That Open Place

I am losing my balance like I always do at the end of a long and tired year.
I stumble from the fatigue of it all and long for the hand extended
like a fulcrum to shoulder the path with another seeker.

I sit with a noose in my mind full of thoughts,
toxic tumbling might be over soon
if only this abundant heart
can send a richochet of a stone
into the barbaric battles
of endless garbled words.

My hands wrap a gentle chokehold around the neck of nothingness,
fingers are purple from the tight tension that are applied to the job
that must be done.

There is so much more to be done.
There is so much that is to be left undone.

I must walk with my hand on the wall of truth's home,
cool and sure of herself,
like the hum of the apiary in a June field of flowers.

Let me find the way to that open place of sweet enlightenment
with each step toward love's constant companionship.

Water Hitting Sand and Stone

The sound of the ocean feeds me
as I walk, again, at the edge of the world.
This water is like a Minnesota pasture at twilight,

illuminating my wrath
and then washing all anger
out to sea.

I become a ghost in the mist of of all I am
walking over the sand and discerning the mysterious tides.

It is sometimes enough to steal words from the mouths of others
and realize what is lost in that theft,

but to watch others profit from my interruptions,
to enslave poets,
and destroy the science of all learning
is more
than anyone can stand by
and silently witness
the erosion of the seaweed garments
left out to dry.

I gently place my list of hurts into a small bottle tonight
and carefully let the glass float away into the moonlight
and the waves.

I place the damaged hope into that tiny vessel
and let her drift away with all the disappointment
for some new land that can heal us.

The crashing sound of water hitting the sand and stone
will be enough for this day
and keep me praying for the wisdom
to stay with tiny particles of the elements
stuck to the bottoms of my salty feet.

Drifting

The unlikely treasure
of nostrils burdened with open earth and rain,
is shrouded in December's curtain of bland and plundered days.

The steaming kettle of the melting skies boils until we can't resist
and must draw the curtains of clouds on these fading Vermont hills.

I will not be swindled into thinking snow won't arrive angrily,
exacting payment for this balmy change of season's mind.

My intention is a magnet setting the compass
to point directly at the schism between what I know
and what the world will become.

Until the icy winds cut into my cheeks,
let my smile exhaust the foggy moon
while she makes her journey to the fiery line
at the drifted, western fences.

Turning Things Around

This myopic view of plodding endlessly
toward nowhere and brandishing dull and rusting blades

is exactly like a thresher walking an already cut field,
exhausting even on days of victory and adequate harvest.

We who keep walking are all deeply tired
and wish the web of the world was not so tangled and torn.

We imagine putting one foot in front of the others
and applying equal pressure to the skull and to the heart.

Here we must watch carefully
as the vanquished masses
take flight into the wide open spaces
with small wounds bleeding
into the overworked soil
until the plow is found
to turn things around.

Floundering

Some days I flounder for virtue,
my ego promenading past the faults of others,
my head held higher than it usually does.

On days when pride will not vanish
and I quake with anger
at some blemished mark on the face of injustice,

shave the heat of embarrassment from my cheeks
so that I won't let tears fall
or need to malinger over nothing.

Let the tangled mutation of the soul of another
heal me with kindness.

Let me not sink into the darkness
where all who suffer
lose their way
over and over again.

Mercy looks like my sister
when I can trace that profile
with my blistered fingers
at the closing of all time.

The Pageant

The round faces of all the children
have turned their attention again to the squirming, swaddled child
marking the travels they have made
through the lines of the pageant they know so well.

Each cheek is smudged with a bit of frosting or chocolate
from the plundered goodies gathered as offerings
too near the stage.

The littlest angels are free - range in this production,
howling like the coxswain in a lifeboat set adrift,
and the olders expunge small hurts and fear with cooing voices
like salve they have learned from their mothers.

We witnesses are silently healed
in the retelling of the ancient story.

The star shines dimly above halos and gossamer wings.
Behold!

