Tag Archives: poetry

Surrender

9 Sep

 

I awoke from a dream.
“Surrender Dorothy”,
in curling black
across the rainbowless sky.
Reminded.
So noted, you faiththiever.
You witch whose whispers
of someday being never
are encased like relics in coffinblack satin, and charnal green.
Time slips,
each second slides toward the hourglass maw.
Oh beloved, a pair of red shoes.
Oh beloved, a home.
Oh beloved, lost.
Aunt Emma’s face in the mirror
lined by seventy six years
of solitary trod.
You will not win.
You will not scour
my last few hours of their light.
Red feet do not yield.
Cornfields do not cry.
Courage, is when a dustdry
heart in bluebird rage replies,
NEVER.

Archipelago

30 Jun

 

I made a wish this morning.
The same wish I make every day.
Are there places where they wash up
like sparkling shells on shores,
each one a tiny invitation
stacking like stars?
One day, I imagine
they’ll grow larger than the ground
where they land,
begin to crumble in piles and grains
watered by salt and shaping wave
into a bridge.
One morning I’ll carry the last wish across
like a gift
So bright, so clear.
So ready,
for unwrapping.

Significance

21 May

 

Most mornings,
I wake to the farpresence
of Time, like a lumbering forty-five years
carpet slippered darling,
scruffled and cross,
rummaging coffee and eggs
in a just waking winter kitchen.
I feel not so much the padded hollow
where His body lay
for my unconscious hours,
but only precious vivid seconds which remain
while His heat
evaporates across creases
in the linen sheet.
Layer by layer our souls grow
toward each other till touch,
Lover Time and I.
Like trees, ringed.
We are already one,
but soon,
infinite

Unwrapping Gratitude

18 May

 

 

 

Rain on the roof.
Sunday morning
always feels like unwrapping
gratitude
for the thought behind a gift.
Can one fall in love with
simply folding back paper,
uncurling ribbon,
lifting the lid?
What part of the heart
becomes coldquiet
and breathbone still
at loving the giving,
and the Giver
when the box only holds
more space?

 

On April 15, 2018 at 7:15 p.m., my neighborhood was hit by a F3 tornado.

I hid in the basement with my dog Clarence on the phone with my mother who prayed for us. It was the scariest two minutes of my life. The weeks after have been the most lonely of this journey. Having to learn how to deal with insurance and contractors and clean up while still working two jobs, has been emotionally hard. Many people helped me, though, in the first difficult week. 

I lost my roof and a lot of the exterior was damaged. Water came in and damaged plaster. The trees featured with the last few poems are now gone. I lost all the large old trees in my yard, including the holly which was the subject of one of my first poems featured here. I drug tree parts 12 hours a day, for five days, till the remainder was too big to move.. 

This house was built in 1924 and for the length of this blog I can say that I have been trying to avoid it.  It seems ironically funny that I felt like Dorothy at the beginning of this journey and now to be delivered firmly and resolutely home by a tornado is too much synchrony to ignore. 

What this means is that this first difficult journey is now truly over.

I’m healed. I’ve expanded and explored. I have become much much more than I ever was before.

I write . . . almost as much as I breathe. Art and Dance continue to unfold.  And yoga has made its way into trauma sensitive teaching. I hold deep gratefulness now for this time even though it was not my choice. 

In almost every way, my life is infinitely better than it was before. I’ve shed people, possessions, and parts of myself that no longer serve and filled it with what brings well being.

But there is one open spot. And perhaps rebuilding and remodeling this house once again, erasing much of what was before, will deliver me to a new point in the meadow. It’s been six and a half years. I blinked and it passed. Now that the wind has carried the scaffolding of the journey away, I am here standing at the threshold of home. 

I trust that I am being given what I need when I need it. That the lessons I am learning about my own house might bring what will fill that open spot. I am grateful for it all.

One day, I know I will be grateful for so much space.

Snowed

30 Mar

 

Phone, still.
Coffee.
Toast.
A perfect 7 minute egg.
Movie.
Read.
Nap.
Wander staircase to windows.
Birds eating seed.
Nest under the eaves.
Short long day.
Grey sun done.
Wine, red.
Candle, bath and blanket.
Phone, still.

You, in my thoughtarms
making moonbroken circles across
the wide white night.

January 17, 2018

 

Open Ocean

20 Mar

When I woke up, it smelled like someone was making breakfast.
Some things, I’ll never understand.

I’m not going to cry.

I’ll get up.
Dress comfortably well.
Go have tea and oats.
Organize my life for tomorrow.
Sit, dream and watch people.

If there was a dart to throw at one point of the world
where the flower of dreams blooms,
I could attach a strand of red wool
and chain stitch toward the plotpoint of
where I’ll find you.

But for now it’s tea and oats
and forgetfulness in focus,
shuffling tiny stacks of details
like sand bars to navigate before
open ocean.

And I’ll leave this treasure map
unfixed or finished.
Because finding one’s way
is never smooth nor even
especially when light becomes
more precious than the prize.

January 15, 2018

Not Yet

13 Mar

 

On morning winterwakings
sometimes I speak
into the cold quiet
to break the breath of the comatose air,
a Lazarene call
under quilted cloth and doubt.
“Don’t think to Spring,” I whisper,
“to sparrows in the redtree,
to when earth opens for Love and tears.
Right now is not leaving you.
Each Janus breath flows shallowblue
over his cold shoulders
and your warm feet.
Lie like a cold seed,
a promise,
covered in a coat
of bitterblack.
Let the numbed edge of wasted word and expectation
bruise, blacken and fall
from your collar and cuff.
Look up.
Cheer the last leaf on the limb
still waving welcome at dawn.
If she can greet the heatless sun drybrown in breathless praise,
you can, one green morning
unfurl a slim arm
newborn,
and catch her
final fall.

January 10, 2018

 

Mistress Mana

9 Mar

 

Mistress Mana
waves her sovereign hand,
delivers a crisp scripted
edict of feathered stars
over slope and broken rock.
Her white whisperlaw is read
at every window.
“Today ye shall
sleep,
make love,
tell story,
wrap your body in blanket, sock,
and pillow.
Eat and drink
by the pyre
of felled oakprinces.
Unlock the heartchest
and play games of chance
with memory.
And when the darkness falls,
ye shall breathe out
onto the blackblue
mirror of night
warmwhite exhaltations
For I am.
I abide.
Even in the silent pause,
between each degree of earth’s turning .”

December 9, 2017

Pithmaking

12 Dec

 

I do not measure
my heart in sunrise
and sunset,
though the glory
of colorcoming
and lightleaving plays it’s part
in the drama of days.
But in leaf and limb,
inhaling and exhaling.
In spans of inevitable green
and glorious gold
before fallingdoubt and near deathsleeping.
I learned to love
from oaks
who know this secret,
a faith coded into their ringbones
repeating return.
They keep the soft velvet
beneath,
the touchbend and retreat
from sky, a clockcase
full of
freedom and foreboding.
Yet adore the sun,
like a fickle lover
here one day, gone the next,
needing and abiding equally.
Damned delicious sun!
Longing is to sigh again, green.
What can they do
but live,
dressed in lush love
or bear quiet cold
in naked dignity.
till his return?

Hourglass

29 Nov

 

 
Bed,
blanket and bundle.
At my back
a ball of breathing
black pillowdog,
a warm cocoon against
the cold coming day.
They say
be happy right now.
Not to wait
or time will run out.
So I am happy for this half
of the bed
that holds me.
And  dream chill stillness
slows the seconds
for the other.
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