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.