The magic drifts in on the wisps of incense
and floats on the sounds of voices
lifted on the notes shaped onto the trestle
of all our modest prayers.

Fist on the Table

The tensile mood at this gathering
suffocates the path
to freedom again.

There is no vaccine
for the poison of the ego
and the tunnel into which
it forces our many vibrant thoughts.

If you dare,
let the wide open ocean
break the way to salty tears of love.

If you dare,
sail away from the grief
to a place where no one recognizes
the way that you walk
or the color of your hair.

This departure will be the fist on the table
demanding the respect you've always been entitled
to drape calmly over your shoulders
before falling into the arms of the beloved.

Hummingbird

In many places near the equator
it is said that hummingbirds carry the souls
of departed warriors
returning to fight another fight.

Slowly, as if the sun is giving birth to light for the first time,
we have been converted into that kind of beauty
and covert power that so many are hungry for.

There are so many days when we'd rather escape
than be drained by Narcissa
and all her drab minions scrapping
for the same mirror.
The slashing and flashing
unseemly at best.

Wisely, the hummingbird hovers above it all
choosing the exact flowers to favor
before the subduction of each morsel of truth
is blathered away by all the mindless color.

In this jungle,
impatient wings flutter
on the unsubstantial breezes
until the cacophony of ignorance
passes away.

Body Intelligence

Please send me notes
from the lecture I was unable to attend.
My body's wisdom
won the battle
over a busy day
full of nothing.

Send me the notes
that will fill in the blanks
in the collective memory of the world
we will never regret missing.

Send me the sacrilegious lyrics
chanting disharmony
into the investments
in meaningless activity.

These words I will burn
in the fire that will warm me
at the break of another day.

My hands will no longer ache
resting over the heart of my love
while sleep consumes unnecessary fatigue.

My legs and knotted back
will lift the heavy burden of nonsense
into the compost pile of forgetfulness.

And my teeth, cracked by gnashing
and clenching into a Mona Lisa smile,
will be restored and made bright

knowing
that all this flesh
and vanity
is impermanent.

No Need

Confound me again
with your bareknuckled love
like the gardener
taking to the damp earth in May.

I am already mesmerized by the threads of longing
that pull me through the darkness of another deep December.
Your kindling of kindness is constantly flickering in a circle of light
that polishes the blackness, soothing and liquid,
brushing such honest warmth on my cheek.

There is no need to joust or thresh my mind for meaning here.
All my doubts wither with each day of standing tall,
bravely facing the steely eyes
of all that is burnished at sunset
and unmistakably marked
by one who knows

the true names of God.

Too Much

What can anyone do to conquer the illusion we make each day
out of the smoke rising from incense
like signals we send to God?

Even the most stable among us are anonymous
as we yoke ourselves to a practice,
arch our backs in saline flexibility,
riveted by our taste for the sacred.

Here, with our hearts touching the earth,
let us turn up the volume of our love
and feast on the vision of too much.

Dark Ceiling at 2:17 a.m.

After a night of wrestling flannel
I remember what it was like to explore a dark ceiling,
lines like a jigsaw falling apart,
praying for a guardian to gentle my mind.

Fear was that lonely button at 2:17 a.m.
swinging crazily from a trapeze over my heart.
I was disturbed into being awake and aware of each heated thought.

The eternal was quietly there
to encourage faith in something.

KPI

One more day in the workaday world,
embattled with egos that ooze and command attention,
thunder rumbles on the horizon of each morning coffee.

What I would give for peaceful citrus,
admiring the sun that can only be subdued
by the anticipation of an employment community
lacking lacerations and finding bandages unnecessary.

Here is what vocational environments would rather do:

Command collaboration. Speak softly with respectful tones.
Sense of humor, necessary. Intelligence is expected, not overindulged.
Kindness is a virtue. Kindness is always possible. Have I mentioned kindness?

Hard work is rewarded by gratitude. Innovation
will never draw suspicion by others. Admiration is our (KPI) Key Performance Indicator.

In this place, we are all in it (happily) together.

