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Archive for September, 2012

Why just ask the donkey in me
to speak to the donkey in you
when I have so many other beautiful animals
and brilliant colored birds inside
all longing to say something
exciting and wonderful to your heart?
—Hafiz, “Why Just Ask the Donkey”

Dear, though I have come to you
as many other beautiful animals—
long-necked swan and Persian cat—

though I have worn for you
my most vermillion feathers and
sung to you with the voice of the bird

that always disappears before it can be named,
though I have come to you as lamb, as heron,
please, do not refuse my donkey.

Clumsy and stubborn, all tug and bray,
gray and dull and smelling of dung,
of course you would want to turn away.

But please, if you can, meet me this way,
when I am awkward and stepping
on my own feet, yours, too. Meet me

when I am unlovable and love me then.
Though I stink. Though I am not graceful
nor lovely nor easy nor strong. But here

I am, nuzzling your hand as it opens, aspiring to
be nowhere but here. Dear, we are nothing
but flesh for life to push through. I am done

hiding inside the bright wings, or even,
for that matter, beneath the dun hide.
Only a heart touches another heart.

Here is mine.

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Love Becomes Her

When we use our attention to touch and open the deeper truth in a person, we not only catalyze the experience of love, we become love. The source of love is revealed to be within us; we no longer have to go looking for it somewhere outside.
—Nicole Daedone, “Love Becomes Her,” Tricycle Magazine

It is not too late for love.
Tonight the moon rose,

as it always does, but it
was not the same. It rose

as if close enough to touch,
right there, but I could not touch it.

I gave it my whole attention, then,
listened only to the sound

of it turning while we, too,
were turning, though the sage,

the rocks, the dry arroyo
did not attest to our turning.

The desert had other sounds, too,
but I had, for that moment,

ears only for the moon,
and felt, how strange, my own rising,

felt it so fully I nearly cheered
as the whole vacant shine of it

crested the mesa, cheered though
it was further away then,

or so it seemed, further away, or so,
I see, it only seemed.

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Underachiever Tanka

not that I don’t
admire the universe,
but today it’s enough
to marvel at just this one
leaf

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Haiku to Prometheus

I too, stole fire.
I, too, waited daily
for the eagle.

*

Just one piece of sun.
That’s all I wanted. After all
everything is broken.

*

It did not look
like a gift, the devouring
from the inside out.

*

Only clay after all.
But we’re more than that.
Ask my liver.

*

It never once
looked over its shoulder.
Brown wings blocked the sun.

*

I’d almost say
I came to like it. Could you
understand?

*

Isn’t it funny
I can’t remember now
the color of the eyes.

*

Tonight so full
the moon. It can be so lovely,
emptiness.

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Falling

It is good
to ache with love.
Tonight
the empty
cottonwood arms
let the moon
escape.
Earlier
they threw
all their leaves
and made a path
of gold.
I walk it
in the dark.
It is all
so beautiful,
so empty,
cold. I take
the long
way home.

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Three Surprises

aslant
the freezing rain
turns sleet—
on the trail
laughter our boat

*

speaking
all my secrets
to the pebbles—
the gray spider
eavesdrops

*

once pulled
from the stem the petal
will never again stick—
in my hand
bare sunlight

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still life with hay bales
giant rounds, fresh cut field
my car goes sixty

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How the Days Go

Looking in the rubble
one might wonder
what is left to break.
Such a dangerous thought.
There is always more.
And one part of me
says to the other,
Hush, don’t ask.
Don’t look. Things
are settling now.
Let’s talk about
something else.
And the other part
smiles, says
nothing, already
feeling the distant
tremor.

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Poet, you do not need to smile.
No need to lean toward me
as if whispering the secret that will save me.
You do not need to know anything
for certain. Please.
Here we are in silence.
Your eyes, they are so naked.
Let’s not speak. Not even
these beautiful words we’ve been given.

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Prodigal

After all this time
you still pour
pure water
into my chipped cup.
You know
I will spill and still
you pour,
and you pour.
You know, too,
how even
despite great thirst
I will sometimes
refuse to drink,
how even when
the water doesn’t
reach my lips
they are still
blessed
with your giving.

