poet

she watched the words fall out of her head/and land on his chest as he lay in his bed/ she hoped they'd melt and slide off his skin/ she prayed they wouldn't make their way in/ to his heart.

To Rumi: I am tired of love poems.

Rumi,
I picked up
a book
of your love poems
this morning

I am tired of love poems

of wistful wishes
and languid longings
of fire
and flames
and passions
that burn

this world
that surrounds me
has made of love
a practical thing

to be contained
and understood
through methods
and formulas
and surveys
and psychology

Rumi,
I am tired of the fight
my half protected heart
endures
reaching out to those
in full heart armor

There is no field of ecstasy today, Rumi.

I am tired of love poems.

crack me open

crack me open

take from me
each ray of light that shines its way through

each succulent yes,
divine more, please

this shining bursting breaking
is nothing if it stays in me, merely
nothing if you cannot taste it, touch it, see and know.

When the seeds arrive in the mail,

I will drive to your house

and leave them on the bench

next to your front door.

I will leave them to you,

to your care,

for without you,

I have no place to plant them.

The peas, well, they were just for me.

I wonder - will you still plant them?

But the beets were just for you,

so I hope you find a good sunny spot,

and set them in the ground.

There are many things I will miss you about you.

But I think, more than anything,

I will miss the things we planned but never got the chance to do.

Like planting peas and beets, and watching them grow.

Offering

Alms to the green of the shoot

So new, so bright, so tenacious

Twining through

Ancient crusty earth

So compelled by surface

So desiring of depths

Sinuating, undulating, into me coming

Loosening holds of maddening habit

Ah, surrender now

Floating, falling, blessing each passing.

A Statement of Purpose

Who are you?

Human. Flesh and blood and bone. Heart and soul and mind. Running, leaping, laboring, dancing, resting, beating, bleeding, thinking, praying, dreaming, becoming.

Who are you?

Woman. Lover of men and women and children and all of creation. Giving, taking, birthing, dying, holding, pushing, receiving, losing, loving, leaving, coming.

Who are you?

Sight. Lens and nerve and impulse and shadow and light. Vision and perception and eyes that see and see and see. Eyes that will no longer avert their gaze from racism, sexism, hatred, indifference, inequity, despair, pain, violence, poverty, abuse, injustice.

Who are you?

Voice. Throat and larynx and vibration and buzz. Resonance and dissonance and pulsing waves of sound. Sound that will dare to name what is seen. Words that will work to bring light into darkness. Voice that will risk judgment to become part of the solution.

Who are you?

Human. Woman. Sight. Voice.

This I am. This I have. This I must give to all that I love. With this I must make purpose. With pieces and fragments, songs and stories, hope and risk, I must become the path I seek.

Poem

Eating Raisin Bran straight from the box: drinking Super Dieter's Tea: reading poem after poem on the Internet: I find 32 clues to the life I’d like with you: and write this list of hope and risk:

1. Garden gates
   
2. Raking leaves
   
3. My clothes in your closet
   
4. Long nights
   
5. Fights
   
6. Eggs in the morning
   
7. Forgiveness
   
8. Oral sex
   
9. Bathtubs
   
10. Watermelon
    
11. Laundry stains
    
12. Pounding of a heartbeat in my ear – is it yours or mine?
    
13. Old furniture
14. Dirty knees
    
15. A little help unzipping
16. Horizons
    
17. Flaps of wing
    
18. Apples and peaches
    
19. Curling up like commas
    
20. Shadows
    
21. Compost piles
    
22. Sunlight
    
23. Supper on the stove
    
24. Mending
    
25. Beautiful music
    
26. Trees in the yard
    
27. The smell of shirts and sheets and skin
    
28. Fingertips
    
29. The passage of time
    
30. Chickens
    
31. Sipping wine
    
32. Saving grace