Poor violets don’t know any better.
They only know it’s been warm for weeks
and the grass is greening and the frost is gone
from the soil. It’s uneasy pleasure, watching
their small blue faces appear so early this year.
Part of me does not want to enjoy them—
the part that longs for cold, for snow,
for the winter that has not come.
One day, there will be nothing left to say.
For now, there are violets blooming
outside the kitchen door. They are beautiful,
nodding in the breeze, no matter
which direction the wind blows.
Posts Tagged ‘acceptance’
In the Heart of a Warm Winter, I Say Thank You
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged acceptance, poem, poetry, winter on February 16, 2015| 4 Comments »
Oh, Don’t You Want to Shake Her, to Maker Her Want to Listen?
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged acceptance, ignorance, illness, poem, poetry on January 21, 2015| 5 Comments »
You cannot always tell by looking
what is happening. On the outside,
she is smiling, apparently flourishing.
Inside, there is a terrible secret
even she does not yet know. There
was a whisper of it, but she found it easy
to listen instead to the geese with their
raucous arrival, or to listen to the song
of the river pushing through the ice.
Okay, some part of her knows it,
but she is not yet ready to admit anything.
She is perhaps like the tree riddled on the inside
with beetles. At first glance, it looks like nothing more
than a few little holes, but under the bark
there are girdling tunnels. It will be a long time
before she will hear the soft chorus
of dry needles falling. By then,
it will be impossible not to notice
that something is very, very wrong.
By then it will be much too late.
Though Sometimes It’s Hard to Want to Believe It
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged acceptance, gratitude, miracle, poem, poetry on September 9, 2014| 2 Comments »
In the same breath that I curse the world
I praise it. It is impossible not to see
what a mess we’ve made, and yet … how
relentlessly beautiful the rabbit brush
blooms in the ditch, all yellow and vigorous,
growing out of the busted up asphalt
and Marlboro boxes and twisted beer cans.
It’s no miracle, you might say. It’s just a weed.
But I know a miracle when I see one.
It looks a lot like whatever is happening
outside the window right now.
Learning to Say Yes
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged acceptance, alphabet menagerie, letter u, poem, poetry on June 9, 2014| 1 Comment »
(another poem for Lian Canty’s Alphabet Menagerie project)
Obey the poem’s emerging form.
—Jack Mueller
This is the poem in which you accept
that anything might happen next.
A red umbrella might fall from the sky
and offer a ride to Belgium.
A constellation of bright sea urchins might
walk by on their tiny transparent adhesive
tube feet. Or perhaps a petulant cherub,
unhappy with a day full of broken hearts,
might urinate on the next line. It happens
in poems all the time—the improbable,
the profane, paired side by side
with the miraculous. Like love. Unicorns, well,
they are more often saved for fairy tales and
UFOs, they belong more to sci fi texts.
But why not have them here? In this poem, ukeleles
might serenade the next stanza with their sweet Hawaiian twang
and their hint of exotic happiness.
An umbrella parakeet might fly its way in,
or a strange man might enter
and wonder “Why?” It happens,
it happens in poems all the time. Though
there are never any simple answers. Always paradox.
The Great Bear in Ursa Major just might hunch over
any errant rhymes and strew them like stars
across the sky. Or a cow might stroll through
with its pale pink udders reminding you
of other things you have never done.
Oh, there you are, you made it
at last into the poem. I was hoping
you would show up, not like in one of those
terrible dreams where you’re wearing only
your underwear and you’re afraid everyone
will notice. No, here you are, ready to do
whatever the poem asks of you, which is
to say yes to whatever happens next,
though the poem is as unstable as uranium,
as fickle as a butterfly in a whole field
of open flowers, and you will be asked to make peace
with not knowing what the poem really means.
And yes, you will say, yes. And you will perhaps see
how you are the umbrella, the seven stars, the parakeet,
the urchins slowly moving their way across the sea.
Your Presence Is Requested
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged acceptance, body image, poem, poetry, self love on March 2, 2014| 2 Comments »
Again the invitation
to love the body
this very moment.
Not the way it was once,
all limber and lean,
all smooth and able.
Not the way it might
be someday in the future
if only, if only. The invitation
to love it now. No
exceptions. No rain date.
No directions how to get there.
No box for maybe.
The invitation arrives
as it always does,
without an envelope.
Without a return address.
No RSVP. No name on it
but your own. No trumpets.
No angels singing about
how all flesh is holy. No
clowns telling jokes.
No balloons.
It arrives so quiet,
but so sincere, right beside
the impulse to crumple
it up. Now what to do.
The rising urge to run.
The rising urge to bow.
The Woman Who Thought She Lost Something
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged acceptance, loss, poem, poetry, searching on January 14, 2014| 1 Comment »
All night, all night she wanders the rooms,
hey nonny, ho nonny, slow nonny noo.
Looking for something she thinks she once knew.
knew nonny, coo nonny, true nonny who.
Into the kitchen and into the den,
dark nonny, hark nonny, lark nonny nigh.
And rooms she’d forgotten she’d ever been in,
oh nonny, ho nonny, whoa nonny sigh.
