Saturday, November 15, 2014

Sacred: A Poem

It is the
holy of holies,
not to be
entered, never

And yet it
lies in
wait, perched
at the tip
of my tongue,
teasing me
with its 

If listening 
soft and light,
you will know 
it by the 

And when you 
are ready 
it will
your own.

And then 
we will
in the night
while we 

and dream 
of wings 
that lift 
us as we 
rush against 
the wind
of our deepest

aloft in the 
of our 
very own

deep blue sky.

Sunday, May 18, 2014

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.

Tuesday, April 22, 2014

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.

Wednesday, April 2, 2014

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.

Monday, February 24, 2014

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

Wednesday, February 12, 2014

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.

Monday, January 20, 2014


you are a bird
and birds 
do not stay

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

Wednesday, January 1, 2014

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
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.