Water Hitting Sand and Stone

The sound of the ocean feeds me
as I walk, again, at the edge of the world.
This water is like a Minnesota pasture at twilight,

illuminating my wrath
and then washing all anger
out to sea.

I become a ghost in the mist of of all I am
walking over the sand and discerning the mysterious tides.

It is sometimes enough to steal words from the mouths of others
and realize what is lost in that theft,

but to watch others profit from my interruptions,
to enslave poets,
and destroy the science of all learning
is more
than anyone can stand by
and silently witness
the erosion of the seaweed garments
left out to dry.

I gently place my list of hurts into a small bottle tonight
and carefully let the glass float away into the moonlight
and the waves.

I place the damaged hope into that tiny vessel
and let her drift away with all the disappointment
for some new land that can heal us.

The crashing sound of water hitting the sand and stone
will be enough for this day
and keep me praying for the wisdom
to stay with tiny particles of the elements
stuck to the bottoms of my salty feet.

Drifting

The unlikely treasure
of nostrils burdened with open earth and rain,
is shrouded in December's curtain of bland and plundered days.

The steaming kettle of the melting skies boils until we can't resist
and must draw the curtains of clouds on these fading Vermont hills.

I will not be swindled into thinking snow won't arrive angrily,
exacting payment for this balmy change of season's mind.

My intention is a magnet setting the compass
to point directly at the schism between what I know
and what the world will become.

Until the icy winds cut into my cheeks,
let my smile exhaust the foggy moon
while she makes her journey to the fiery line
at the drifted, western fences.

Turning Things Around

This myopic view of plodding endlessly
toward nowhere and brandishing dull and rusting blades

is exactly like a thresher walking an already cut field,
exhausting even on days of victory and adequate harvest.

We who keep walking are all deeply tired
and wish the web of the world was not so tangled and torn.

We imagine putting one foot in front of the others
and applying equal pressure to the skull and to the heart.

Here we must watch carefully
as the vanquished masses
take flight into the wide open spaces
with small wounds bleeding
into the overworked soil
until the plow is found
to turn things around.

Floundering

Some days I flounder for virtue,
my ego promenading past the faults of others,
my head held higher than it usually does.

On days when pride will not vanish
and I quake with anger
at some blemished mark on the face of injustice,

shave the heat of embarrassment from my cheeks
so that I won't let tears fall
or need to malinger over nothing.

Let the tangled mutation of the soul of another
heal me with kindness.

Let me not sink into the darkness
where all who suffer
lose their way
over and over again.

Mercy looks like my sister
when I can trace that profile
with my blistered fingers
at the closing of all time.

The Pageant

The round faces of all the children
have turned their attention again to the squirming, swaddled child
marking the travels they have made
through the lines of the pageant they know so well.

Each cheek is smudged with a bit of frosting or chocolate
from the plundered goodies gathered as offerings
too near the stage.

The littlest angels are free - range in this production,
howling like the coxswain in a lifeboat set adrift,
and the olders expunge small hurts and fear with cooing voices
like salve they have learned from their mothers.

We witnesses are silently healed
in the retelling of the ancient story.

The star shines dimly above halos and gossamer wings.
Behold!

The magic drifts in on the wisps of incense
and floats on the sounds of voices
lifted on the notes shaped onto the trestle
of all our modest prayers.

Fist on the Table

The tensile mood at this gathering
suffocates the path
to freedom again.

There is no vaccine
for the poison of the ego
and the tunnel into which
it forces our many vibrant thoughts.

If you dare,
let the wide open ocean
break the way to salty tears of love.

If you dare,
sail away from the grief
to a place where no one recognizes
the way that you walk
or the color of your hair.

This departure will be the fist on the table
demanding the respect you've always been entitled
to drape calmly over your shoulders
before falling into the arms of the beloved.

Hummingbird

In many places near the equator
it is said that hummingbirds carry the souls
of departed warriors
returning to fight another fight.

Slowly, as if the sun is giving birth to light for the first time,
we have been converted into that kind of beauty
and covert power that so many are hungry for.

There are so many days when we'd rather escape
than be drained by Narcissa
and all her drab minions scrapping
for the same mirror.
The slashing and flashing
unseemly at best.

Wisely, the hummingbird hovers above it all
choosing the exact flowers to favor
before the subduction of each morsel of truth
is blathered away by all the mindless color.

In this jungle,
impatient wings flutter
on the unsubstantial breezes
until the cacophony of ignorance
passes away.