The Revolution

I have taken to my bed
to write the revolution
of tender words
that will move the heart
and ensnare the mind
of a lover.

Imagine no escape
once the eyes follow the path,
following the crumbs of truth
and letters scattered,
forming these new worlds
into which one can fall
helplessly
into joy.

The poetry
of the solution
is tangled up in the breathless
arms and legs of an embrace--
heart racing
toward the open skies
of surrender.

Escape

Utter the words of escape
and you will have to leave your old uniform
at the edge of battle,

you will have to remove your fragile skin
and ego that have lost all usefulness
and step into the cool air,

beyond the barbed wire
and past the old usery

like a silent prayer
standing absolutely still

while you wash out to sea
with your next
precious breath.

Lovely Piquant Skin

The velvet thoughts of this day
joust and vanish smoothly
into the night
where insight is immune
to the vehement need of the ashen
urgency of grasping at straws
that will only disappoint me.

I am strong as I close my eyes
and take a breath falling into my body
like a woman falling in love
after years alone and forgetting
what it means to touch the warmth
of delicious piquant skin.

The Hat I Left Behind

There once was a hat that I left behind
sweating on the seat of the bus,
fanning herself on the benches at church,
chatting at a table over coffee.

I bustled away to work,
I bowed my head like a vessel of God,
I bristled at the conversation,

But I left her,
full to the brim,
like I had so many other
important places to be.

Beating Our Forgetful Drums

The advent of so many dawns
has me weaving verses again

alone and wanting my breath
to transport me to waters
where childhood is played
with avarice, sinning in that joy
and with all the greedy laughter
I can gather.

All the grandmothers cry
when I depart on the wind that takes us all
away to the other side of hearts that beat,
thumping our forgetful drums
for the last time.

Ten Thousand Things

They wake me in the night now
like babes crying for the warmth of the breast,
hungry bellies of thought
unsettled and unsatisfied
to sleep.

Perhaps it is the lover that nudges me awake,
wants something deeper
as his hand rests absently on my bare hip,
warm and insisting on the attention
that only skin can convey.

Perhaps as I arise, unmoved, slip on my pink robe
like the tired queen I am,
I cannot help but notice
that Honesty is the most urgent
of the ten thousand things.

She flashes across the lawn
like June fireflies
making me pick up a pen
at 2 a.m. to make a list
that will soothe my aching shoulder,
organize so many thoughtless tasks into neat rows,
and give me courage to forgive myself
for what I have left undone.

Of Nothingness

This molten moment
meanders past the mind
hot and dreaming of morning.

It is possible,
from the place you are sitting
near the window,
to touch the face of some mordant comment
with generous thoughts.

The heat of this cup of kindness
is enough to release the madness
that has been trapped
in the spaces between your fingers
while gripping the edges of something
that looks like sanity.

Confusion is a word you have used
and know as well as the lines on your face.
You are a mirror
that will not let go
of the images of too much
of nothingness
and grief.