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Archive for July, 2023

Deep Peace

 
I would carry your ache
if I could. Would carry the throb
and the raw fury, would dress
 
your wounds with a salve of full moon
and the gold of the tall summer grass.
I would wrap you in the softest song,
 
and whisper blood-true prayers
so quietly they resemble the sound
of petals falling—something more felt
 
than understood. And because
I cannot carry your ache, I do
what the helpless do. I love you.
 
With my own broken open heart,
I love you. With every breath, every blink,
I Iove you. There is a peace
 
that comes when we deeply
lean into the ache. I wish you
that courage, that peace.

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at the end of a day
crowded with kindness and joy
one perfect, ripe plum

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The way San Francisco
goes quickly from fog to clear blue,
I notice that within moments
of being crumpled by my tears,
they are gone, replaced
with openness. Not
that I shut the tears down.
More that they do what tears do—
fall like necessary weather,
then nourish all that blooms.

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Go spelunking in the depths of your imagination. Join me in the cave for a few moments in this video from my new album, DARK PRAISE, created with guitarist Steve Law and artist Marisa S. White. Album and track available for free download on Spotify, Apple Music, or wherever you listen to music. Please share!

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One with the Smallest Mewls

curled beneath the grape vine
five tiny feral kittens—
bringing all them home in my thoughts

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I listen as she spins
gold out of words,
infusing the room
with grail and goddess,
with Celtic greens
and Grecian blues,
until the whole room
is glowing and golden, lit
by her love for the world.
Stories are, perhaps,
one of the simplest
proofs that miracles exist.
Look how before
there was only a room.
Now everything
and everyone in it
is shining, changed,
drenched in grace.

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These Hot Days


And when at last
the breeze comes
on the breath of night,
the whole body sings
with the chill of it—
craves the cool lick
of sharp tongues
on the skin, the bite
of the distant storm.
Touch me here,
says my flesh,
as if I’ve been waiting
all day for my lover—
here, touch me here.
And it feels so good
when the wind slips in
and does what a breeze will do,
but the wanting—
I notice how it, too,
has something
painfully beautiful
to teach me.

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Celebrating the Art & Life of Vincent Van Gogh 
Saturday, July 29
11 a.m.-12:30 p.m. mountain time
Zoom

Join me and my beloved friend and creative partner Kayleen Asbo for our annual broadcast on the day of Van Gogh’s death, featuring the collaboration between my words and music written by Kayleen in response to Van Gogh’s paintings. This year we have a triumphant postscript to add, with heart warming and inspiring news from both the asylum at St. Remy where Vincent painted “Starry Night” and the Van Gogh Museum in Amsterdam which is currently featuring an exhibition on Vincent’s last years in Auvers.

If you haven’t joined us before–I’ll just say this. It’s ecstatic. Full of history and respect and grief and beauty and vulnerability and madness and so much love, so much love. A weaving of biography, art, personal story, and devotion.
Register here on a sliding scale ($11-$44); also recorded for later viewing.

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It means, “We don’t know.”
It means, “I refuse to judge you.”
It means, “Too much is at stake
to pretend I’m aware when I’m not.”
It means, “Oh, self, you have tried
to build a fortress out of scribbles,
but the world is a giant eraser.”
It means, “Sometimes the root
offers more shade than the tree.”
It means, “There is so much
we don’t understand.”
It means, “Here, let me
meet you with open hands.”
 

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When the Ambush Comes

You might be standing in line at the bank,
Perhaps taking out the trash after midnight,
the moon somehow too bright.
If you can predict the quick tears, the tight throat,
that’s not the ambush. That’s just grief.
The ambush comes when you’re laughing.
Or when you’re eating popcorn.
Or when you drive by a parking lot
where once you practiced parallel parking
with the one who is no longer here.
The ambush might come when you’ve just
put on mascara. Or when you’re talking
on the phone to customer service.
Or when you’re dusting the piano
where once your loved one sat
and practiced the theme
to Pirates of the Caribbean
over and over and over. And over.
And then you’re crying again.
Not that you mind it.
Not that you’re surprised.
You don’t even apologize anymore.
This is what happens now.
It’s what love looks like.
You call it life.

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