Angelina's Menu

The waiter probably has it memorized
with just the right pauses
at just the right turns of sauces
and wines that won't disappoint.

We consider the table linens
and the sweating water glasses
and turn on our heels
for the Tea Garden's dim charm.

The fried rice and bean curd are greasy
and the tea bitter. The fortunes are under impressive
but the waitress shares the birthday with my son.

She suddenly becomes one of the family
in a way that Angelina's fine Italian lines
can only be adopted
and not born of endless love.

Threads

Some of these threads that bind us are blue
and measure all the ways we hold tight,
brandishing love and cutting loose the abrupt departures
we are forced to share.

Some of these threads that bind us are silver
like dawn, quavering with the force of the ocean tides,
dancing and full of laughter from the belly
when we forget who we are.

Some of these threads that bind us are violet
and justify our rage in words and healing touch,
sheltering us from the ways the world boils over
when love is forgotten.

Some of these threads that bind us are green
and our favorite color of leaves of grass
onto which we stretch out our bodies to celebrate
before we sleep forever.

Some of these threads are blessings of red and yellow
like the sky just before it falls into blackness,
drifting off like stars and meteors,
when we become worn and dusty
with the musty fibers of God.

Consider the Moon

On a clear night like this
how could you not notice the moon,

steadfast and suspended;
our satellite in the darkness?

If you look closely,
even mindfully,
you might not be blindsided
by her silver sobriety.

Instead of constant confusion
and almost lunacy,
you might find yourself directed,

the wise inner detective
supple and ingeniously curious,

mastering how to classify stars, tombstones,
and other heavy metals

that float into your conscious thought
with no meaning greater
than a train schedule in Paris
or the forecast on the local Vermont radio.

Walking On Water

Under it all,
even with the depths at a distance--
where the ice was clear beneath us
and the augur was sharp and strong,

under it all
we learned to cull the weakness,
swap fear under the bridge
where we were threatened

for a chaste and uncorrupted thought
instead of waiting painfully
for the mind to shuffle
and pace with anxiety of falling
in to the cold below.

Under all the cracking
and frozen anticipation of another lonely day,
we breached the secure understanding of God in the world
and christen ourselves merely human.

Each unsteady step on the wobbling landscape
that glistened like a story of joy,

we forgot again
that walking on water
was never easy.

Always Stay Rooted Somewhere

How do they do it?

The people who live a lifetime
in one place. . .how do they not go crazy
only smelling the soil of one field,

the sounds of the voices of neighbors who have known them
since they were babies, or before.

I have traveled around the world,
happily tasting the food and loving the feel of the air
in France and other exotic wines.

How do they do it?

So loyal to their land,
they carry fuzzy plants from home
in the soil of the place they were born.

My roots are so fragile
from all the ways earth moves.
From the Philippines
to towns that don't sound like they look.

So many things don't look like they sound,
sweet until you try and grow.
Strong until you try and move them.

Always looking to be rooted
in some other field.

Sweetly Sung

The jagged curve
of memory is an invitation
to contract around all that has been.

Like stitches tucked neatly into a wound,
healing efficiently clarifying the edges of pain
where crisis was forcefully certain of the body.

We tick away like an exact clock
and forget that a metronome
is only a tool
to measure time.

The joy with which we answer the call
to play or to weep
is all a choice.


I will decorate my front door
with colorful boughs and ribbon
and the stars will fall like laughter
at a celebration we can all be glad to be part of.

Like candles, or flowers,
or a song sweetly sung.

Last Night's Wine

My joy is supple most mornings,
determined and purified by sleep.

Is is almost soul osmosis
that filters the sweetness of quiet dozing
with mindless breath and transforms worries
into variegated nothingness.

If I had an audience,
and propriety prevailed,
I might dance,
even flaunt,

the love that lives in me.

Right there.
Stepping lightly
on the sticky kitchen floor
where last night's wine

evaporated.

