for Joan on her 68th birthday
I wish you the peace
that comes when we trust ourselves
to meet whatever life brings.
I wish you love beyond
happy endings—
the kind of love
that seeps into everything
no matter where the story goes.
Today, I planted cosmos
in the garden. Inevitably,
they will grow into cosmos.
This is what I wish for you—
the delight of growing
inevitably into yourself.
The thrill of knowing
your beauty makes a difference
in the world—
how, in the garden of my heart,
you are ever blooming,
like a surprise larkspur
brought in as a seed,
and now that it’s here,
it will never leave.
Posts Tagged ‘birthday’
More than Happiness
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged birthday, friendship on May 26, 2023| 16 Comments »
On All Souls
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged all souls, birthday, cemetery, day of the dead, moon, ohio on November 2, 2022| 8 Comments »
In the woods, in the dark
we stood amidst old gravestones,
their engravings mostly scrubbed by time.
And Jon played gong,
Robin played chimes
and Evie played bass recorder.
And Owl read of the wood,
Melissa spoke of good life
and I hummed and played the breath.
We spoke the names
of our beloveds who have left.
Some names were spoken
only in silence.
The half-moon joined our circle,
as if it, too, knew something
of loss. As if it were showing us
that sometimes what appears to be gone
is simply unseen.
We walked home in that half light.
On My Daughter’s Fourteenth Birthday
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged birthday, daughter, healing, thriving, tree, wound on July 15, 2022| 10 Comments »
Though she has been shaped
by pain, she thrives.
She is like a tree, now,
that remembers its wounds
and grows differently
because of its injuries,
some of them deep,
yet is no less vigorous
as it grows new healthy wood,
as it reaches for sun,
as it grounds into the soil,
as it offers its fruit
to the world.
On My Dad’s First Birthday Since His Death
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged birthday, daughter, father, life after death, love on July 5, 2022| 14 Comments »
I don’t sing Happy Birthday tonight
when I light the candle,
but I say his name and celebrate
the life of the man born this day
seventy-eight years ago in Joliet, Illinois,
the man who brought ingenuity,
courage and silliness to the world,
the man who told my mother everyday
she was beautiful, the man who
believed in hiring people more talented than he,
the man who flew home to be at my concerts,
the man who drove me to piano lessons,
the man who wept when I moved away.
My own life is a celebration of his life—
he lives inside every word, every action,
every patience, every plan.
Every day since his death, I light a candle.
Every day, I celebrate his life.
Every day, my father still shines.
Happy Birth Day
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged attentiveness, birthday, self on November 1, 2020| 11 Comments »
Happy Birth Day
Each morning, this chance
to birth again the self—
to push it through
the canal of dream,
this chance to open
through the center
and let the new self emerge,
to marvel as it appears,
glistening with potential.
Of course the new self cries.
It needs to be warmed,
nourished, held.
Imagine what it’s like
to be that new—
to not believe any thought,
to not assume any thing.
Imagine what it’s like
to be that attentive,
that vulnerable.
Self, can you meet
each day
like that? Like that.
November 2, 2019
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged birthday, horoscope, personal growth, poem, poetry on November 3, 2019| 2 Comments »
This solar year, you will actually become the one you wished for.
—Holiday Mathis, horoscope
And so when Holiday Mathis tells me
that this is the year I will become
the one I wished for, I decide to believe her.
If it’s true, I will become sky, become river,
become aspen. Peace in my actions, truth
in my words, love in my every breath.
And though I’m unsure about horoscopes,
I decide to do everything I can to prove
her right, my thoughts already perhaps
a bit more fluid, a bit more blue.
A Dozen Long-Stemmed Haikulings for Cindy on Her 50th Birthday
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged birthday, cindy wahtola, poem, poetry on February 28, 2019| 2 Comments »
Every little thing she does is magic.
—The Police
through sirens, rush hour,
taxis, bright lights, windy streets
walks the Sierra Nevada
*
even in poor soil,
the yarrow thrives, excels
in beauty and biathlon
*
running with the half-wolf—
freedom
has six legs
*
a democrat and a republican
walk into a bar—
just sayin’
*
filling sippy cups
and playing taxi driver
the woman with several masters
*
places for adventure:
beach, mountain, ocean,
on the page
*
herbs on the rooftop
and their gardener both grow better
when sung Annie’s Song
*
two fine medicines—
So You Think You Can Dance,
bottle of wine
*
fixing the internet
and home audio system—
this tropical flower
*
every Wednesday
a democrat and a republican
go on a date
*
next chapter—
unable to read ahead,
she brings a lead rope to the cliff hanger
*
giant sequoia—
the longer she grows,
the more she has to give
One Wonderful Man
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged birthday, man, poem, poetry on December 30, 2018| 3 Comments »
for Clint on his 80th birthday
he brings wings to what is earthbound,
brings humility to the sky,
and to all that is, he brings song
On My Birthday, A Death Song
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged birthday, cello, death, music, poem, poetry on November 3, 2017| 4 Comments »
with thanks to Kyra
Minor and slow,
the Russian death song
on the cello
fills the room
with loss and beauty,
the two rubbing
together like notes
side by side on the scale
played at the same time.
I lay on the floor
beneath the great instrument
and feel the waves of it
as if they originate inside me—
play it again, I beg
the cellist, and then,
when it’s done, I beg her
again, play it again,
And she does. And she does,
the warm notes filling
any chill they find.
46th Birthday in Lone Tree Cemetery, Dia de los Muertos
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged birthday, cemetery, death, Dia de los Muertos, gratitude, poem, poetry on November 3, 2015| 3 Comments »
Past the grave of the baby girl,
past the grave of the beloved mother—
“we loved her,” it says in italic letters—
and past the grave with my birthday on it,
we find a tombstone greened in moss
with its names and dates long since lost.
The grass has nearly reclaimed the stone,
and we sit here together and talk for hours,
joyful expressions of dust as we laugh
and cry and remember just why
it is so damn sweet to be alive, to practice
what it means to love in the face of our impermanence.
All the leaves have left for the year,
but look at what remains—the chance
for sudden, immeasurable bliss
no matter what the season is.