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Archive for July, 2011

Traditionally, clouds are symbolic of things indeterminate. Composed of air and water, their essential nature can be attributed to neither element but arises in an obscuring of the two, a betwixt-and-between phenomenon, not unlike human beings, those nebulous creatures who themselves seem caught between realms, floating along between the shimmering horizons of birth and death, here and there, earth and heaven. -John P. O’Grady, "Clouding"

I am a sky filled
with hundreds of cliff swallows
spiraling, plummeting,

equal parts fall and wing, and
I am the emptiness after.

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It Can Be So Easy

In the garden
it is easy to quiet
the mind and think

of nothing except
garden weeds, how grass
comes up between

tomatoes and carrots,
how bindweed winds
itself into the fence.

Not that I am really
thinking about weeds,
more about pulling them,

hoping for roots. Not
that I am actually
thinking much about

pulling them, actually,
the pulling just happens
and I happen to be there,

a woman attached
to the hands that pull,
and whatever in me

that is sad or heavy,
I don’t know where
it goes, but it leaves

me and all that is left
is a woman attached
to two hands that seem

content for hours
to pull weeds.

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And I Accepted

The most beautiful
wild rose I saw today was
every wild rose I saw

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Grand Scheme

We are twelve billion light years from the edge. That’s a guess.
—Katie Melua, “Nine Million Bicycles”

It took perhaps
one hundred fifty million years
of cell division
and genomic transition
to lead up to the moment
this morning in which
the heron, standing
so still in the river
was startled by my step
and extended his wings
to raise his great body
over the water
opening, as he lifted,
my heart.
Is this a long time,
or short?

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What is Boundless

Perhaps faith is nothing more than taking the risk to rest below the surface.
Mark Nepo, The Book of Awakening

They are blushing now,
the peaches, green
and blushing. No one

would think of eating
them yet, not even
the birds have begun

to peck at the flesh.
But here they are,
swelling, ripening

globes of potential.
If only we could relax
as the world shapes us,

could trust in the slowness,
the long goldening.
It is morning. It is

evening. It is now
and here we are,
our changes still changing.

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No End


And your very flesh shall be a great poem.
—Walt Whitman, from the preface to “Leaves of Grass”

A thousand worlds
left to see

let’s write
a story,

a surprise
on each page,

build the suspense
and then

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Standing in the thick green
of bindweed and cheesewheel
it is easy to dream of a time

when the garden is perfectly
hoed and the peppers hang
red on the stems, the green beans

dangle like long slender earrings
and the ears of corn swell with gold.
Silly dreamer, says Rumi, who

comes in to sit beside the peas.
You are waiting for a miracle
when it is already happening.

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Singing.
Humming.
Tippy tapping
Sighing.
Oh my-ing.
Chitty chatting.

Blah blah blah-ing.
Ooh la la-ing.
Swooning.
Crooning.
Toodle-ooh-ing.

Snitty snitching.
diphthong hitching.
Moooooaaaaaaaning.
Harumphing.
Muttering something.

In vocal bliss
I somehow miss
the cloth to which
all sounds are stitched
and practice
oral violence.

Broken now,
I lean toward

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Let’s open all the locked doors upon our eyes
that keep us from knowing the Intelligence
that begets love
—Hafiz, “Why Ask the Donkey

Though I have tried
to dismantle them,
there are still doors
on my eyes. Hinges
rusty, paint chipped,
old wood exposed,
but darned if they
don’t work at closing.
Please, if you know
where to find
a few termites,
let’s invite them
to my place for lunch.

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Wash Park

Surrender against God’s luminous breath.
—Hafiz , “I Wish”

In great swathes
the rain came down
and drenched us
in sky. It was not
a matter of how
to stay dry, rather
how to find joy
in the dousing.
The clouds hung
darksome and low,
but through gaps
a milky light spilled
and how could we
not notice then
how all the world
was shine, shine, shine.

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