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Archive for September, 2015

Vulnerability

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , on September 20, 2015| 2 Comments »

She sports it

like a skimpy t-shirt,

but underneath

she wears a vest,

bullet proof.

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Year of the Mouse

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , , , on September 19, 2015| 1 Comment »

Almost half of the carrots

were nibbled before we pulled

them from the ground.

Oh the mice this year

have been happy mice

with plenty to eat in my garden.

I remember the Yinnuwok legend

about how the mice were once

blunt nosed and ugly,

but because Mouse so beautifully

mended the clothes of the maker of magic

he rewarded Mouse

with a sharp pointy nose

made for sniffing out food and

a soft silky coat so that Mouse

could more easily slip

into tiny holes

when his enemies come.

Today I am the enemy.

Even so, I marvel how quick

the mice are to find our stash

beneath the spigot for rinsing,

how sprightly they escape into invisible holes

in the ground when I chase them away.

I would not be able to bless them,

not today when frustration

is more weight than word.

Still, after processing, when my son suggests

that we take the waste ends of the carrots

out to the field as a gift to the mice,

I say yes. It is not out of love

for the mice, but love for my boy

and his big and growing heart.

They say no good deed goes

unpunished. They say that the magic maker

stroked Mouse’s hair with his fingers

and that was what made it shine.

They say do unto others as you …

I stroke my son’s hair,

still boyishly gold, before he walks

out the door with his small offering

and throws the ends into the field.

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Dear Reader,

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , , on September 18, 2015| 15 Comments »

Thank you for joining me

in this practice. It’s not easy

to write a poem every day.

In fact, it is not easy to write a poem at all.

As one of my heroes, A.R. Ammons once said,

why would anyone sit alone in a room

picking away at their own liver?

It’s not always easy to read poems, either.

But you do. Thank you.

Part of me would like to tell you

that I write every day because I can’t help it,

because I am driven to do it.

That sounds romantic and chosen.

The reality is much more practical.

It would be so easy to stop writing.

The reason I write every day

is so that I keep writing.

And the reason to write at all

is that it invites me to unlearn

whatever I think I know, to be curious

and look for connections

and remember to be more present.

And, though it sounds dramatic,

poetry has saved my life.

When I sit down to write a poem,

I make myself four promises.

One: I will write. Two:

I will write something true

(that does not mean factual).

Three: I will not know the ending

before I begin. Four:

I will send it to you.

Why do I send it to you?

Accountability. And because

at some point you invited me to.

And because when I share a poem with you,

I feel as if we enter together

into this big conversation

that has been going on between poets

and readers across continents and centuries

and cultures and languages, an ongoing

conversation about what it means to be alive.

Though we may not know each other,

I trust that we, like all humans,

are more alike than different,

and I believe that you, like me,

both long for and rail against connection.

As if we had a choice. As if we aren’t

already deeply connected

in ways that poetry suggests and physics

proves.

Though I write every day, I would never

consider what I’m doing an exercise,

though perhaps it’s making me stronger.

It’s a practice that I know I will never get right.

I am always too much in the way,

but that doesn’t stop me from trying again

the next day.

If I lived alone on an island with no computer,

no paper, no pen, I’d like to think I would still

be composing poems, perhaps in sand, perhaps

just in my head. I love the art of it, the way words

can sing when strung together just so.

But it wouldn’t be as much fun as sharing them,

which is why I am writing to thank you.

Sincerely,

r

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Beneath the Dillon Pinnacles

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , , on September 18, 2015| 1 Comment »

in the sage meadow

I am less myself

and more sage meadow

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Taking My Broken Heart to the Shoe Repair

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , on September 16, 2015| 2 Comments »

Exactly what do you want me to do

with this, the shoe man says. I work with soles.

Well yes, I say, but I could really use

a recondition—and I read about

your gentle cleaning process that helps strip

away the dirt accumulated over

time, and how your Top-Coat Prime Refinish

makes what’s old look new and feel good

again. Oh lady, says the cobbler, I

am sorry. Look, your shoes are scuffed a little,

I can shine them up, but I can’t do

a thing about your heart. He looks me in

the eye the way that only other broken

hearts can look. I do not start to cry,

but I think he can gather by the way

that I stare blankly at the floor just how

plum desperate I’ve become. Some things, he says,

work better when they’re broken. Then he’s off

to use his polish, glue and rags, to fix

the things that can be fixed.

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How I Stay Tethered

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , on September 15, 2015| 2 Comments »

I return to the story about the monk

who put everything he owned into a boat

and rowed it into the middle of the lake

and then sank it. He did not give the stuff away,

not wanting to burden anyone else

with things. I would like to take

a red canoe to the center of a lake

and sink it with these thoughts—

why should anyone else need to worry

the ways I have worried on behalf

of the world? My only fear is that

they would displace so much water

the lake would flood and who knows

how many might be hurt then. No, I think,

better to take them for a walk.

Oh those thoughts, like unruly puppies,

biting at my ankles and running off—

and isn’t it like me to call them back

or run after them, afraid they’ll get lost.

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Though I Was Offered a Map

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , on September 14, 2015| 1 Comment »

Right here the treasure.

Shine of rain

on the red fire hydrant.

It will not buy anything,

but in this very moment

there is nothing to buy

and no one from whom to buy it,

only a fragrant, rainy afternoon

with the gutters full to spilling

and not another soul on the street

and the aspen leaves on the hill

just at the edge of gold.

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The Truth

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , on September 13, 2015| 1 Comment »

it was so enviable

all that courage

I never had

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The Pacifist Worries About Hosting a War

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , on September 13, 2015| 1 Comment »

The guns they carry are bigger than they are,

these boys in my back yard. They hide behind

the cottonwood trees, and peek out, hoping

to see someone else before they are seen.

The lawn is littered with blue and orange bullets,

and the air is alternately raucous and quiet.

It is impossible for me to not think of the story

I read in the news last night. Though the boys

are ebullient, I can’t see the guns as toys.

Perhaps, said Shu Ting, the mistaken road

will end in a mistake. I notice how I don’t

want to believe him. I want to believe

that even mistaken roads might end

in a bright field. I myself have said and believed

there are no such things as mistakes.

I try to comfort myself with this as a boy

rushes past me, shrieking with glee, shooting rounds

from his gun at his friend. Hit, the friend stands still

and counts to ten before leaping into the fray again.

One. Two. Three. I do not move. Four. Five. Six.

That story, the girl was so young. Seven. Eight. Nine.

The boys shout, More ammo, more ammo. Ten.

Time to move, I tell myself. Perhaps the mistaken

road will end in a mistake. And the woman

walking it, who doesn’t believe in mistakes,

perhaps she and all these boys will just keep on walking.

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Broken Greens

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , , on September 11, 2015| 1 Comment »

pulling the carrots

these old hands still learning

how not to rush

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