Posted in Uncategorized, tagged communion, conspiracy, joy, peace, poem, poetry, unity on October 18, 2018| Leave a Comment »
You are warmly invited to join our conspiracy of joy,
a growing cabal of strangers and friends who collude
to create delight, who initiate random acts of bliss, who
scheme of ways to help all others find authentic jubilance,
who tear down walls that would separate us and them.
If you enjoy such subterfuge, there certainly is room
for you. To be clear, you may be charged with pleasure,
ecstasy, and truth. Next meeting, now. And now. And now
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged kindness, kite, poem, poetry on October 18, 2018| 1 Comment »
I need nothing more today
than a bit of string—not
to hold things together, no,
but to wrap around my wrist
and touch each time I need
to remember to be kind.
Which is all day. The trick
is remembering to touch it,
remembering the invitation
to choose what is kind.
A fierce wind blows.
All day, I imagine I am kite,
that I am the one who holds
it on a slender string,
the one who eventually lets it go.
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged horse, love, poem, poetry on October 16, 2018| Leave a Comment »
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged change, Danny Rosen, geology, isostasy, poem, poetry on October 14, 2018| Leave a Comment »
Danny says the continent is rising,
it rises as the glaciers melt, it’s rising
for the last ten thousand years.
How slowly things change, invisibly
until the time we cannot recognize
the world we thought we knew.
How slowly things change, beyond
our ability to measure, but they do, love,
the crust now floating above the mantle.
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged junior high, nordic skiing, poem, poetry, unpopular on October 14, 2018| Leave a Comment »
Fully commit your weight to one foot.
Every skate skier knows this. To trust
the ski. To trust the snow. To trust the inner
balancer that will not let us fall.
The commitment allows us to glide,
to fly, to find bright wings inside our weight.
And sometimes we fall.
And though it’s been years since I had to change
into the blue gym shorts and white shirt,
sometimes when I fall I remember all my fallings,
and a sharp voice returns, You can’t do this,
it says. It dredges up decades
of shame, of dropping the ball, missing
the hit, not making the catch, letting down
the team. You’re no good, says the voice
that recalls what it’s like to be the last one
picked in junior high p.e., how I stared
at the floor, at the far away ceiling.
You’re weak, says the voice, but here
amongst the aspen and spruce,
there is no one to let down, but me,
so I untangle the skis and the poles
and rise and breathe and fully commit
my weight to one foot. And glide.
And fly. Become wing. First one foot.
And then the other.
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged holding on, poem, poetry, revelation, unknowing, words on October 12, 2018| 1 Comment »
Perhaps when we don’t know what to say
we have at last arrived at the one true thing—
and in our thrill to share it with words, dilute it.
It is like the seed, perhaps, that in sprouting
at last understands its purpose, only
now it is no longer a seed.
How easy it is to lose revelation.
Not that it is ever gone—more that it
drops its petals, and we are left
holding an empty stem, trying
to remember how beautiful it was,
failing to see how beautiful it is.
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged biology, consequences, junior high, poem, poetry, self reproach on October 11, 2018| Leave a Comment »
It was my biology teacher who taught me
to let things go. It was true, I didn’t like him,
no one did. And that is why, when he left
his coffee cup on our table and we
were dissecting rabbits, Kathy looked
at me with a small pink part
in her hands, then eyed his cup.
My face lit up with the wickedness
of it, but I mouthed to her, No,
then watched as she dropped
the bit in. It didn’t float. There
are moments of our lives
we will forever revisit and wish
we had been more brave—
but I was scared to betray my friend,
scared to make waves. As it is,
we waited for him to pick up the cup,
and when he did, tried not to stare
as we wondered when he would
take a sip. Five minutes before
the bell rang, we rebagged
our strange accomplice and wiped
the table clean, then left the room
not seeing what happened next.
What happened next. I thought all night
about the effects of formaldehyde.
I thought he might die. I thought
of how I could have taken his cup
from his desk and quietly poured it out.
I thought of the twist in his heart
when he found bit at the bottom.
But the next day in biology, there
he was, corduroy coat and big brown glasses,
his awkward smile, his coffee cup.
He didn’t mention the crime.
I could barely look up. I had never felt
so small. And if he knew, he never said.
Sometimes the worst punishments
involve lack of consequence,
leaving us to live with our offenses.
And though I don’t recall his name,
I do recall his grace. I swore never again
to keep silent for such a prank.
I’d like to think that if we met, I’d tell him
about that day. And how sorry I am
I didn’t speak up. And how much I admired
the way he let it go. Could I? To this day,
what I remember most, the horror
blossoming in my stomach
the color of rabbit flesh. And
when I dared to look at him, his smile.
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged communication, garden, love, poem, poetry, vulnerability on October 10, 2018| Leave a Comment »
tossing my gloves
to pull carrots with naked hands—
this, how I long to speak with you
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged death, gratitude, marcus aurelius, nature, poem, poetry, Roman general, wind on October 9, 2018| 2 Comments »
You could leave life right now. Let that determine what you do and say and think.
—Marcus Aurelius, Meditations
And though the leaves blush golden and red
and though the sun cups my face like a hand
and though the chill air makes me catch my breath
the wind whispers, friend, remember your death.
And I feel so deeply, so wildly alive
as I climb the hill, slight burn in my thighs
but I cannot pretend I am deaf
as the wind whispers soft, remember your death.
The Roman generals had their slaves
whisper to them in their moments of greatness,
remember your death—even as the crowds cheered—
to help them remember be humble, be here.
And the wind whispers yes, whispers yes to me.
And reminds me to take each step gratefully.
Remember your death, it says. Live now.
And with every step, though I don’t know to whom,
I say thank you, thank you, thank you, thank you.
