Tuesday, December 17, 2013

I will ride:a poem.

You bid our love be slow,

A thousand hopes come
Up to the gate

A beginning.
And then, too soon,
An end.

What's this? A mask.
A pretense.
A game.

The truth, my almost love: a lie.

For another love
to you
is true.

Lies of omission
Are still lies.

The gate locks.

But hear me
When I say:
Hope will return.

And I will ride. Watch
Me, or don't,

But I will ride.

Sunday, December 1, 2013

Wherein:a poem

Wherein I think you are the one:
You speak my language. Describe your life as I would my own. Your hopes, your dreams. Your longings. Your views, your values. The way you spend your days.

Wherein I realize I’ve been trying too hard:
Very hard. To be something. Amazing. Witty. Beautiful. The way someone who doesn’t know she’s beautiful is beautiful. The way someone who doesn’t have to try is beautiful. The way a child sleeping is beautiful. Or a mother giving birth. Or the moon.

Wherein I tell you what I wish I could say; what I wish you could hear; what I wish:
I have loved you forever. Since before forever. And I love you still and always and ever more. Never was there a question of if, never a question of when. Only still. And always and ever more. I do not know the lifetimes or the circumstances or the lessons we have conquered, and it doesn’t matter. There is an openness, a realness, a truth. A connection between us that reaches beyond the need.

Wherein you have a heart:
A broken heart. I say this because the desire that fills me is to bring you to life. Wholeness. Completion. Have you felt this before? And while this desire is compelling and urgent and everywhere, I wonder about it. What if: my desire is about my own need for wholenes? What if: my desire is to be fully alive? In my own heart. My very own whole heart.

Wherein I find myself in your bed:
Face in pillow, hands above my head pushed against the headboard. There is no making love, only easing pain. Your cruel father, your dead mother, your long lost daughter and every lover that left and took with her the ragged pieces of your ravaged heart. I am not them, but I am here. There is no kiss no sweet no tender. You take me not for bliss, but for erasure. Elimination. Forgetting, numbing, dissolving.    

Wherein I pay attention:
To the pattern, the story. I am noticing: I am angry.  And still, my whole heart loves you. And still, you are beautiful. I am beautiful. And still, this is living and this is real and this is a truth: this is waking up.

Wednesday, October 2, 2013

Sight: a poem.

I want to say something
Of the way darkness seeks

The light
And the light, darkness.

The pursuit is necessary,
Urgent, everywhere.

And more: a heart that can see
Cannot differentiate.

Merely, it opens.

For suffering, for softness.
For rage, for ravishment.

For the breathtaking
Beauty entwined in every pain.

This is nothing new;
My saying it is not profound.

But the truth of it bites me,
Hard and on purpose –

Asking, now that you see,
What will you do?

Wednesday, September 25, 2013


I’m thinking of that first 
night we stayed in your bed 
until two am
and you walked me to my 
car and I tripped going down the
front steps to the driveway,

the stairs uneven and my gait 
unsteady. You were two steps 
behind – a kind
figure following me down,
listening to me chatter on,
watching me stumble in the dark,
asking if I was ok.

I’m thinking of that now,
somehow chattering 
away at you still.
Do you think less of me
if I tell you: I imagine you
still close behind, a gentle
shadow in the 
unseeable landscape,

watching and listening
as I take another wobbly step
down - away from that night,
away from your bed
and your late night kindnesses,
and into my own 
unfamiliar and necessary deep?

Friday, September 20, 2013


You are every wounded bird
I have ever loved.

Your heart is your broken wing,
and I am tactile, so I must touch.

Your song is your broken heart,
and I can hear you, so I must sing.

Your flight is my destiny,
and we fall in, formed. It's inevitable. 

Thursday, September 19, 2013


I want
to take me

to a place

and wild

a place 

of horizon
and shoreline
and hope

I can see

how I



in the wide

of silence and 

of birds

and sky
and hearts

and free.

Tuesday, September 10, 2013


He cannot make
a place in his heart for you.