It Might Be Enough

It might be an understatement
to say that I can get discouraged,

down-hearted,

even disappointed,
in the fermented ways
we speak,

talking as if we might avenge our pride,

decorating our ego with jewels and gold leaf,
no more real than the truth
disguised in the fleece of a sheep
over the frame of a creature
with fangs and panting, heated breath.

It might be enough
to be a shepherd
on nights like this,

cold and wet soaking my skin,
mindless animals obeying with simple songs;
gently nudged toward new grass,

while all the while
Leonid flashes above me,
flying angels,
closer to earth,

calling to me in God's voice,
"Don't you dare give up."

Entanglement

My student speaks to me again,
a bearded priest, preaching
about the scary entanglement
of the universe,

all of our parts consuming each other
and then collapsing like a fire stoked high
and descending into glowing coals;

children at play and dancing
until the night and sleep presume
their humble roles, silence turned
with decisiveness under the covers.

I gird myself for all the ways
his knowledge and certainty will wound me.
His animal body alive and cringing
at the many losses he can already see.

We plant trees around the perimeter of the sacred space,
hoping this sister chant and all the mystical languages

will somehow protect us from the many nights
we will never know how to unbind ourselves.

Like All Other Blood

In every formula of human preening
there is a gravity point
where healing can happen,

where the premonition of a wound
bristles like the hair at the back of the neck
and we turn toward love

like all other blood,

like a child to a rain puddle,
a pen to the paper of a writer at first light,
like a dirty farmer returns to the fields each spring.

This constant exercise of the mind
trying to chronicle one kindness
in the face of so many injuries
is depleted.

Death by a thousand cuts;
the story no heart can hold
with arms too tired to embrace,

when will it all be over?

Rainbow Cartwheels Across Town in November

The forecast will not diminish me today
when a rainbow in November in rural Vermont
unexpectedly brightened my path
like a cloud burst
without an umbrella.

In my most innocent mind
I expected a rainbow
and maybe a unicorn,
as unlikely or ghastly
as that might have been.

The imagination
can be a predator
with few assurances
or persuasion
of permanence.

A cursory glance
at less than a cartwheel
of excitement
wounds me today

when a rainbow might usually break probation
and allow joy to break out on the streets
like a riot of color and so much
cartwheeling light.

On Veterans Day

The ways we pluck the notes
of patriotic songs
from the lips of the fallen

hits me like all the cold captured
in November granite, rough and frozen
by time and lack of light.

These few who gather,melt with each tear,
together we laud those who have given everything,
ashamed of ourselves
for not doing as much
as we could.

We shuffle. We can't make eye contact.
We are silent because there are no words
to make up for all these losses.


Let me be precise.

We will never repay
the debt owed here.

There is no compensation
for all this blood.

The Traitor

In the watchtower of my mind
I watch myself escape over the barbed wire
of the breath and tunnel under the hedgerow
of disappointment.

My handiwork is noteworthy.
Hands full of abrasions from the digging
and the mind shaved close to the bone
to look like the prisoner I am.

If I could charter a seaward ship
bound for nowhere
I would.

I am a traitor
of my own practice.
I am a silent thief
waiting to be released
on my best behavior.

With the Moon Waxing Full

There is a locket of hope
that I hang over my heart
with a silver chain, shiny
and almost strong enough.

Each day we are all placing emotional postage
on the letters written to recruit the heart
to let love flow from the simple gesture
of gratitude.

I am not the Lone Ranger
riding with my trusty companion
into the sunset.

I am alone on this vast prairie with my laughter
and all the jovial torches that burn brightly
to light the way under the stars

and with the moon waxing full,
we might just remember
how solitude is no stranger
to the dark reminder
we were all left behind.

Welcome Sweet Sleep

Before I drift
into the perplexing night
for refuge and mercy,

let me dedicate these thoughts
to the delivery of the soul
from all that we grapple to understand
with the mind.

Let the sleep that will soon overtake me
be filled with the treasure of the true self;
those tiny gems of living fully.