(Happy New Age Ending)
She found it at last in an old leather book
dust nonny trust nonny hushed nonny whee,
And never again did she wander or look,
Here nonny, clear nonny, she’s a Sufi.
(Hollywood Ending)
The dark handsome man stood behind the next door,
hot nonny, caught nonny, dot commy rich
They married and unmarried, still wanting more,
whoops nonny, oops nonny which man is which.
(Real Ending)
She never did find what she once thought was gone,
hope nonny, nope nonny, grope nonny mess.
The rooms changed and she changed and life went on,
day nonny, night nonny, no nonny yes.
Sometimes When We Least Expect It
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged acceptance, connection, love, poem, poetry, seeing on September 25, 2013| 5 Comments »
Sometimes the only thing we see
when we look at each other
is the other’s eyes—not so much
their color, nor their shape,
but the way they soften, the way
they seem to say, “I see you, I see
all of you, and there is no reason
for you to hide.” And for us who have
spent so much time hiding,
it can be shocking to be seen.
In our dreams, perhaps, we
allow it. But to be seen awake,
to be seen when we are messy
and messier than that, to be seen
when we are tired and hurt
and not sure where we stand?
In that moment, to be seen
by eyes that say without a blink,
“Here I am,” that seeing is a window we
can climb right through and land
in a field of light. This is what
the soul remembers—how to love
without judgment, how to love without
should, how to live with the defenses
down. This is the gift we can
give to each other. This softening.
This tenderness. This allowing
each other to stop looking for a cure
for being who we are and to simply be
ourselves, masks off no matter what,
to know ourselves as love.
Considering
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged acceptance, apple, pleasure, poem, poetry, transformation on September 8, 2013| 2 Comments »
Not once
has the worm
said to the apple
your flesh
does not taste
good enough.
But it is so much
nicer, you don’t
need to be a worm
to understand,
when the fruit
is full of sugar
and the dark,
lonely work
is also sweet.
Ongoing
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged acceptance, mullein, poem, poetry, thoughts, work on August 7, 2013| 7 Comments »
Mary always shook her head
when I told her I pulled up the mullein.
You know you could farm it,
she said. You can use it to make
healing oil. And Tara, from Texas,
she laughed at my weeding. Told me
how she had dug up two mullein rosettes
to transplant them in her yard.
The leaves, she said, they’re so, so soft.
And the flowers, they’re beautiful,
so yellow.
Every year, the mullein
come back, no matter how fastidiously
I have cleared the field the year before.
How many other things have I tried
to clear with no success?
The seasons are changing, The air
wears a yellowing scent and afternoons
forget themselves. I used to resent
the way things return. Now I resent
and admire them, even
those taprooted thoughts that showed up today,
those ones that I have wished away.
And here we are again. The field
will never be cleared. The work
will always be waiting. And somewhere
inside the despised thing, the chance
to find healing, to see beauty, to feel grace,
the chance to kneel.
Three Reasons
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged acceptance, poem, poetry on August 4, 2013| 1 Comment »
knocking
on my own door
begging
to be
let in
*
promises
like white flowers
slipped into
my mouth
one at a time
until
I can no
longer
breathe
*
because
rising above
is just another form
of running away
I stay
How She Serves You
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged acceptance, allowing, poem, poetry, self love, shame on April 21, 2013| 1 Comment »
This being human is a guest house.
Every morning a new arrival.
—Rumi, trans. Coleman Barks
Shame brings you coffee
to wake you. She has laced
it with cinnamon and chicory.
She sits on the edge of your bed,
offers you the warm cup.
This is not what you expected.
For two years, you’ve kept
the door locked
so she couldn’t come in.
Perhaps you thought
she would smell
like rancid sardines.
Perhaps you imagined
she would grasp you
with hideous, deformed
claws and not let you go
or sit on you until you
deflated. Instead, she loves you.
She tells you so. She smiles
at you with such sincerity
that there is no way
to not meet her eyes.
She does not bring up
anything you have or have not done.
You do that yourself.
Good Morning, she says.
You choose to believe her.
To your surprise, almost
as if you are watching yourself
and in yourself at the same time,
you hug this unlikely friend.
And then—is it because you
leaned toward her instead
of hiding under the covers again—
she leaves. Just like that.
You almost want her back.
The cup, though bitter,
is easier to drink than
you thought
it would be.
You drink it until
there is nothing left.
God, you feel awake.
As if you could walk
to Wyoming from here.
As if you could rip off
the door lock with your bare hands.
As if you could meet anyone,
even yourself.
Four Emptinesses
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged acceptance, emptiness, haiku, openness, poem on March 9, 2013| 2 Comments »
not only the aspen
wear nothing, not only
the sky
*
shoveling
the walk, making a path
for the sun
*
the rose does not try
to re-adhere fallen petals—
still this impulse to fix
*
in the sky, a door,
in the door, a sky, in the
sky a door
One Way It Might Look
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged acceptance, peace, poem, poetry, Regret on January 2, 2013| 9 Comments »
When regret comes
with his stale breath
and tattered coat, arriving
at your door as he does
on the chillest night,
it is still easy to want
to close the door
and suggest he move
down the road. You know
if you let him in, he’ll ask
for your last glass of wine,
then wonder aloud
if you have any thread
to fix his overcoat, and
perhaps you know how
to sew? You guess
from that bottomless look
in his eye that no matter what
you do it will not be help enough.