You taste the tart and
true weight of that,

roll it about in
your mouth,

under your tongue,
against your cheek.

The tangy juices make you

yet no wrenching claw of despair
grips your being,

no deep pit of agony
swallows you whole. Rather -

this luscious, bittersweet,
golden moment stretches across

a field of all your
moments; so full,

so ripe - you
grab it, and feast.

Friday, September 6, 2013


You look at the calendar.
You are surprised.
It is September 6. 

You haven’t been paying 
attention, you guess.  At
least not in the way that 
knows the day, has it seeped 
and steeped in your being, and 
in the way you go about things.

This happens, you surmise, 
when you spend day after
day in an office, staring at a
screen, moving in and out through
rushed and time-bound increments.

You forget to pay attention, to
breathe, to lift your eyes, open your
heart and feel the day.

And then those days, those months, 
those seasons just roll on through, and 
you have to think back: 

June was hopeful. July difficult. 
In August we ended. And now 
September is just beginning,
with empty calendar days and
hours approaching and asking
you to live, finally, 
just live.

Wednesday, September 4, 2013


I want 
to lie with you
in the underside.

the belly.

taken by
our appetites.

round and soft and billowy.

wind on the surface
the deepest hollows.

we will find

our true
true north.

Saturday, August 31, 2013


I am neither in nor out.
Meaning, there is no reference point.

And I will do things, 
like meet you
to fling paint and 
drink wine,
even though I know 
it’s more an invitation
to soothe our broken hearts and
seek solace in our 
mutual desire
for loving 
and being loved.

And yes, our comfort in
each other is 
hot and fleshy and fun
and leaves us spent for the moment,
but it’s not
in and it’s 
not out,
and there is no reference point.

You are shy and I am silent,
we are protecting
our still broken hearts,
but now we are 
even more naked,
even more exposed.

We talk about what we want:
you begin and I am grateful,
you are speaking
my heart as you open your own
our deep need 
for healing from within  
what is it to be so self-referred?
fulfilled? contained?
our deep desire 
for connection from without
will I ever belong?
to anyone? anything?

We toss about a way or two
to moil through the mire together,
but our hearts are
neither in nor out.
There is no reference point.
We cannot see the way.

And so I say:
like it or not, we are living
the in-between space,
not together and not separate,
grasping yes, but somehow still healing,
we’re threestepsforwardtwostepsback
a mirror,
a reflection,
a possibility,
a reminder.

And even without knowing
the depth and breadth
of the stories that
brought us into this
liminal space of heartache
and darkness,
the reference is our
orientation to the light,
whatever else we may
or may not be to
each other.

We are a witness
for the journey
of the threshold  
– the doorway –

and the courage of the heart
that beats and beats
no matter
how far in
or how far out
we may be.

Wednesday, August 21, 2013

Hungry Ghosts

Standing outside, waiting for the door to open. A glance, a meeting of the eyes, the surprise of acknowledgement, the undoing of my soul.

She is everything good.

How many times will I lose this beloved?

I am the loss of love a thousand times. A child asks, when will I die?

This is who I am:
Violent longing.
Constant companion.

Finding my way, finding my life, finding my life as my way.


Listen: our dignity and our chances are one. We were in love with change and the possibility enlightenment was real.


In the slow deep space of

the cusp
the fringe
the veil

the angel-kiss of eyelash
the tender stroke of kindness
the blessing of beginning


lifts me

into the more.

Friday, August 16, 2013


will forever make
me think of you, and

cool evenings
in the cover 
of tall trees, and

damp earth, 
tender hearts,
wood smoke and

sweet, small
flickers of hope
in the deep night green.

Tuesday, July 23, 2013

The Wound

I’m opening it up and crawling back in.
The wound, I mean.

I can tell, because I thought of you today, and
five minutes later I saw you
on the street,

and I’ve been seeing a therapist,
and this is what I need to do, I know,
and then

I saw you today.

And isn’t that an omen?