The heart is, by all accounts,
the beloved neighbor
who loves us
for exactly who we are
and who needs no license
to take away the boundaries
where love has been caught

in the wires of fear
and someone else's distant picture
of peace that doesn't include
a lullabye.

A Million Atoms Away

Some days
joy is simple.

Children are laughing.
Meals are beautiful.
We say just the right things.

I imagine that today
life is a complex tangle
of joy, beauty, and kindness.

I bow to my twin
and the light that lives there.

Today I bow and know that scary links
of light and subtle energy
is the simple joy
we can't help
but exchange

from a million atoms
away.

Sleeping Late

It isn't enough to pull the covers up near my chin
on a night where we leave the lights off
and turn down the heat.

Flannel so soft and almost feathers
on cool skin tucks me in
like some ghost of a father
or mother who kisses us on our forehead,

"Nighty, night. Sleep tight. Don't let the bed bugs bite."

I want to sleep late,
with out care
or wondering what time it is.

I want to sleep late
until my bones don't ache
and my eyes are surprised at the day.

I want to sleep late,
drink coffee in bed with my book,
shower after stretching, slip into socks,
not shoes, and then nap,

all afternoon.

Holding a Leaf in November

All these years of living,
secretly admiring
the passing of light,
and I am still breathless
to find a fallen leaf

full of copper or gold
and hold it to the brightness
of November sky
just to marvel

at the fall.

Today, Here I Am, Letting Go

Here I am
lingering like a vagabond
in the spaces between real time
and no time.

I decompress between afternoon intensity
of teaching the blind to see the sky
and the deaf to hear God's footsteps

and evening's chilly decline into the hours
that repossess the soul at sunset.

Between sleeping and waking
the breath lances the quiet
and smells like death and damp mildew.

Here I am
lingering with hope
that I might glimpse real love
in the face of a stranger.

I breathe, exhale,
and pray for the grace
to let go of beauty
at the end of every day.

Into Dreaming

The single glass of wine
has warmed my blood
and let me slip into the night
like something dark and shimmering
at the smooth edges of almost frozen water.

I am still here.

The waves of quiet
lap softly before sleep.

In the distance the trucks downshift on the Marlboro hill
and the train heads south toward New York City.
All that noise
is nothing now.

I am still here and can hear the clock
ticking in my head while I drift off
into dreaming.

I will dream of many geese drifting toward the Connecticut River
where we all float with leaves making their way
toward the ocean
and some other way
of knowing God.

As The Robin Decides Not to Fly

The bellow of November's uproar
has not yet settled on the landscape.

Instead we relax in the foggy golden light
without friction except the swish of leaves
under our feet.

The invitation to sing
and dance in this shuffle of crispness
chirps on as thrifty as a robin gathering
close to her friends who have decided not to depart
for this winter.

She will stay in the comfort of the snows
under the branches of cedar
and among the holly.

She will stay north
to see the light fade
like her red breast bleached
by the white and frozen skies
making it nearly impossible
to fly.

Swaddled in the Arms of the Lover

I have juggled
my way
past sunset

to another full moon rise
that swells
over the orange and pink horizon

like a machine
throwing the light
over the fence

with all the loot
bundled
like there was
a fortune

swaddled in the arms
of the Lover.

Already There

The night has chiseled a thrifty corner for sleeping
as the day crumbles away again.

Such drudgery blisters the mind
and can only minister to these wounds
by closing eyes and a mind where thoughts
are deserted like every body

left behind by the heart
not to be hobbled
by insignificant love.

Leave me,
a prisoner
who is afraid
to walk free

when she is already there.

Singing Again

In my new life
I have been known
to sing in the shower,

in the kitchen,
in the front row,
in the gardens,

to warble with the radio,
from the crater
that was my heart's home
before it malfunctioned.

So full is this former mumble
that now plumes of joy
boil and billow like steam
from the heat.

Birds fly near me
queasy in the frenetic sound.
The vibrations scant imitations
of sacred songs, chanting,
twittering and trying to catch the harmony
of some familiar tune.