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Two Searchings

flowers gone
the hummingbird tries to find
nectar in my scarf

*

wounds in unkissable
places—still these eager
lips

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Oh world, I love you,
you with your roots
that thrust up through pavement,
you with your mudflows
and rockfalls and storms.
See how daily you feed
and destroy me. How
gorgeous your fruits,
how merciless your gravity.
I love you, world, how
you make me and fuel me
and undo me again and again. Always
another death to die
and always a new bloom.
Never the same, always
the same. World, it feels
too proud to say I am you,
you with your splendor,
you with your grace.
I am dust and ashes.
You move me, adventure me.
World, thy will be done.
My problems are not problems.
My laws all are nonsense.
My rules, my dreams are cages.
Sometimes I forget to let you
raze me. I try to wrestle
the club from your hands.
And when the destruction
is done, I try to rebuild the walls,
not seeing you were offering me
infinity. Sometimes you first bring me milk,
then tear me down tenderly,
your hands the hands of a lover
undressing me slowly, but not
stopping with the scarf, the skirt—
taking also every idea I have,
every certainty, every word,
everything I would say is mine.
World I am rambling through
the silence you hold for me.
I am like a woman dying of thirst
who splashes the water with eager hands
instead of cupping it, raising it to her parched lips.
Oh world, I am losing my mind
and laughing about it. All language
is dust, and look, you blow it away.
Still I am talking to you, crazy,
I love you, I love you. Come wind,
catch these words, rend them
from the one who thinks
she is speaking. Let them fall
all around her like leaves.

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All objects in existence are wildly in love.
—Meister Eckhart

Always, they claw at the world.
They can’t help it. They were given
two pincers and hard, hard shells.

They ripen into harder shells,
their clasp become more powerful.
They hurt more the larger they are.

This does not look to me like love.
I think of Eckhart’s saying as I stand beside the pond.
But my boy, he holds them in his open palm,

lets them pinch his thumb, his eyes
widen in pain, and he gently extracts them,
throws them back. And does it again.

This, now this looks like love, I think,
watching the water for the skitter,
the settling, the mirror of the pond as it stills.

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check out this website devoted to found poems … today they published a poem of mine overheard on the chairlift last year …

http://www.airpoetry.com

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Just this morning
the leaves were green

in this stand of aspen
that now flash gold—

it happens that fast,
though of course

there is nothing
quick about it.

It took a whole season
to grow the leaf

and nurture it into
brilliance. And

it took decades
to grow the tree that grew

the leaf. And what
of evolution? Oh patience.

Perhaps this is why
on the woman who’s finally learning

how to sit still beside the leaves
there’s a bit of salt water

sliding down her skin.

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The Fall

All your wounds, I want
to kiss them, all the places
chafed, strafed, shattered,

clawed at or raw. Anywhere
you’ve bled, I will mingle my blood
with yours. Wherever you are sore,

let me knead you. Wherever you ache,
I offer balm. Let me cradle you,
hold you, hum to you, know you.

I cannot heal you, can’t whole you,
can’t help. But I can love you
in your brokenness. Now is the time

for love. No one can love without
breaking, dear. Come. The flowers
are fading. We’re all we have.

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you and I
in a field of white daisies
not one of them alike
but you and I
are

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Spiraling Tanka

here, darling, here
is my so open hand, waiting
for you to write
a thousand secrets, your tears,
your scent, your hum the ink

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It’s like trying
to fall asleep.
Nothing to be done
except lay there
and let sleep
come do the work.
But who wants
to hear that?
We want to know
what to do.
One tiny pill.
Ten easy steps.
Three simple tips.
But nothing to do?
Immediately
the mind says,
okay, I will
not try even harder.
This is when,
I would guess,
the soul is laughing
its best belly laugh, watching
the mind grasping
at how not to grasp.
But there is grace.
And there is exhaustion.
Both work in our favor.
Sometimes it happens,
I wear myself out,
and too tired to pull out
any more tricks,
I notice that I
have forgotten
to remember to
struggle, and how
easy it is then
to see god in everything,
even the anger,
even the clench,
forgetting even
to despise frustration,
forgetting even
not to try.

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Release

Something softens when we enter the flow.
—Joi Sharp

Not that I didn’t try to find the shore.
I scraped at the stones, grasping as I passed,
clawing until my fingers bled. Not that I didn’t try
to stall in the eddy where I spiraled down,
down. I tried. I tried. What if, instead, I had
fallen in love with the angry swirl, fallen in
love with the waves’ white froth, fallen in love
with the chill, the roil. It did not last, the chaos. It delivered
me to the warm quiet water that also did not last.
At one point, though, it happened, through no effort
of my own, the small unvoice in me began to whisper,
world I love you, world I love you, world I love
you I said to the rocks, to the shore, to the heron
standing in the center of the stream as I passed.

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