Passing Judgement

I curl myself into this rough and demanding  place
inside myself again,
vesting my soul against the budding charm
of tradition that is not mine.

I'll accuse myself of love
like the stream of brisk consciousness
flowing past me one thought at a time--
fish that cannot be caught
but only swim by in a dream.

In the market square
of this dominion of damage
accuse me.
Judge me to the degree
that you dare throw
a stone
to apply
your form
of justice.

Force me
into silence.
Force me
to believe all
is lost again
just like every other day
I have believed
it might be different.

First

Some have promised
to pause in the barren Badlands
of my scarce affection.
Some have promised to let me catch my breath.
Some shine like the fresh coat of paint,
semi-gloss and premiere.

To rush at these moments, take everything I have owned
and deliver it across the expressions of grief
that nearly crush me.
Ensure that I will bridge this loneliness
and unbind my heart to be set free from the cages
made of steely promises.

Grant me the peace of open air,
smiling and bright as November mornings,
and I will walk toward joy
like I am greeting
Love for the first time.

Bring on the Nights

Let the thermometer drop,
red dipping low on that totem pole
scanning the lack of flavor;
no heat in the air.

I listen to the trees crackling
and cold as they contract into their bark,
their roots curl toes up,
branches brittle as bones.

Winter always scares the studio of golden haze
that raids the gardens of their wholly won delights,
green and sweet nectar abundant in the sun--
fingers holding greedily and tight to the brilliant bunches
of the easy life of July and August.

But I say bring the nights as soon as you can.
Bring the nights full of stars and breath that freezes
before it escapes easily to earth, astounded by the beauty of pinholes
that leaped into the heavens
and dance 
unafraid to be embraced
under thick blankets
of time twisting in a dream
of lovely gaps--

the truth of the mind
suspended in the subtle body
of time.

Confession

It is better to discover solitude gently
than to receive the false cover
that delivers the violent storm;
the news of losses
not expected.

The sea takes the shore away
one grain of sand at a time..
The wind whips dark soil from the fields
and returns us to dust.
The mind is intent on navigation away from peace,
where losing purchase
on stillness
is never
completely
comfortable.

Bring me the covenant
that seals body to soul
one last time
before I burn;
a flame of forgiveness
for this life and for all
the others before this
flickering confession
of sorrow.

First Snow in Vermont

 Come, with celebration in your heart
and salvage the joy on the day
after shoveling,
frozen and dark as the solstice
looking into the stars of the longest night's
indigo expansive yawning,
and I will produce a smile
a shark would be proud of.

Love winter;
the white and barren place
between fall and spring,
and I will find a way to remind you
of the good that comes of blizzards,
hoarfrost, flurries, and the occasional
fluffy Vermont nights awaiting
those who believe.

There is a quiet that enters
with singular contentment on that day
when the first snow comes

that muffles the earth,
and when children rejoice
in the cancellations of everthing

with the exception
of this sticky beauty
that can be rolled into
forts, cannonballs,
and a village
full of people
who will melt
at the mention
of hot chocolate
and the steamy breath
making individual crystals
disappear into the fibers
of a single red mitten..

Resolution

Simply face a problem.

Look it in the eye
and don't turn away
from the body
of evidence
that points you to
resolution.

For example,

the science of water
and the power of that force
in a brook, a river,

the tides moving with the energy
and light of the moon,

the way cells of a flower
drink up the liquid
and send it to where it must go,

water dripping from a faucet in the kitchen
at midnight until you cannot sleep--
or spraying from a fountain
in an Italian piazza.

The way tears
fall, salty
until they reach
an unfortunate end
alone.

A Gentle Guide

I am blind again.
Suddenly without sight,
all I have is your hand
and the sound of the sea
that always pulses
brilliant and salty
under my skin,

simply switching
the cells of foam against the shore,
these blood-red waves crash
against the weight of the tide
giving me the necessary
distant lighthouse.

Exhausted from the looking,
I rest in this musty smell of fall
waiting for some clue,
some poem or puzzle
to touch me deeply,
some phrase to take me
back to the door of my father's house,

some loving kindness
to protect my tender feet
on this journey

like my first pair of shoes
before I learned to dance.

A gentle guide
at the small of my back.