Sacred: A Poem

It is the

holy of holies,

not to be

entered, never

uttered.

And yet it

lies in

wait, perched

at the tip

of my tongue,

teasing me

with its 

flutter.

If listening 

comes

soft and light,

you will know 

it by the 

heartbeat

underneath.

And when you 

are ready 

it will

become 

your own.

And then 

we will

hum 

in the night

while we 

sleep,

and dream 

of wings 

that lift 

us as we 

rush against 

the wind

of our deepest

longing,

aloft in the 

heart

of our 

very own

deep blue sky.

Arching toward bliss

The truth: I have written hundreds
of poems that start with The truth:
I seek: and occasionally find.


You can find me in the in-between.
Ages. Jobs. Men. Thoughts. Time.
When I was told I was not strong enough,


I believed and
it was true.
When I was told I was too strong,


I believed and
it was true.
You tell me I am strong.


I believe it is: the Truth. I listen:
and occasionally transcend.
Sometimes we need the experts


To point us in the right direction.
To that which is: under our skin.
Light. Space. Heat. Thought. Bliss.


Be that bliss, that arching,
creating worlds and
I will believe: that truth.

What is buried brings you life.

She makes her way with sticks. Dirt is

never dirty, and bushes, bark and berries

hold universes of possibility. She digs.

What is buried brings you life.

She knows in the bones of
her being that the backyard swing
will bring her the sky, that she will
touch forever and always be free.

The effort is luxury, legs pumping
hard back and forth and longer
and lighter and every now and then a lift
off the hard plastic seat.

Trees in the yard are her familiar;

a constant conversation

of every spoken nothing/

never spoken everything

pulsing in the thrum of the hum

of wind and leaf and roots that

reach for truth deeper than eternity:

what is buried brings you life.

Stretched out on earth that scratches

bare skin, she breathes sun from the soil on

this small patch of grass she claims as her

throne. As above/so below.

There, in the deep of the deep and

the sky of the sky she swings. She sings.

She waits. Skinned knees/crooked

smile/wild hair. No apologies.

What is buried brings you life.

Searching for Signs: A Poem

There was a moment

we thought Winter

might stay,

 

Ice and Cold and Gray.

I was making ready

to welcome it -

 

And learn the ways

of Eskimos

and Polar Bears.

 

Warming with fire,

not sun.

Fishing in frozen

 

streams. Making friends

with this new destiny.

But you kept on

 

searching for Signs:

the Red-winged

Black Bird,

 

The crocus, the sap.

And the yellow and blue

Of the sun and the sky.

Winter Poem: For Bob

In early morning winter sun

I slide to you on sheets of ice

Brown black golden blue

Everywhere white

 

Here you open the door

Open wide the field of longing

How good to draw close

Into the gray green scent of promise

 

Comfort comes in daylight

And eyes wide open

We wrap into a curve

Of breath and body/memory

 

Under heavy woolen blankets

Feet in socks up to our knees

Giving this (our own) occasion 

A soft place to matter

You can have me

I am not tough but I am strong.

I am so easily peeled.

You can have me

For a snack.

 

For a nickel.

I melt and I mush

And there is my beauty.
 

You can have me.

Free

you are a bird
and birds 
do not stay

still
I bid you stay
for a moment

and you were
wild but stay
you did

and when
the beauty of
the sky called

you saw
you were meant
to fly

so I stretched out
long out on
the new ground

beneath you
to watch you soar
blessed and free

Loss: A poem

I wore your sweater

nearly every day for 3 years.

Believing your essence

was somehow

knit into the collar, the sleeves, the

oversized warmth of the

blue yarn.

That sweater saved me.

But death is death,

and you left,

and that is true,

that is real.

So many years ago.

You, my first true love,

my possibility, the one

with the power to christen or damn

me, could not stay.

 

You have so long

been gone,

and still there is

an unmovable motion,

an inconsolable, eradicable

loss.

 

If I could tell you one last thing:

I want to shed the garment.

Pin the grief to the collar, set

it free on the sleeve,  

untangle the weave

and bask naked in the

sun, or the cold if

I must, but yes.

 

I want to

let you go.