When the Bottom Fell Out

When the bottom fell out
from under everything,
jolting me from blistered hands
that had hung on to the cold steel rungs
too long,

I crumbled, ruminating on the failure,
befuddled by the opportunity to walk away.

When the bottom fell out
the walls of the well echoed,
bouncing with the sound of fear
and slippery with angry silent cups
of my own darkness and souring cream,

there was never anyone to blame
in this new place.

Now, when the frost is new on the grass
and the flowers wilt after the sun touches them,
it seems too simple to shrug off the end of the long summer
with a sigh and turn my back on the task of another death.

I am still exhausted in my old leather boots and cotton gloves.

but here again, when the bottom fell out,
wings suddenly grew out of a need to fly;

the new bird
pushed out of a nest
that was never meant to hold forever.

Before

Before the addiction,corrosion clicks in the mind.
The heart broadcasts a need to gather everything
like a wandering nun with only her clothes and a bowl
before God evacuates this desperate place of longing.

Before the shelling of thoughts begins,
let the mind rest in this moment.

The heroic Love will keep watch
with his hand on the breathing child within you
as light leaches into the blackness
where only the stars give consolation.

Shine there, in that very instance,
an exhalation,
an annulment of doubt.

Before you lift the thin edge of the glass to your lips,
smile at the warmth that will come home too soon.

Alone in the Last Days of Summer

These angelic days,
where I feel you near me,
ache with August.

Each sunflower
personifies years
of endless summer
and your breath constantly humming
at the base of my mind.

I am wandering again,
solitary as a stone,
in this new path of loving
all the nights.

The texture of another autumn
harangues the heat and is squandered
on copper and gold leaves
plummeting to the ground.

My body opens like a cloud of aspersions,
always the antagonist in my own poetry.

If only we could trace the corners of these thoughts
with enough time to heal everything we have ever wanted.
If only time wasn't so mighty.

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.