One More Time

I am always moved
by the avalanche of color
in these hills of Vermont
even if it is October.

Treacherous as letting beauty enter the heart of things,
like blossoms murmuring under the soil,
in bulbs and chestnuts buried by squirrels,

I carelessly wander these frosty pastures,
I take the texture of words
into my mouth and let them melt,

and I will mindfully latch the iron gates
so that we might stroll unconcerned
about getting hurt.

I remember tracing your cleanly shaven face
with the tips of my fingers
and the way leaves sound when we walk
close to the earth at the ends of summer.

If the hammock is still hanging between the trees,
I will pretend the snow hasn't already drifted past the windows
and will stretch out under this harvest moon

one more time.

Rising

The plight of another gray morning
is to throw off the quilts,
confounding the vapor of fatigue,

and rise as the hero
in my own story
against the thrum,

aghast at the thought
that I will not champion
each breath.

There is no retribution
as my feet touch
the cool wood of the floor,

only a chance for reflection
at the constant flow of curiosity
of what comes next.

Coffee, shower, selecting the costume
for the day. Oatmeal or toast.
Vitamins. Kisses from my children.
The car starting without a hack.

Pulling out of the driveway.
Arriving safely after an hour
of dodging semi after green Vermont plates.

Computers, conversations, endless meetings.

Laughter, hate, frustration, brilliance of kind souls.

Home to cooking.
Home to gentle light
at the end of barking orders.
Home to the comfort of night
in my simple bed
in my own skin
and with intentions
to leave nothing
in my wake.

Novice

When I was new again,

a novice,

I stumble,
girlishly chatty,
into myself.

It was impossible to argue
as I crumbled
into a heap
of exhaustion--

all that new light
still with uncertainty.

And yet, I quarreled stubbornly
as it is with the uninitiated,
with the mind
and all the oddities
of precarious squinting
at the rustic self.

I don't quarrel any more.

It is a practice to sit quiet
and notice dragonflies
circling the thoughts
of God

and the color
green that arrives
in early spring.

Pardon Prayer

On the night before you go under the knife,
I ask for pardon. I ask for grace
to erase the sins we've committed.

I ask for ease
into another way
of love

that is not about the body.

Forgive us for what we have done.
Forgive us for our longing.
Forgive us for our silence.
Forgive us for space.
Forgive us for all that we have left
undone.
Forgive us for our disease.
Forgive us for our fear
of the smallness of being alone.


Forgive us for what we cannot speak.

Forgive us for joy.

And,

in this space

of no words,

My God,forgive us.

Light Escapes Us

Is it too much to simply decompress
as these days of summer bleed
from my chilly skin,

a gentle lancing of the hot
raised places that will not heal?

Is it not enough to malinger
when it is indisputable
that the light escapes us
with each leaf that falls
and mildew begins to repossess
the cells of that new body?

It is grief that has taken my hand again
and asks me to walk slowly
on a lane near heart's abandoned home,
marveling with each step
at all these beautiful losses.

Calling

The phone crackles and groans with electrical impulses
as if to lecture to me about all the ways I have failed.

I extract a few words from this nocturnal swirl
and listen to my breath whisper comfort.

The sound of my voice is a lament

long clear tones of a bell

Each gong

a calling

to the love

of silence.

Drawbridge

Today, as it happens again,
I imagine pulling up the drawbridge

to hold out the world,

to hold the machinery of the days
where anger boils
and cravings for more
infest souls.

I want none of this deluge of pain
in my castle
where peace must be won
by bravely holding the line
against discontentment
and fear.

I have wrought the protection I need
and have only my heart as careful watchman
to keep the walls safe.

Constant and faithful caretaker,
be awake, be alert,

draw us close.

For My Son on His Nineteenth Birthday

Three days of labor
and the thimble of hope
was pleasant in the mind of a mother
who wanted to believe that brave counted.

