The Never Ending Sequence

There is no shame
as I walk alone,
mile after mile
of nothing in my head,
while reading old,
and often tattered maps,
to places I’ve already been.

I adore looking at the lines,
reading them slowly
like a beloved poem
reminding me of the pull of the sea,
to trace the roads
with my fingers
knowing
eventually
I will come out
at the places
I am supposed to be.

All I can do;
all anyone can ever do,
is to walk with toes pointed
forward and believe
in the sky
and the Earth
uniting at the horizon
to give us a point of hope,
something good and clean to focus on
in the never ending sequence
of forgiving days.

Easy Dawn

At this easy hour of dawn
the air touches my face lightly
tracing the edges of my smile
and the crow's feet
around my waking eyes.

The ocean is open
and the clouds above
take nothing away from the birdsong
and the clatter of the simple waves
lapping at the sand.

I fold and unfold myself here--
a washer woman
scrubbing the stains
out of my skins,
snapping the fabric I have woven
and hang myself out to dry
in the sun and breezes
filled with the force of life.

Clean again and again
with each wave of water--
each moment of laughter
at my lack of faith.

I am new
in the slow movement
of this long night
into the coming day.

Four Haiku Poems from Sky Meadow

Surface of the water
calm, yet under consciousness,
death and life are close.


Rain drops drum slowly.
The tin roof an instrument.
Peace is present here.


Tadpoles and crayfish--
new life and warriors make love.
Water heals us all.


My body empty.
My mind follows close behind.
Joy in the silence.

Without Words

Without words
this silence cleanses me,
strips me to my nakedness
in the cool, new summer rain.
The wind is still
with only the song of birds
and the low-throated gulping
of the frogs to drift with.

Without words
and the sound
of your voice to comfort me
I must go within.
I seek relief
in my own skin
and the touch
of my warm and eager fingers
to find the truth—
answers to the questions
of my birth.

Without words
the birds sing for me
and carry music
to your window
with no effort.

These winged messengers
simply open their mouths
and the words of the loving universe
gather the language
we have carefully crafted
and return to trace the letters
of an alphabet
our souls know
by heart
with their feathered faces
looking joyfully toward the sky.

Return Address

Just write.
Just put the sharp point
of your pen to the almost empty page
and let the words make their way
past the milky screen of your mind
flow like the trickle of life
over the dam
full to overflowing
with the unimaginable power
to inform the heart,
to change the shape
of the landscape
like a flood
God sends to cleanse
the earth from darkness.

Just write
and let the soft body of your words
be what they must be.
Let them love what they love
and not cage the obvious flesh
that was meant to touch
and gather electricity into magic
each night gathering magic under the skin
until dancing becomes art of motion,
until eye contact with your lover
is enough to light a city
with all that sweetness.

Just write
in the comfort of the mornings
where the breath is easy and full.
Pen letters.
Outline stories.
Sketch the beautiful curves
of breasts and the smooth line
of a hip like you are seeing them
for the first time.

Address the envelope
to the universe
and clearly print
the return address
to the place
your heart lives.

It is where the sound of tomorrow
knows where to find you
already.

On Hearing Thunder at Dawn

The rumble,
the low hum of love’s thunder,
arrives with this day—
the storm of cleansing rain
blessing my soul’s home
with the force of God’s voice
whispering in my ear.

I am beginning to believe
in each morning moment
where inevitable smiles
signal the welcome
of the invisible hand
of a lover I have yet to know
and who gently strokes my skin
with hope.

Mist has risen
from the tired and aching heat
of the earth
where the first cut of June hay
is soaked by the unexpected clouds.

The farmer—
who worked so hard.
sweating to gather this early light—
digs his toe
into the thirsty soil

not in disappointment or regret

but rather
thanks the sky
for the answers to his prayers
to be washed
and to breathe each breath
in peace.

Morning Poem

The trembling leaves
of my hope
are tender and still
pink around the edges
of the green and golden light
of another
new May morning.

Fear and the iron taste
of aching anger
no longer live
at the base of my brain
but have been abandoned
near the sea’s shore
for the first tide
to wash these deaths away
with salt
and the vigor of cold waters.

Hold me to your chest
like breath returning
to empty lungs.
Feel the warmth of my hands
over your heart
where blood flows red
with the kindness of only truth.

It is at the remembering of this purity
that I wish to awaken
every day.