Confession

Lean in closer to me, child.
Lean in close and whisper the words;
the deepest sorrows of your heart,
rain and coldest wind disturbing
the quiet of the pulse.

Whisper what you will not
say out loud
and be released--
a cage containing a single song bird
emptied into nothingness,
or the final thrashing about
in panic
like a covey
of partridges
startled
into flight.

Released,
nonetheless.

Let go of the ground.
Let go and leave this world--
get lost in the wild
abandon
of loving
kindness.

I hear the outline of your voice
calling out, fear in the night,
and trace the dark shadow
of the hunting hawk
above the trembling body
waiting to fall
to Earth
and deliver
yet another soul
unto the open sky.

Listen

I am not here
but for the sound
of my breathing.

The inhale,
my companion.

The exhale,
the guard who unlocks
my cell
and commands me
toward the freedom
of silence.

Mary Meditation at Dawn

The sun
has managed to wake me
again
climbing high over the hills
of the river bank
to ignite the air around me
where birds and their songs
are making sense out of music.

Mary Magdeline
was there with the dawn too,
on these last days before Easter,
when the sun woke her teacher;
her sweetest friend,
woke them over the dry hills
of their own secret terror,
their own fatal mistakes.

The memory says that man was his friend,
loved for his betrayals, lies,
and for the insult of stealing coins
from the purse of the poor,
but Mary loved the teacher;
the wiser soul--
her own little lamb.

Mary Magdeline loved the way
her hair smelled
after she oiled and perfumed
the tired feet of this intimate stranger
and with that rich scent
she carried him,
beyond the body,
to the embrace
of a tomb.

Wake up to the violence
of that death,
that longing to give away everything,
and you might understand faith
in time that travels
inside light.

You who believes in nothing
might pull words out of the air,
like birds and a forgotten song,
to find meaning
in the promise of a love
that becomes as empty
as a ghost
that whispers
near memory--

a meditation
at dawn.

Something New--80 Days

I have been challenged by a fellow writer to try and write every day for 80 days. It seems like a reasonable way to build some discipline and to create some serious space for my writing life. It is so easy when we are in full time other occupations to make room for writing. So many other things take the center stage in my life. My children (rightly so). My work. . .all of it. Taking care of life's many chores. Admiring the world and all life has to offer.

This is an opportunity to expand and refine my devotion to words and to all that it means for me. Just as the season of Lent and the path to Easter nears that ending, I will start this new journey with my words as a way to find some center in my writing life.

June 15th will be the target to see where it takes me.

May my words be blessed and full and rich with knowledge and better understanding of myself and of the world around me.

The Karma of Sardines During Lent

What did these poor souls do
in their last life
to be forced into a tight can,
covered with oil
and sealed in tin,
then closed
into the deeper darkness
of a small, cardboard box--

words of memory
only translations
of ingredients
in English,
Norwegian,
and Japanese

Buried,
not at sea,
but instead
on whole grain bread
made at home
by an amateur baker
only to be ingested, crushed,
bones and all,
and smothered
in hot sauce.
Just enough time
between another set
of fundamental classes
at the local community college.

Better that, one might suppose,
than the poor chicken
across the table
wrapped in a flour tortilla,
shredded and tossed
with mayo, organic spinach-
forced to lie down
with Vermont cheddar,
before an eager professor of writing
devours it all,

only after apologizing
to the vegetarian
sitting nearby,
poking fun
at her attempts
to order the universe.

Who knew
sardines--
these silver-toned beauties--
could carry the karma
of light, of forgiveness
so simply in their small bodies
all the way from the watery depths
of another confession
to the smile on a man's mouth
to enlightenment
and back
again,

and yet,

again.

Certain Kind of Sorrow

I used to know
the ways to escape,

to be come invisible,
stepping out of my own skin
at a moment's notice,

dropping my body
like a slip off my hips
onto the cold floor
in the dark.

The freedom
of those moments
of flight--
allowing the tides
of my breath
to wash away
suffering--

it was so familiar then
I could feel
the pulse

like wings
under the bones
in the solid cage
of my ribs,

holding me in the place
I had allowed myself

to be

alone.

That certain kind of sorrow,
a single note of birdsong
at dawn,

hovers
near my skin
as a reminder
of the ways

the soul learns
to survive--

the way she makes kindness
for the stranger
within

a war to be won
at any cost.

Dust

Feel the walls
of the body
in which you currently
have come to live,

the hands of your soul
covered with the dust
of each day
of decay
that flakes off,
small and dirty bits of earth,
rejoicing
from the inside
out.

Ashes to ashes
you let the detritus
of humanity cling to the frame
of your thoughts--
the clanking pots
on the peddler's cart,
calling out
as the idea of you
walks through another year
of longing. Peace
down the next street
or, maybe,
the next.

Perhaps this time
you will stop,
open your tired eyes,
and notice the bruises
on the backs of your hands,
knuckles swollen from the fight,

and simply
wash away the blood
and the arid land
of this temporary
dwelling,

disappearing
into the dusky outline
of nothing,

finally
vanishing into
the particles
caught
by the expanding
sounds of wind.