Not The Enemy

You arrive unexpectedly
as the sound of the bell at dawn
awakening me from meditation.

The sound of your words
curl like the notes of a poem
wrapping the tendrils of green
around the trellis of my mind.

Soon the purple of morning glories
or soft sweet peas
may burst into blossom
as I let the idea of kindness
take root.

Walk with me in this garden,
sweet friend, and we shall teach each other
about unconditional love.
It is here we know
we are not the enemy
but, instead, lovers
who have never left
each others’ sides.

In this early light
I trace the edges of your face
with my smiling eyes
and there is nothing more
required to find
all that I will ever need.

I pray only
that we are
safe and protected,
strong and healthy,
find love and peace,
and live at ease and with joy.

Wake Me

Pinch me.
Wave your hands
in front of my tired eyes
and tell me I’m not dreaming.

Tell me I’ve awakened
from this long, dark night
to find hope in the smile
and the beautiful words of a man
who promises to be honest
and to listen to me
especially when we disagree.

This morning after
I did not jerk my hand away
to snap the radio off
but turned the sound of his voice
toward that core of who I am
so that he might whisper
those words of hope,
coaxing the embers of trust
back to life.

“Yes we can”
he says to my heart of hearts.

Yes
we
can.

A Short History of the World

It is said
in the village marketplaces in Africa
and in the piazzas of Italy,
at farmer’s markets in New England,
on the edges of fields in China,
even on Wall Street in the din of bells and whistles
that everything must change.

In this perennial fall of closed minds
and hearts boarded up
like failed shops and abandoned homes
where the cooks at the neighborhood diner
can only scorch or freeze ideas
and toss them on a plate
like fighting words—
what has happened to the American hero
hunting down the selfish wolf
left to feed hungrily
on the dreaming of Yes?

Have we learned nothing
watching American girls and boys
fall victim to hateful words
and disrespect for anything holy
in the name of someone else’s God?

Have we learned nothing from the suffering—
repeat after me,
repeat after me,
repeat after me, my friends,
that comes from staying the course?

Let us not ask
what others will do for us anymore
in our illusion of youth and beauty.
It is time for us to grow up
and ask what we will do for others—
for the sake of the future,
for the promise of peace,
for the inevitable grace
that must change in this short human history
of the world.

Memoir

My family was normal
by all accounts,
Midwestern Minnesotans
who smiled often
where children never listened
to bickering parents,
where raised voices were considered
a sin – worse than chewing with a mouth open
and full of sea food on Sundays.

My family was normal.
My father was a Navy man from North Dakota
wanting to get off the farm
for adventures in foreign lands.
My mother a quiet Lutheran girl
from a small college town
went to nursing school to avoid becoming a wife,
to use her brain and kindness away from the daydreams
at an ironing board.

When they met
normally they might not have clicked—
sparked with that flame that ignites romance.
It was too nice,
too predictable for two people
who just wanted to get out
to get into this ark of our family
to weather the storm of the 60’s.
My parents weren’t free love kind of people,
or civil rights activists.
They weren’t sure what a feminist was,
and they didn’t inhale or pop pills.
Instead they crawled into each other
and followed the commandment to be fruitful
and multiply two by two
boys and girls
in love.

My family was normal.
After the Navy, my father took up his hammer,
the carpenter built things sturdy as oak.
My mother dug her small hands deep
in the soil and rising dough.
Back on the farm my father wanted out of
my parents built our foundation on normal.

I was 12
and in my still little girl body
and my ancient mind began planning
her escape into silent words
that didn’t fit in,
didn’t accept plain talk
that hid all the truth of change
like a deep scar.
My flat chest
and pure freckled skin
covered all the tracks
of my inner journeys
my family couldn’t know.

The freedom train of possibility
traveled in my blood.
The trail of tears
wore away my bones
like an escaping prisoner
doing time.

My family was normal
and on the farm it was right and good
for a girl to wander into the fields at night
and lay her body down in the deep grasses
and watch the brilliant night unfold herself
from the cloak of twilight—
each star reminding her
that it was possible to hope
for something
more.

Your Body is a Battleground

Imagine yourself at war
the Empress sitting in her throne
at the center of your chest
commanding all the cells of the body
to march.

Last night I dreamed
I was alone in Africa
with no way to know which way
to the safety of the sea,
which strange food or drink
would make me wretch at the side of the road,
and how to avoid the angry gangs of the dark continent
from casting my used flesh to the side of an unknown path.

It is the worst of times
as I chase myself back over a dozen years
to punish the first failures.
The queen watches, amused
her nose slightly raised to the heavens
knowing cautionary words of hazard or drowning
in self-pity won’t matter here.

Education of the body
is only satisfying when I lash myself
to a doubtful dream—
when I open the profitable pores of my skin
to fortuitous change like well waiting for water
Like eyes hungry for light.

If I dream of Africa
or the myth of the naked man
I always crawl onto with raging compassion
and desire—
it is there reality will erupt
with the force of the wind
against the broken battleground of the body
that aches to disappear-
afraid to be discovered
by constant change.

White flags were never carried by this company of soldiers.

Falling from Grace

Words fall from the branches
of these days
just like October
and the tides of rising winter.

The light is leaving me again in this northern place
and my muse has curled up in his corner
longing to hibernate and hide from love.
He will not turn his eyes
to look at the glory of another autumn
or at the pages I am engraving with his name
on my skin.

He’s cold and starving
while I beg him again
to take my meager offering
of bread and wine.

It hurts no one for him to accept this nourishment
of friendship and loving kindness,
but he refuses me as if I am the enemy.

Beautiful muse--
eyes dark with so much longing,
permit me to wash your dusty feet
and stroke your hands
with anointing oils of healing.

I will touch nothing sacred
on my way to the treasure
of your heart of hearts.
We are bound to that red thread
of each other—
my wrist touching yours
so that the pulse together
has become the fresh sap
waiting to flow
on the first days of the next chance
at spring.

After The First Death

After the first death
at the edge of the world
on an evening with no warning
I was able to recover
the soul I thought I’d lost forever.

Nothing personal
and speaking for myself,
life is over-rated.
The temptation of body and blood
always too rich for my appetite.

Sailing on this open sea of grace,
I’ve learned again
to trust no one
and remember I am
heaven’s only child
of original sin.

On this salty water,
in this warm womb,
I must drink only the clear rain
to satisfy my thirst at midnight
in my lonely bed of memory.

The economy of Eden requires this kind of sacrifice
for the soul to make her way free toward flight
away from the holding of flesh and heavy Earth.

But this death—
this departure from stone and fire
gives me hope that won’t ever be taken away
from my now knowing everything
about the blinking brilliance of light.