sitting in darkness—
how easily I forget
we are separate
Posts Tagged ‘communion’
One Communion
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged communion, darkness, poem, poetry on July 13, 2019| Leave a Comment »
Translation
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged communication, communion, gratitude, poem, poetry, translation on May 19, 2019| 3 Comments »
Once I would say “table,” and mean
“table.” Once, I would say
“broccoli” and mean “broccoli.”
I would say “stone” and mean
“stone.” I really did believe
that things were separate.
And nameable. Now,
every word that comes
out of my mouth, no matter
how many syllables, no matter
the tone of voice, no matter
my intention, I’ve come to understand
that every word
is really just a translation
for thank you,
thank you for this moment.
And every silence between the words,
regardless how brief,
is really just the sound
of one hand in gratitude clapping.
Aspirations
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged communion, dissolution of the separate self, love, poem, poetry on February 24, 2019| 7 Comments »
I wanted my love to avalanche,
and love said to me, be flake of snow,
I wanted my love to be tsunami,
and love said, be water in my glass.
Be crumb of bread, be scrap of cloth,
be ray instead of sun.
I wanted to be enormous.
Love said to me, be one.
Awake at Midnight
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged communion, moon, poem, poetry, shoveling, snow, winter on February 20, 2019| Leave a Comment »
The snow was light and the moon was near full,
and the shovels skated across the drive.
The rest of the world was asleep
except for the shoveler and her shovels and the moon.
The snow was light and her thoughts were quiet,
quiet like leafless cottonwood trees
with branches that tangled with the forward moon.
There are nights when though we are alone
we are not alone,
nights when the darkness doesn’t seem so dark,
nights when our work feels not like work
and we step out of our homes, then out of ourselves,
and we are somehow unsurprised
by the way everything shines.
One at the Confluence
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged communion, marriage, poem, poetry, rivers, union on November 16, 2018| 2 Comments »
for Amy and Devin
two rivers
become one water—
sound of ten thousands hands clapping
Attending the Workshop on Implicit Bias
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged bias, communion, poem, poetry, unity on October 29, 2018| Leave a Comment »
It’s hardwired, says the instructor,
explaining that all of us tend to identify
more with people who are more like us.
It’s a survival tool from ancient times,
she says, to put people like us in an in group,
and to label the others other.
I take notes. Raise my hand. Participate.
Do exercises that show that although
I say I have no preferences, my limbic brain
has its own opinion. And so
I dedicate myself to finding
the ways we are all alike, uncovering
the ways we all mirror each other—
vulnerable, strong, curious, cautious,
I pledge myself to our common humanity,
to notice my bias and question it.
It’s a survival tool for the present time,
I tell myself. Every one of us, a sliver
of divinity.
Walking Alone at Midnight
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged alone, communion, night, poem, poetry, rabbit brush on October 24, 2018| 2 Comments »
The moon was hidden and the scent
of rabbit brush was thick, so thick
a woman could be hypnotized by it—
it seemed to come from everywhere,
the garbled light, the sage-sharp scent,
the sound of every step she took, and
every step she took felt like
a baptism, though into what, she could
not say—herself, perhaps, but more
the world, and yes, it was
the kind of tenderness
one only meets when we’re
alone and somehow lost
inside the night, amazed that it
can be so warm, so gentle,
shocked that we can be so slight
we almost, almost disappear—
but ah, the sound of every step she took
reminded her that she was here—
and sage-sharp scent of rabbit brush
caressed her every everywhere,
and led her deeper into night,
soft sound of footsteps, garbled light,
the snarl of squirrel nests in the trees
made visible through silhouette,
and every every step she took felt
like a baptism, like a rite
though rite of what, she could not say,
the moonlight gave itself away
the rabbit brush said here, here, here.
Dear __________,
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged communion, conspiracy, joy, peace, poem, poetry, unity on October 18, 2018| 4 Comments »
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
The Field Was High and the Sun Was Low
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged communion, dark, light, poem, poetry, wallace stevens on August 30, 2018| 5 Comments »
after The House Was Quiet and the World Was Calm by Wallace Stevens
The field was high and the sun was low
and the woman became the light; and the evening
slowed its pace perhaps to let the light remain.
The field was high and the sun was low.
She moved as though there were no night
worth fearing, as if the field could hold it all.
She leaned into the goldening, the way
the light itself leans softly on the world.
The night, a gentle friend, meandered quietly
across the land. There were no words
that could be said. The field was high
and the sun was lower. Slowly, hushed,
the wind a sigh, the field surrendered
all its lines. The darkness gathered
everything, the field, the woman, even
light, and made itself an offering.
Walking Before The Midnight
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged communion, darkness, poem, poetry, question on July 21, 2018| Leave a Comment »
in the dark
you lose track
of any lines
that say
you are here—
and the night
holds you
like a lover
with hands
somehow
everywhere,
and the stars
keep thousands
of secrets
and sometimes
they spill,
and if you have
a question,
it comes to meet you
whether or not
you’ve dared
to ask it.
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