
where no one knows
the visceral damage
that can’t be undone.
I gather your uncommon light
into my hands.
My breath coaxes the tinder
with the present moment
of new life.
Wednesday, January 1, 2014
One
On the first day
we count from one.
The singular force of nothing
simply stares us in the face.
Dare us to look in the mirror
and see who is looking back.
Open your mouth to speak
and listen to the sound released
like a wounded wild bird from her cage.
This time there is no one
knocking at the door asking to be let in.
The wind convinces the clattering branches
of the body to drop to the earth
and let the soul fly free.
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