I will ride:a poem.

You bid our love be slow,
Measured.

A thousand hopes come
Galloping
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.

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.

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?

Stepping

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?

Pattern

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. 

Passage

I want

you

to take me

to a place

remote

woody

and wild

a place 

of horizon

and shoreline

and hope

I can see

how I

might

open

there 

with-you

in-you

for-you

in the wide

space

of silence and 

hum

of birds

and sky

and hearts

unfolded

and free.

Feast

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
salivate,

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.

Seasons

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.

Compass

I want 

to lie with you

in the underside.

the belly.

taken by
our appetites.

round and soft and billowy.

wind on the surface

permeates
the deepest hollows.

we will find

our true

true north.

Liminality

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.

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?
Father.
Sister.
Lover.

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

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

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

Spills
Pulls
Pours
Fills
Washes

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

Awakening

In the slow deep space of

awakening

the cusp

the fringe

the veil

the angel-kiss of eyelash

the tender stroke of kindness

the blessing of beginning

again

lifts me

gently

into the more.

Fireflies

Fireflies
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.

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.

Us

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.

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.

That's what she does.

She will smile and show up, because

that’s what she does.

Heart heavy, or hollow, or hallowed,

whatever.

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,

weeping.

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.

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.

Everyday (Every day)

You tell me you are not afraid.

You tell me what you require of love - speak of

magic/passion/making love

everyday

every day.

And I am

afraid.

Not for what I feel for you.  

I trust my deep desire for you, 

beyond words (I want more of you)

everyday

every day.

I trust my willingness to

open my magical and passionate

self to you (I will open for you)

everyday

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. 

Magic

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

arms.

Tell me, again, something sweet.

Fire

There are lines

that cross -

intersecting passions -

meetings

of ghost and

dream and

longing.

Like, when you call me “baby” -

and everything in me

responds -

as if I am the one,

the only,

ever.

But all the while

I am dancing 

among the 

many that came

before.

We dance 

together

at the refiner’s

fire; 

gifts of

past-love/old-love/lost-love

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

around

the fire that

transforms

burns,

heals,

destroys.

Clay

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
shape
what this world
has given them

and make magic
and beauty
and life

with you.

Listen

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
openings
of gentle light: a hearkening

for songs of flight.

Stay

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.

Witness

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?

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.