Posted in Uncategorized, tagged poem, poetry, singing on August 11, 2016| 1 Comment »
Our lives are full of unexpected surges of kindness that seem to come from nowhere.
—Mark Nepo, The Book of Awakening
Under the plum tree
I sit with a stranger
and sing for an hour
the old songs—
we take turns
with the melody
and the harmony
and for this time
the heart forgets
the word loneliness
and the plums fall
red and heavy
into our un-expecting hands.
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged consolation, garden, hail, poem, poetry on August 9, 2016| 1 Comment »
amidst hail torn leaves
no less intoxicating
the scent of nasturtium
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged fear, love, poem, poetry, weed on August 8, 2016| 2 Comments »
Fear is just another weed
with a tap root
and thorns
and a thousand seeds
still viable years
long after the stems
have been pulled
or mowed
or left for dead
and love is just another hand
that knows they’ll return
and still pulls the weeds
again, again, again.
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged grief, poem, poetry, story, surrender on August 8, 2016| 4 Comments »
We sat in the round
and rubbed our stories
like prayer beads that
we’ve kept,
but one man let
the world erode him—
so naked, so sacred
he wept.
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged love, poem, poetry, rain, running on August 7, 2016| 1 Comment »
Love reign o’er me, rain on me, rain on me.
—Pete Townshend
And it does rain, not just a sprinkle
but sheets of rain, pelting rain,
a punishing, unapologetic rain,
and I huddle beneath the thin shelter
where some government agency
must have once thought a map should be.
But there is no map. The metaphor
is not lost on me. I watch the rain
turn to hail. It makes an angry music
on the metal roof as it covers the dirt
with white.
We who pray for rain do not pray
for it to be like this—we imagine
perhaps something tender, something soft,
something gentle like the voice of a lover,
like the hum that wraps us when words
are lost inside kisses. But rain, like love,
rules us in ways we could never predict.
The road is no longer dusty nor dry,
and after twenty minutes I leave my thin canopy
and run into the drizzle. Everywhere is puddle,
a playground for those who are fond
of such play. I play. The sky is gray
and rumbles as if to say it will do
as it damn well wants. The rain
is cool, and my body churns until
my skin is hot again, so hot that when
the rain comes down hard again
this time I do not hide.
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged appearance vs. reality, book, poem, poetry, wonder on August 6, 2016| 1 Comment »
pages dog eared
and spine broken, this old book
holds no less wonder
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged parenting, poem, poetry, therapy, understanding on August 4, 2016| 1 Comment »
Mom, he says, his voice
an arrow of frustration,
you just don’t understand.
I know, I say, I don’t understand.
But that is not the kind
of understanding he wants.
Someday he will tell a therapist
how I mocked him. She will
make a note in his file
and say to him, I know,
I understand, and he will
nod, certain that she does.
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged carousel, poem, poetry, projection on August 3, 2016| 1 Comment »
On the carousel
the horse with the golden reins
and flowers in its mane
appears exhausted
with frivolity—
then I recall what my friend
said this morning about projection,
and I decide to reframe my thought—
exhausted, perhaps,
but I need not feel sorry
for the horse and its beautiful
well travelled circles,
no I just wish it well.
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged change, newness, poem, poetry on August 2, 2016| 1 Comment »
Ever-newer waters flow on those who step into the same river.
—Heraclitus
wading this same stream
so long my skin pruned,
my feet numbed,
and this strange sense that yet again
I’ve been baptized
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged daughter, independence, mothering, poem, poetry, swimming, wave on August 1, 2016| 1 Comment »
The girl with her goggles on pouts when the waves end.
You didn’t stay with me, she says. She holds on to my arm,
as we bob in the clear blue water of the pool. You stay with me,
she says. All around us, the high sun of summer makes
everything gleam. We splash and bob until the bell sounds,
and a collective squeal erupts from the crowded pool.
I stay as I have been told. The waves begin, small at first,
and the girl hangs on. And then the man-made surf
thrashes at our bodies, tugs at our suits. I do not
remember her letting go. I remember watching her head
disappear beneath the wave and her smile as she
emerged on the other side before she dove into the next swell.