Three days in labor and the fledgling in my belly
took the yoke of my hope and burned with each wave,
with illumination and brawn
we fought to bring you into the light,
determined to see each other
just as we were. . .
bloody and bold;
completely human.

Three days and the truth
was settled in the eyes of the hand maidens.

Midwives.

Three days and exhausted,
I panted in pain,
Jesus knew me
with each breath.

Jesus knew me.

Jesus knew.

Three days in my arms,
unreal and sweet breath of death's expiration,
Three days of putting you in the plastic nest
like a cowbird stealing someone else's space
in the warmth of the breast.
Three days waiting
for the path to open while your father said
"Put him down. It will only encourage him, warm him."

Three days of birth
and death
and the reminder
of a life resurrected.

And now, on the day of this son's death
I am middling fair. I am insignificant.
I am unneeded. I am undone.

Jesus knows I am almost lost
in the simple thoughts of three days
of life and death.

Jesus knows I am almost lost.

Jesus knows I am.
Jesus knows.

Jesus.

The Last Night at the Ocean

We waited many long nights since February
to feel the pulse of the ocean in our truest bodies;

the energy that conquers all time
and clears the mildew and rust
of sitting still for too long.

We happily waited through the snow and constant ice of New England
to nearly burn our feet bronze on the sand on a day just like today.

The color of our skin is no longer the white of enamel.
Our shoulders might even be caramelized brown as butter and sugar
and smooth as a polished stone near this sandy shore.

Tonight, on the last night at the ocean, we begin to pack ourselves up
for the long trip back to the life of mowing grass, pulling weeds,
piles of laundry, electric bills, writing daily rhymes,
and making the bed
as if order can be gathered
in the cool comfort of sheets.

On this last night at the edge of the salty water in Saco
we listen to explosions off shore of the boardwalk
and feel the echos of the independence we feel
each time we come to rest here.

We know here, if no place else,
we are free for a little while.

Stop Waiting in Silence

The moon is nearly full
in the corral of all the sky we can see
from the small place on the shore,
our eyes starving to embark on a voyage
as concise as the sailors
who plot the points of each day
by the stars and ancient demolished suns
who lost their way
before time began in these waters.

I will plunge into the ocean anyway.
My fear is more than anyone could expect to change.
If the trembling is mixed with the waves,
perhaps we can pretend
all is not lost in the cold saltiness.

We will sing sustaining songs into the company of the darkness
and stop waiting in silence for twilight
to awaken us all.

What Could be Better?

At the blue precipice of all this morning,
light checking her passport with some minor qualms
about the ladder that must be climbed to really shine,

we verify
that all the coins
in this short day
will not be enough
to finance the glaring division
between this moment
and the darkness

engineered to quiet the mind
and soothe the magnificent
aching of the soul
at the recognition
of forever.

The truth of it all
bubbles just under the surface
of the skin of the body
so that you have stopped hoping
to return as something
better.

Traveling East

There are a few items
buried deep in the sands of June or early July
where the wishes of the heart live as treasures
to be uncovered by the friend of this constant soul.

I am clearing a space on the slate
and have scratched a few clues
on the cluttered walls of the mess of the mind
that will help the skilled seeker
to find shimmering truths about joy
and other watery emotions
that carry us all to the end
of all knowing.

The message is simple:

When I leave for the sea today,
bring only what is needed.

Thick towels, salty almonds,
quiet voices, laughter,
fancy fizzy water,
a low chair and a mat for stretching,
stories about love and losses,
the French press and dark coffee,
lavender shampoo and vanilla lotion,
silence,sea glass,sand dollars,
the journal for poetry,
the books to finally read,
tender glances and gentle hands,
basil, lettuce, and radishes from the garden,
cold white wine and good bread,
slow dancing,
butter for baking,
smooth cotton sheets and a soft pillow,
one rainy day for puzzles and naps,
heated sand,juicy gossip,
unexpected singing,
peaceful afternoon tea,
vivid dreaming,
the moon's embrace,
and something golden
like honey to hope for.

