Caged Bird

Exhaust the ways
escape is possible
and the panic
of no way out
will make the prisoner
weep, break down
call for his mother
who was also captive
before she died alone
and begging for a glimpse
of the sky.

Turn the bars
into the stems
of daisies.

Turn the guard
into friend.

Turn the heart
into unending singer
like the bird
who loves
her cage.

Heat

The heat of the night
rolls through the body
like fire on the edge
of new fuel rapidly approaching
spring on the prairie.

There is no stopping the wave
that must consume the past
in order to make way
for the violent green
that sleeps under the surface
of earth.

You have no idea
of the giant that wakes
from winter,
the glacial cracks booming
in the bones
of unconditional love.

The air ignites
with crimson
at dawn.
The first drops of water, bloody,
sizzle then evaporate
into mist.

New Year for a Writer

Write.
Just write and see what comes from that place
in the middle. That place where
the heart channels the soul to the universe
for examination.

Greet the day with words
on the page
where ink opens you
on the white paper and allows blood
to drip as pure joy into a space
where the clear mind is free
to make love to the curves of a syllable
and the frustration of punctuation
leaves on a moan--
of nothing.

Plunge deeply into the idea of love
with no concern for time
or the obligation to the world.
Here words play on the skin,
run fingers delicately across
the slippery sex of the finer points of argument
and bring chills to the curve of the back
before release.

The breath will not be lost here,
but captured in the arms of reason
and then rejected
like a rigid boundary
that must be crossed
to experience air in the lungs
or dreaming of the color
of the inside of truth.

I wake to the sound of my pen scratching
across the flesh of this page
and laugh at the whispering
no one will hear
but this lover.

This beautiful face greets me
with unconditional abandon
asking only to please my every desire
to live fully present to the sea
and the sun
and the smell of the earth opening in spring
for the seeds that will become a feast
and nourish the hungry soul
that lives lean in the depths of more words
than will ever escape from the ribs
and blossom, exhaled, from hope.

The light of the day
arrives again
and the pages
filled with morning
roll over and make room
for the business of the day.

Attachment

I have begun
to look into distances
as I approach the center
of a life colorfully decorated
with the united reminders
of decay.

It is natural—
a selected intelligence
that awakens just in time
to give away
all I know
in reverse order
of the gathering.

The stories of my brothers
and my invisible sisters
are alive in me
like fire and wicked wind
the suffering is caught in my breath
and fall like the inevitable avalanche
in my bones—
the sound deafening
within the silences.

And yet I am called to listen
to the dead and the forgotten.
I see their faces
and feel their hands upon my soul
when I know not what to do.
The comfort of the saints
and sages settles around
the same flame for light
in the unbearable darkness—
in the cold we will know
as the longest winter.

If kindness is my only possession
before spring arrives in the color
of tulips and daffodils,
let me have the wisdom
and the grace
to give it all away.

On that day
wash my face clean
and remember
that it is exactly
as I have told you
and the gift that I have plucked
from between my ribs
so that I might place hope
in the palm
of your hungry hand
is the only meal
you will ever desire
again.

Taken

Take me
by the hand
one more day,
one more mysterious day
where love and kindness
look me in the eye
longing to get lost inside
this body and in the light
that changes color at the edge
of white robes
bursting into gold.

Take me
as if it were the first time
you’d traced the lines of my face
with fingers trembling,
one more time the beginner
fumbling with fear
you might not gather the strength
to follow bliss offered with beauty
by the cycle of this lifetime.

Take me
as if it were the last time
you would kneel before me,
place your face in the dust
of my skin
and bless the moment
by inhaling.

Here is your temple.
Here is the warmth of the spirit
that brings you to the communion table
with all living things.
Here the Earth rises up
and shivers
at the base of the spine
and climbs the inevitable path
to the crown
you wear so well.

Take your seat.
Take your breath.
Take my hand
so that we might
join the family of souls
who await our arrival
and smile as we fly
freshly washed
and clean with laughter
in this final escape.

Sacrificing the Son

For Bill and his beloved Sam

Stand up tall,
chest out, voice strong
when you call the name of your son
home for the night.
This song of a father rings
long past the hour of reckoning.
You have made this call a million times
as the light leaves the sky
and twilight forces the eyes
to see the tiny remnants of far away
glimmers of a past
we can never know for sure.

The silence in your ears aches.

You know what is coming
with each howl into the pending dark—
know the pit in the core of consciousness—
that danger is right at the shoulder
of your son
whispering the loud
and raspy death call.

This is not a child’s game
of hide and seek
where anyone can play dead.
The stakes of being found
in the rocks and scrabbling bushes
are for keeps.

Flying on the wings
woven by looking fear in the face—
seeing the souls of the departed
like they are gathered friends—
gives you no comfort today.

The wide and healing ocean
is not big enough to wash you clean,
nor does it allow you to emerge
with the joy of knowing hope
in a future you cannot see.

Hold this impermanent boy
to your wide open heart one more time
and then cast him into the waters
like ashes—
the essence of who he is
will be all that this day allows you to love,
all that any day
will ever offer again.

Tendrils

Tendrils of the world
curl at my neck,
gently tightening their hold
like something beautiful
and green as morning glories
ready to burst into blossom
or explode into a fiery rage
with smoke twisting
into the cracks
of a door jam,
delighted to damage
the illusion of safety
with one mighty puff.

Inhale with hope or confidence
only to collapse as pink as a lung
on the death of letting go
unsure of where the next meal of pure air
might come from.

There is no mother touch
on my locks
after these cold rains.
No comb to separate tangles,
straightening the mess
into neat rows
so that I might transform overnight
into the beautiful one
everyone wants.

Instead, I ache,
tossed about
and snarled,
ready to shave
the attachments off at the roots
and wait to see
what might grow back from the sharp stubble
when there is really nothing left
to lose—