Quiet

 We’ve abandoned the streets, the shops,

in this storm of invisible fear,

tiny monsters in the closets

of our minds.

Save us as our senses

jolt and ask us

why we have waited for so long

to shut the door to our inner chamber

to sit with our turmoil

and just listen.

What is being asked of you

in this calm before the storm?

Why do you tremble

in this quiet night,

moon pink and full of life?

Is it your heart

telling you the truth

of the Earth

resting like an exhausted mother

so sick and tired she can’t breathe

without crying out in her sorrow

for all her creation.

If we could hear this whispered prayer

with our bones and the touch

of the clearing air on our skin

like a creature deep in the sea,

our wisdom might wash us clean

like no other time

God has known us

into being.

The Call

None of us can ever really be ready for it,

the incessant ringing telling us

a fragment of our heart

has gone missing,

vanished into thin air

with one last breath.

Each loss examined in the past

with the brute force of the Soul

doing all it could to stay present;

flexed muscles ready to bolt,

is forgotten as we are cast into quiet chaos

by the reminder of our fragile veil of skin.

Today, when I thought the coast was clear,

that the medicine and mission of the medical world had worked,

the attachment to the delights of life was solid,

a Beloved is taken into oblivion

by sacred words

we cannot translate.

This might be the greatest sin of omission,

where God and all that is holy

takes us by the hand

and leads us all into the darkness

with no navigation system 

and throws us into the rocks 

we had no way to see.

“Trust me”

has no meaning

again

as we call out

looking for a friend.

Odyssey of Waiting

Thoughts aflutter,

mind restless and feeling cooped up,

I settle on a jaunt down Sunset Lake Road

to loosen my knotted head.

I swing my arms to free the riddle

of wanting to organize the spaces and time

gone wild with meddlesome clutter.

The floor covered with sorted papers

and one too many unused printers,

gifts to be given at some unknown celebration,

wrapping paper left abandoned by my daughter

like a shipwreck of white and gold,

and the cards and letters never written

to a forgotten sweetheart or father and mother

passed away.

All these must go into files or to my son’s new apartment,

to the recycling or 2^nd hand stores to peddle unmercifully to others

so they might lounge on someone else’s shelves

an odyssey of waiting

only to stop the madness

of what could be

hoarding

everything sacred

if left to no devices. 

Move like a woman with purpose

to any pinnacle on this journey

but to the heap that will not be quenched

by shuffling to a new corner. 

My nervous memory

prompts me to pitch everything overboard

and start fresh as some new fiddle tune

at the summer Solstice contra dance.

The Power of Words

It takes a miracle

to produce a word.

The human mind and body

must work together in harmony

to find the truth in a sound.

The thought moves freely

like a fish through a net

into the mouth and throat

with lungs and jaw and tongue

working stealthily to cross the threshold

of the enlightened and luminous lips.

The callous brain of an adult

thinks nothing of their language.

A simple “good morning!” or “more please”

when the coffee arrives hot

and vital to waking up
are results of years of training

for the average American mind.

There is no room for “Buenos dias”

or “buongiorno” for us.  That door is closed

like a border during war time.

We’d rather go on and on and on

without a second thought

about nothing
in English.

It is as simple as A, B, C.

Even a baby rambling on to her mother

with joyful expectation of breakfast

and banging her spoon on the tray of her highchair

knows the power of “Mama” by the smile she evokes

and the power of “NO! No! no!”

The Last Day of March

The last day of March
drags her feet as slow as death
out like a lion.

Waking Up for Nothing

Time is a luxury we’ve all longed for,

our most precious gift

of assurance that we mean sometime,

have something to do to prove ourselves

worthy.

And now, with so much fever to worry about,

we blush to get ready for the camera

at our home office—

polish, powder, paint

applied with a feather touch,

with care to flirt with what was,

in order to get through another day.

We ache for the touch of reality

that gives us something to wake up for,

something face to face

that helps us know

we are alive.

How the Bird Catches the Worm

It happens every spring;

a sacred offering to the God of Winter 

who must surrender, 

eventually,

to Spring and the light

of a new moon.

The robins return with purpose.

Their red breasts blind with intuition.

They tilt their heads as if deep in thought,

waiting for the ground to tremble;

maybe even slightly quake,

brilliant divination beneath the skin of the earth

to find with that frisson of wisdom,

the worm,

slinking and submerged from the beak

and almost hidden

from the thrill of the hunt.