Posted in Uncategorized, tagged death, essence, growth, larkspur, rebirth, wildflower on May 27, 2020| 2 Comments »
Whatever it is inside the larkspur
that says grow, grow, grow,
I want to know it, too. Want
to obey the voice that urges me on,
even in frost, even in rain.
I want to rise out of my own dried debris,
want to know how it is to die and return,
new and yet somehow the same.
And what is it that fuels the drive?
I want to know that— the divine
encouragement that knows
when to wait, when to push,
when to wilt, when to flourish,
when to swell into oh! bright bloom.
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged death, life, sadness, shoes on May 8, 2020| 15 Comments »
Tonight, life wears me like
an old pair of shoes. The kind
it can slip its feet into
without untying the laces.
The kind of shoes a mother
would probably throw out
thinking of the act as a favor.
Life is tired, tonight,
of running. Doesn’t want
to dress to impress. It just
wants to know that it goes on,
especially tonight when
events seem to point
to the contrary. And so
though I am down at the heel
and shabby, life slips into me
as if life depended on it.
And we walk in the moonlight,
cry. And howl. Then take another step.
And then another.
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged Corona Virus, death, hair, mom, parenting, river, son on May 4, 2020| 2 Comments »
And so I pull the purple comb
through my son’s thick hair,
the same way I’ve seen
the stylists do at Great Clips.
Wet the hair. Comb it through.
Part it. Hold it between
two fingers. Cut vertically. Snip,
and his hair falls to the floor.
Comb it through. Snip. Snip.
We both know that I
have no clue what I’m doing.
So we laugh as the hair
piles up on the floor.
We chatter, the way
a stylist and customer would,
talking of school and his friends
and his unruly cowlicks. Snip.
I remember that time
I was trapped underwater
by the river’s hydraulics,
how I stared up at the light
shining through the surface
and thought, I don’t think
it’s my time yet to die.
And the river spit me out
and I swam hard as I could
through the rapid toward shore.
I don’t think it’s my time yet
to die. Nor my son’s. Though
all around us the news of dying—
the numbers increasing every day,
stories of beloveds who are gone.
We ask ourselves, how do we
go on? And meanwhile, we do.
We go on. And because my son’s hair
is too long for his taste,
I learn how to cut it by cutting it.
How much more will we learn
as this goes on? How to share?
How to grieve? How to let go? How to live?
And meanwhile, life spits us out
into sunlight, and we come up
spluttering, gasping, surprised
we’re alive, and we swim, what a gift
to find we’re still swimming.
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged blossoming, Corona Virus, death, flowers, medicine, showing up, spring, wildflowers on March 31, 2020| 2 Comments »
also known as Johnny jump up, heart’s ease, heart’s delight, come and cuddle me
Into the shade by the porch
bloomed the first wild pansy,
its small yellow face sunny
and eager and open.
The Athenians used to make
the tiny flowers into syrup
to moderate anger and
to comfort and strengthen the heart.
And here it is today,
small volunteer beauty,
growing in this patch of dirt
where nothing else wants to grow.
This tiny garden is but one of many
concurrent realities—others involve
hospitals short of beds, loved ones
gone, doctors scared to go home.
Our hearts need strengthening.
Little violet, we’re learning, too,
how to be surrounded by death
and still rise up, bring healing as we bloom.
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged Christmas, death, friendship, tree on December 15, 2019| Leave a Comment »
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged death, eulogy, friendship, haibun, poem, poetry, stewart warren on September 25, 2019| 6 Comments »
for Stewart Warren, now in hospice
It was the early 2000s. I was in Del Norte as an emcee showing movies for Telluride Mountain Film on Tour. From the stage, I could see in the dark audience a man who was almost beaming. He had “that light” about him. Did I know him? I wanted to. After the show he came up to say hi.
“Are you a poet?” I asked him. Why? Some hunch.
He nodded and tilted his head to the side. “Yeah.” That’s a word that when Stewart said it had three syllables.
Over a year later, Stewart Warren admitted to me that he hadn’t written many poems at that point. He was a drummer, but he had a poet heart. That was easy to see. At the time, I needed poets who were willing to travel and teach in the schools, and he was gloriously game. I invited him to Telluride, and he had the kids drum on the desks and write. He was equal parts goofy and glamorous, childlike and ageless, playful and profound.
After that he came here many times to teach, to perform, and many times just to help me with programs. He’d dress up in a sport coat and jeans and he’d be my right hand man, helping with details, making everything easier, smoother, more fun. One tricky thing: I’m a tea drinker and he disliked tea, called it “pond water.” After many visits, he finally showed up with a new coffee maker, the one I still have. “I know that all the poets who visit here in the future will be grateful,” he said.
And isn’t that Stewart—the one who jumps in with a devil-may-care grin and a plucky “yeah.” The one who, when given a big pair of shoes, finds a way to grow himself into them. The one who turned his own difficult story into a life out of helping others share their stories. The one who relentlessly continued to learn, to push himself, to inspire. The one who thought of what others would need, and then gave it. The one who brings out the best in others because he dares to bring out the best in himself.
*
September cottonwood
just before the barren time
turning itself into gold
*
Stewart, poet, drummer, partner, friend, web-master, tech-guide, word-sharer, heart-opener, I am a much better me because of you. Thank you. Thank you.
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged death, friendship, love, memory, poem, poetry on September 16, 2019| 4 Comments »
There are moments I forget she is gone.
Perhaps when I am in the garden. Or painting
rocks. Or making dinner. And then I remember.
She’s gone. I cry less now, but still.
I cry. Of course. Because the cloth I use to wipe
my glass table. Because the vase I slip
marigolds into. Because the necklace
I am wearing. Because out of nowhere
the sound of her voice. Because
the book I am reading. Because
when I think of how much she loved me,
how much I loved her, I gasp and
my nose starts to tingle and my eyes
well, and I know she would tell me
not to cry, but I do. Because it’s a beautiful
and rare gift to love someone. Deeply. Because
she was my gift. Because I was hers.
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged death, friendship, love, poem, poetry on July 30, 2019| 6 Comments »
for S
I don’t want you to die.
I know that is selfish,
but it’s the truest thing.
I know we don’t speak of it.
I know I am supposed
to find acceptance,
to find metaphors about
rebirth and letting go—
the trees are always good that way—
but I don’t want to.
I hate that you are hurting.
I hate how far away you are.
You and I both know
that I would never write this
in your card. No, instead,
I send a metaphor about birds,
about resilience and
the gift of wings. Instead,
I tell you I love you.
It’s the other truest thing.
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged death, living, poem, poetry on June 14, 2019| 1 Comment »
And if it gets colder and colder,
then I want to go out the way
the bean sprouts do—with their leaves,
though darkened, still in the shape of a heart.
And if it gets hotter and hotter,
then I want to go out like the ripples
that waver above the pavement
softening the edges of whatever can be seen.
And if Thanos really did snap his fingers
and half of all living creatures turned to dust,
I want to go like the Cheshire Cat,
my smile the last part of me to exist.
And if it’s a fast death, then
let me come back as a sparrow
so I can visit those I love
and sit on their porches and sing.
And if it’s a slow death, and I suppose
that’s what life is, may I talk too much about love.
May I go out saying thank you a thousand times
a day, astonished and gasping with praise.
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged basil, death, forgiveness, garden, poem, poetry on May 31, 2019| Leave a Comment »
basil on the porch
the morning after a frost
leaves limp and black things—
how greenly it met yesterday
no amount of I’m sorry will do
