Not Suffering in Montreal

After years of peeling the layers of grief
from the tender spaces between my cells

I have chiseled the stone and untangled the thorny vines
that revolve around the blushing martyr I had forgotten.

Now, walking the luxurious streets of Montreal,
I glance at myself in a window
and can smile at that wise novitiate,
blisters forming
on my tired feet.

Tonight I will let my head spin
with some cold wine
and an easy breath
that opens my heart as wide
as the seaway entering the ocean
one wave of suffering drifting away
at a time.

More Silence

We all have the capacity
deep in our dreaming bones
for more silence.

On this empty frontier of the mind,
clarity is the only expense.
Clarity is the solitary refuge.

I have sung this lonely canticle,
chanting in silence
until the echos accumulate
like petals of daisies
after a July storm.

This white vibration we share in the prayer beads
at the gathering of the pulse at slim wrists,
in the quickening pads of our fingertips,

is the gaze of a lover
holding the moment
for infinity.

This Time

Feel the heart of me
at your feet
washing the dust away,
washing the wounds that reopened
unexpectedly;
such violence
is unforgivable.

The loneliness of pain
after silence is a crime,
the price of another unspoken war.

This time, let the poet speak.

This time, stand in the center of the village
with your fists raised and let anger glow
like an ember that will burn the fields
clear of the wonder and abundance.

This time,
let the truth of sacred words
gather their force
with an all consuming heat
hungry for more.

And when you return from the scorched battlefield,
I will gather you into my arms, weeping
for all you have seen.

The mind cannot be healed.

The heart is a patient lover
tenderly soothing the broken Beloved.

Planting After Good Friday

Sweet peas
planted after good
Friday sprout near the slide
and swings.

I cultivate sunflowers
and the pumpkins
from last year
will blossom
nourished
by children laughing
in the green grass.

I harrow the earth
and fertilize with manure
and a winter's worth of composted
kitchen scraps.

We will all be fed
by the richest colors
when the sun rises early
and we are released
from worry about anything
but growth.

Hungry

The velocity of love,
lasso and tall boots included,
swishes above our heads,

gallops into the gracious sunset
boldly undisturbed by gravity
and shallow furrows in the earth
from which we all crawled.

Dust boils and heat waves shimmer in the distance.
In this arid and forlorn place we are endlessly trawling
for opulent words that cultivate the perfect moment
for romance, a lonesome trail song,
or some other mystery to be sung around the campfire
under the brilliant stars
and marveling at a round and radiant moon.

I am just another thorn under the saddle of losses,
afraid to look before the long day's ride is over.

It is fear that tracks me on this tired journey,
hungry and waiting for the predator
to see the weakness limping
near the edge of abundant joy.

Be Still

The lopsided spring
drizzles along in her gray uniform
and squeaking rubber boots.

The opulent daffodils are billowing
in the coolness under dripping skies.

Just when we are all ready to surrender to sadness,
put our hands up and huddle in the corner of our grief,

the clouds step aside
and the purple flowering trees
release us on the sweet scent

of a forgotten trail
where love never wanted to hide.

Be still on the edge of this field
and God will arrive
without an invitation.

The Relief I Feel

These first breaths of purity of thought hold me before the day
with only the sounds of bird song
and the tapping of rain on a single layer
of cedar shingles.

These inhalations, still calm before the ritual of coffee
and malfeasance of the mind's controlling power,
are not polluted with high brambles, sharp blades of grasses,
or pointed tips of thistled wanting.

How will I explain to my sons
this dedication to darkest revenge
and the vendetta against the patriarchs suddenly abandoned--
all the other golden images we once worshipped, simply gone?

Now that the statues have been melted in truth's kiln
with common metals for their strength,
the beautiful opulence is gone.

The relief I feel is overwhelming.

I am completely peaceful in this garden where nothing grows

except the single lotus from the clouded and muddy pool
slowly collecting the warm tears of gratitude

of letting go.