Spirited Set of Losses

Discount the velocity of the way this daily bondage of mindless escapes into simple traffic and you will know my life. There is no elevation of thinking. There is no grain sewn on fertile ground. There is no rip tide to pull me under and release the pain through the thoroughly saline fascia. Instead I endure the panic of standing in line at the grocery store waiting for the phone to ring or the cashier to notice me with something more than wondering words-- if I found the paper products and strawberries and a crisp white wine to drown myself in that spirited set of losses.

All the Angels

The abrasion of the places my heart has worn thin are brittle and blackened by the denials of simple movement every soul must make. These places cry, throaty and bereft of hope, for soothing balm to heal, begging to bring air and light, and so I sob and wait. I chant and call to Jesus, Mother,Father Krishna, Buddha, Quan Yin, Mary, and all the angels and saints to touch me with hands so very gentle and carry me with prayers to the companion who knows how to walk beside bowing so that I almost miss the nod to the light that lives in both of us so that we might be whole again like each moment we can step together again. throaty abrade session blacken

Making Home

The vestibule of the heart holds me again like I am someone worthy of this much love. I have suppressed my voice for so long it is clear that I have shaved the marrow of time from my bones toward the end of all days and in the sound of my words. But the truth of spirit stood next to me on this day spoke with the clarity of a solar burst and burned through the fog in an instant in the words "No more." No more silence. No more getting by. No more swallowing bitter herbs that do no good. I am worthy of this home I have made in the sun. I am the keeper of this much joy in fragrant lilies. I am the mother of abundant skies that open to the smiles of my children's beautiful minds.

Not Knowing

The mystery speaks to the stroke of brilliance,
mandible wagging deliberately oblivious to the ensemble
of thoughts in my mind.

Float on the surface of the water
or look carefully through the woody vines in the arbor
and you may deliberate joy caught in the clouds above.

As for me, I won't inspect the color blue too closely,
nor will I ask for proof of vitality.

Instead I will listen with each breath
to the sound of peepers,
imagine the color of daffodils,
and wait for the sun to dip below the horizon
of all thought.

The moon will rise slowly
where peaceful chirping of the night
drifts into not knowing anything.

The Outline of Fear

 The blush of a cheek errupts
without warning of hazard or the shaking of nerves
that swamps the irrational boat of memory like your voice.

Nothing percolates that cubby of churning visions
that moves me swooning with anticipation of a window
that might open at night when I am most vulnerable
to the stars and other distant light
like the outline of your face
mistaken on the street
where I sleepwalk.

I stumble
grabbing on to a doorknob
or the bark of a tree
to disappear
into the shadows
where I am quiet with my breath
and mercifully
alone.

The Stuff of Haunting

Gristle and cartilage traces the turgid fingers
of the body that winds itself, serpentine,
around the soul's incandescent light

where the ghosts hover near the pinnacle of the days
and wait for the whelping of the darkest howls of the night
to stop lonesome smiles, so sad with their disappointments,

from standing and casting caution toward promised peace
but, instead, moving the stones of sleep
more sad than any intimate whispering
would ever allow.

Sailing Red

There is a particle
of dust, from the spring festival
just down the road
where even the air
is embraced with the creation stories,
that has traveled carefully
into my left eye.

I have furnished abundant tears,
watery losses enough for a lifetime of sorrow,
to wash the remnant of celebration
from my sight.

The music has drifted softly away.
The smells of animals and frying foods
disappeared with the nightly rain.
The foot traffic and movement of bodies
in their finery is gone,

but the dust remains
on the surface of the lens
and the view is marked oddly
by the color of a balloon
that sails beating red,
opaque and heart-like,
flowing silent past the almost full moon.