Seeing you again makes me wonder
(I did so love you)
about all our unkindnesses –
lies and secrets
and betrayals -
committed in the name of love. Was it love? And

what possessed us? What beast?

Two reasonable people by any other measure -
but there you were, with your need for
adoring masses of women,

and me, compelled to stay
and rail against
that truth,
and beg for understanding
(I have a wound, don’t you see?)

But what reason does the heart need,
when it comes to such things? When it comes to being seen?

So, I am opening it up. And crawling back in.


I thought about what I would miss about you most if we said goodbye. And immediately, I knew.
Our connection, I thought.
And the sex. Definitely.

In the car on the way home from your family reunion, I asked what you would miss about me most if we said goodbye.
Our communion, you said.
And the sex. Definitely.

What about you? you asked.

What was that? I responded.

(I heard you but was still gathering my thoughts. I had imagined you reciting a long list of my most uniquely me attributes – the way my nose moves when I talk, my penchant for speaking in unidentifiable accents, the way I overuse “you know what I mean?” as a filler between thoughts…)

But you didn’t. List those things. Or any others. You said exactly what I would. And it wasn’t enough, somehow, for some reason. Something was missing.

What about you? you asked again.
What would you miss most about me?

I answered, and added one more. I would just miss you.

But I think, the truth is this: we would just miss us.

And isn't that enough?

She tends toward darkness (a poem).

She tends toward darkness (swims in the deep).
The pull of the core, the inner workings,
the doorway to divinity. Diving,
descending, into black as night, lightless beauty.

She thinks about death (often).
Longs for it, really. Releasing, freeing, exhilarating
formlessness. Death in bright,
sweet, homecoming light.

She dreams of flying (not full flight – more just
bouncy steps that lift and
leave her suspended just long enough).
Respite in air, easy breezy, a gentle drifting back to earth
to bounce again. Lifting, lilting, lovely flight.

Her breath gets stuck in a painful
hollow between her chest and throat
(the place, she knows, of secrets,
and surrender).  Oh,
for a voice to move through
the mire – teller of the difficult truth, singer of the sweetest song –
she will be.

Monday, July 22, 2013

The space between sleep and wake: a poem.

The wind gust
swept in through the small
window above our heads,

and I was sure  it was a woman
you had invited into our bed
without my permission.

You stirred and stole the blanket.  
Finding another, I wrapped myself  
in a cocoon, glad for the warmth,

the dark and the quiet,  ready for the next visitor.

Saturday, May 4, 2013

That's what she does.

She will smile and show up, because
that’s what she does.
Heart heavy, or hollow, or hallowed,


She will smile and show up, because
that’s what she does,
making excuses and apologies.
Eyeing the empty place setting at the table,
fielding innocent inquiries,
accepting  sincere well wishes.
And well,

you know.

She’ll wander among the cheerful
guests, feeling more alone than
if she’d planned to arrive that way.
More alone than
if she’d stayed at home, alone.
Which is where she’d rather be.
Home. Alone.
In her bed, under her covers,

For the letting go of the hope
that this time,
she wouldn’t be alone.

But instead, she smiles. And shows up. Because that’s what she does.

Monday, April 1, 2013

Beginning is a heartache.

Beginning is a heartache.
Beginning is a seed, with tender
flesh and deep desire
for singular attention,
for rain and light
and cloud and wind.

Lean with me into this rubbing, 
this prodding,
this aching flesh of beginning,
not for polish or protection but for bursting open,
for ripening and rootedness and
becoming more and more.

Take me, touch me,
by sun and by moon,
by hand and by heart,
and we are permeable and
enmeshed and timeless
even as a thousand hungry ghosts
entwine with us as we begin.

Beat with me into a heart,
a wild kind of heart, a steadfast tree trunk
kind of heart, deeply rooted
in the story of us, branches
beating loudly with the blood of
bud and blossom and
delicious fruit of you and me,
feeding the hungry ghosts of
old loves and lovers and stories,
putting them to easy rest
deep beneath the fertile ground of
our brave heart song and
our bountiful harvests
and our effortless letting go at
season’s end of all that
no longer brings life.