Regret, you might say,
I’ll have none of you.
But you know he’ll come back,
next time with his dog,
its fleas, his flies.
Better, perhaps, to let him
in now. Offer him the wine.
Water, too. And when he says,
If only … then you might say,
I hear you. And when he says,
I wish … then you might say,
It’s not easy. Look him straight
in the eye. You both know
it’s true. He might cry.
It’s okay. You might cry, too.
And outside, the stars,
the stars do what stars
do. The night is cold,
he was right about that.
And the needle, it moves
through the threadbare wool,
your fingers sure of
every stitch.
Contrary
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged acceptance, allowing, new year, poem, snow on December 31, 2012| 6 Comments »
So easily the world
makes itself new.
Like today, how all
the footprints and tracks
of yesterday are buried.
The cars are buried. The drive.
The pinecones. The birdseed.
Of course they’re not gone.
We all know the snow melts
and the world will be
the same as it was, only
it won’t be. We know
that, too. I have dreamed,
perhaps, of the snow that
could cover me, make
me new, erase all the
scars and pains. But I don’t want
to start over again. I bow
to all those thoughts, all
those pains, all those scars,
that brought me here
to this snowy windowsill
on this last day of the year
when the world looks new
and I am so grateful to be
this woman growing old.
How It Is
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged acceptance, allowing, fear, opening, poem, poetry on December 21, 2012| 5 Comments »
All day fear knocks
or bangs at the door,
sometimes whimpers,
each time an invitation
not just to open the door
but to tear it down,
the walls, too,
to unclench both hands,
though you think, I can’t do this,
but you do, and while
fear hangs on you like a leaden
scarf, like wet gray wool,
you notice how dazzling,
how warm the sun.
Where the Light Comes In
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged acceptance, allowing, loss, love, poem, poetry on November 14, 2012| 3 Comments »
Perhaps we could have
seen it coming. That’s
what everyone likes
to say after the world
changes. But there
are things we cannot see,
losses we cannot foretell.
And the world is always
changing, My friend Barry
writes, it is easy to be
an addict of losses,
defining ourselves
by what isn’t there.
And then we tell
the endless versions
of what if and if only and
hush. That’s enough.
Nothing lasts. Not
the glittering rime
on the willows. Not
the lovers lips, not the crystal
dish. Even the longing
we knew would last
shifts. How we love
to visit the ruins. Here,
come walk with me the paths
of this still breaking heart.
Grace
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged acceptance, aging, mothering, parenting, poem, poetry, self love, softness on October 27, 2012| 5 Comments »
Bless the softness of the body,
and bless how I have struggled so long
against being soft. I have tried to be hard,
to be firm, to be fit, to be thin, I have tried
to disappear. And after the hiking, the climbing,
the swimming, the crunching, the pushing
the lifting, the drive, comes
softness. Comes breathing,
the whole soft body breathing,
belly and chest and cheek and neck,
in and out, so softly, pure gift, with
no effort of my own. Comes softness.
My daughter this morning curls her small weight
into me and I try to make myself softer,
softer than that, soft enough
to embrace the growing miracle.
I have tried to be something other
than soft, and now, by grace, I am learning to soften,
to appreciate softening, oh beautiful
softness, oh softness I’ve hated,
I am learning to bless what is soft.
The Precious Matter of Love
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged acceptance, allowing, donkey, hafiz, love, poem, poetry on September 30, 2012| 5 Comments »
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.
After an Hour of Writing, Still No Train
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged acceptance, be here now, poem, poetry, presence, train on July 31, 2012| 3 Comments »
The patient says, “Doctor, it hurts when I do this.” “Then don’t do that!”
—Henny Youngman
All night I wait for the train whistle,
the way it calls out to the world,
You are here. It doesn’t mock, exactly,
but we all know that the train whistles
because it is leaving, heading somewhere else,
not here. It can be so hard to be here.
To be here and nowhere else. To not put ourselves
on the imaginary train, wherever it is going. To sit
with the sound of traffic, with the string of red lights
that eventually turn green. And red again.
To be here with our longing, here with our
shame, our loss, our hair turning gray.
The click of the sprinkler lays a rhythmic line,
and all the night’s whirs and whines and hums
scrape against its ticking. What is it about the gap
of the missing whistle that stirs me, so?
Oh expectation. One more layer to slough.
It is like the Henny Youngman line, in which we touch
what is sore, again and again, just to be sure it still hurts.
And the train does not come, and the train does not come.
The night air, warm enough to wear nothing,
carries the scent of something nearby, familiar,
floral and sweet. Part of me longs to slip into memory
to find the scent, know it and name it this,
and part of me notices the one
who would travel back in time to know the present.
It climbs into the fragrance, meets the night as it is.