This map, this passage,
will make the way clear
to the delicate edge
of morning after morning
where love lives lightly.

The Winnowing

These summer days
my mind is like a busy toddler,

fingers linger on ideas not mine to touch,
the mouth is parched for knowledge
resisting nothing sweet,

wanting comfort

wanting

babbling
babbling
babbling

the constant flow of day dreaming
in the depths of bones healing
from wounds where battles have worn
everything thin.

Redirect this path with the storming heart
clearing the horizon of all of the chatter –
from this constant distraction,
like a wind winnowing the plump seeds from the nothingness
before the force of life takes root in the richness of the earth.

Hover

As if we mortals
have any say in the matter,
we preen and dance with delight
on this day of the shortest night.

As if we have actual leverage
negotiating at the horizon,
marking our territory in the pink glow
at the edge of all knowing
with imaginary fireworks
and shooting stars.

Hover here with me, my love.
Our blanket is warm
and the air lifts fresh mowing
like incense to all these forgotten glances.

Hover in the silence as we melt
into the earth holding tightly
to joy and are broken open

and where our stamina
is measured by all the ways
we let go of every thing.

Strawberries for Dessert

When June is ready to tip the light
toward the dark side of the year with bravado

we would rather banish to a slower plodding pace
like a flushed and blistered old woman walking home
from Sunday services

the sun follows her mechanical movement
of a toy wound too tight

and forgets that abundance
must slide and moan the birth sounds
of fat, juicy berries

and biscuits with whipped cream
slurping from a cold can

onto the plate of a small smiling boy
who forgets his manners and dips his fingers

into the delight
of strawberries for dessert.

Permeability

These rains fall
like joy into the open heart
of gratitude,
a cell of the soul
that pours in and out
of Love's cup
at the abundant table,

at the homecoming
of the Beloved
before the end
of the beginning,

before the nard must be used
on the body, dead and cold,
pour the oils onto His feet
without hesitation

so that these bodies
might fall together
into the permeable embrace
where we lose track
of the boundaries of limbs,
and skin, and hair,

open as a wide-eyed kiss.

Friday

Thank goodness
the world continues
to caress the edge of love

even when your chest
nearly bursts
with grief.

And God
is love
and loving us
all the while

waiting for us to look at each other
and nod in respect
for the flower of humanity
that blossoms
purple

like a crocus
breaking through the crust
of the last gray snow.

Simple Prayers

To all the other kneeling women of time,
to these beautiful souls who lifted simple prayers
when all others festered with fear
under the veil of skin and decomposed,

please sing to us now of anointed courage and light
straight as a young arrow to our sorrowful hearts.

Please speak with a true tongue
so that we might convert the unbelievers
to a path of released belief.

Please give us the strength to wait
and to sustain each other with chanting
and glorious silence

so that when we are wise enough to know
that we can roll away the stone ourselves
and confront the darkest places
so many others have known

the task will be as effortless
as flight.

The Sky Will Not Fall

Again, the robins
Tumble and skip like autumn.
The sky will not fall.

Gone Again

Trace the yellow-gold petals of a daffodil across your cheek
and you will know the truth of angel's wings
flying close to the earth
when all hope is gone
again.

The Glitter of New Coins

Robins tumble across the grass in this damp wind

like leaves tossed at will by a restless God.

Rain, though cunning, cannot melt their rusty hearts.


And the tiny alchemy of finches

turning from winter

is enough to quicken

my breath

and to see the grayest season

will change into the glitter

of new coins.

Draped Over the Arm of a Disappointed Angel

My feet are tired from this unyielding dance--
blistered and broken from the meaningless effort.
My mind is blurred from a swirling that does not bring joy--
this kind of amnesia is numbed from misuse of unimportant pink gauze.

To make things worse,
I caught a glimpse of unkind words
describing my profile
in the mirror.

I am stooped as all losses are,
always lacking the source of an arabesque,
and my soul is draped like a death cloth
over the arm of a disappointed angel.