Sing with me this song
of beginning and beating
and blossom and bravery,
and we will never end, and we
will ache forever in each other’s arms,
leaning always into the more,
into the deep, into the tree.

Tuesday, March 12, 2013

Everyday (Every day)

You tell me you are not afraid.

You tell me what you require of love - speak of
magic/passion/making love
every day.
And I am


Not for what I feel for you.  
I trust my deep desire for you, 
beyond words (I want more of you)
every day.

I trust my willingness to
open my magical and passionate
self to you (I will open for you)
every day. 

A ripple moves from belly to throat, beyond and back again.

Will you see me, when I open?
Will you know me, when I open? 
(I will open for you)

My magic is of the earth: steadfast and mostly silent
unless you listen closely.

My passion clamors with too many words
do you know what I mean?

My everyday is just that: commonplace, ordinary
it's all I have to give.

The ripple/the wave/ the tide
moves me forward into the fear, beyond and back again.

Because maybe, you will. 

Sunday, March 10, 2013


Everything feels
so hard and it’s
raining outside.
Sleep is hard; I blame
hormones. But red wine
lingers, telling another story.

In my mind
I see you as you
were - on the opposite edge
of the couch,
legs stretched across
my lap and a million
miles from me.

You take my hand,
say something sweet.

But distance makes translation
difficult-the tender heart that
flourished in
morning love made hours
before buttons possibility
in a dense cell coat.

I wonder, then, about magic.

And -
if there is enough,
between us and
the million miles stretched therein,
to sustain.

If wanting is all that is required, we
are home, my love.

We are home.
Morning bursts full
and alive; we can rest in her

Tell me, again, something sweet.

Tuesday, February 26, 2013


There are lines
that cross -

intersecting passions -

of ghost and
dream and

Like, when you call me “baby” -
and everything in me
responds -

as if I am the one,
the only,

But all the while
I am dancing 
among the 
many that came

We dance 
at the refiner’s

gifts of
leap and prance
among the flames -

sacred offerings
holding space
upon the altar
of our new-found love.

I wonder - 
what woman 
has shaped you, dreamed 
you, nurtured and 
fed you, even in 
spite of yourself?

I long to 
dance inside
her skin,
to know her 
belly and her 
breasts, the scent 
between her thighs,

the way she called out
when you were inside her –

as if this knowing
will seal our 
fate: yours and mine.

Back and forth,
we dance.

Around and
the fire that


Saturday, February 23, 2013


I see my hands
are broken

even as I
open them to you
even as I
offer them to you
even as I
pray they can
what this world
has given them

and make magic
and beauty
and life

with you.

Thursday, January 31, 2013


Her fragile heart speaks
the language of the smallest bird, snowflakes
and (sometimes) whispers.

There are no secrets; only shadows 

that nest in high trees and search
the clouds for
of gentle light: a hearkening

for songs of flight.

Tuesday, January 29, 2013


Rain in January
makes me want you.
As does
the glass of red wine in
my hand,
the half-read book on
my lap,
the memory of
my fingers
finding your lips and
needing to stay.

Sunday, January 20, 2013


She saw herself
as a witness - a presence
requisite to truth
located in the
center of the edge,  underneath
the surface in the discourse of
the everywhere.

If you could see as she did,
what might you testify?

The starling, fallen on
on a cold city sidewalk has
a story - not told
by wing -
not told by song.

The heart still beats
even if not in this world.
Can you hear it?

Saturday, January 19, 2013

There is: a poem

There is: a truth
A soft truth
A beautiful truth
Of trees
And sky
And gently falling snow
And early morning “I love you’s”
And endless possibilities

There is: a truth
A hard truth
Of loss
And anguish
And violence
And regret
And children
Taken too soon from this earth

There is: a truth
An incomprehensible truth
Of clenched fists
Pounding on aching hearts
And wide open arms
Embracing the whole
Reconciling the truth: there is.