Posts Tagged ‘earth’

I can’t unnotice this fist
that has grabbed my chest
and squeezes it hard, this prickly balloon
that seems to have blown itself up
in my belly. To be still today
is to notice that so much inside me
is writhing, squirming, thrashing.
Hello discomfort. Hello agitation.
Hello wishing that stillness
could be more still.
Eyes closed, I watch myself
as I sit in the middle of the empty room,
sunlight stretching across the floor
in bright and angled shapes.
I zoom out and see the whole house.
Zoom out farther and see the yard, the trees.
Zoom out until I see our small town,
then a blur of green and brown,
then the familiar blue and green curve of the earth.
As it spins and orbits, the earth is anything but still,
and yet such spaciousness surrounds it.
Oh, sweet woman sitting still in your room
with your hand on your heart
and a world of thrust and upheaval
spinning inside you,
right now, it’s like this.
You’re being moved. You’re still.
It’s like this.


Um, yeah … so if you read yesterday’s poem, I have to laugh… yesterday being still felt so easy, so simple, so open, so, well yummy. And then today??? Oh friends. This is one of the great gifts of poetry–every day the chance to notice what is here. And every day, the same thing feels so new. 

On my daily program “The Poetic Path,” I use the tag “Seeing the same world in a new way … with poems.” If you haven’t checked out this other daily offering, perhaps consider it. It’s an app for your phone, found on the Ritual Wellbeing app. Unlike the daily poems, i curate them … and it’s a chance to hear the poems aloud. I always talk a little about where they came from and how they were written, then read the poem again, and then offer an optional writing/thinking prompt for you. There is a monthly or annual fee for Ritual–and there are MANY other programs available on it. You can try it out for free. If you’re interested, from your phone visit HERE

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In Orbit

Count the one beautiful blue and green planet.
Count it again.
Say “home,” then marvel at the taste of tears.
Notice how no borders matter from here.
Remember how important they feel
when standing on a border. Once
you dreamt of being alone. Of being
far away from parking lots and grocery store lines
and men with guns and violent conviction.
Now you dream of touching someone else,
of breathing in the scent of garden dirt,
of hearing a voice without static, of lying down
in a bed, held by your own sweet gravity.
What you would do to taste a tree-ripened peach.
Give up on counting stars. Draw lines between them,
creating your own constellations:
The open hand. The river gorge. The crooked evergreen.
A semi-automatic rifle, which you re-constellate
into a small bouquet of lilies. Consider forgiveness.
Wonder how long it will take before it feels authentic.
Circling has taught you how things come around.
Remember? There was a time you didn’t think
you knew how to pray.

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When we were nine, we’d build

elaborate cities of snow

in the fifteen minutes before

the wail of the recess bell.


The boys would outwait us,

and as soon as we’d run

toward the school, they’d

knock our snow realm to the ground.


What is it in us that loves

to create? To build worlds?

To imagine a life taking shape?

And what is it, equally human, that


thrills in seeing it all fall down?

This morning, without me

lifting a finger, the world

remade itself in snow—


everything softer now,

smoothed and linked,

a unified kingdom of sparkle,

crystal and shine.


And once again, I am nine,

the winter grand. And once again, I long

to protect it, this beautiful world,

want to give it my imagination, my hands.



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I’d like to teach the world to sing in perfect harmony.

            —The New Seekers



The earth, say the scientists,

is more bell than we thought,

imperceptibly ringing beneath


our feet. Just because we can’t

hear it doesn’t mean it’s not

being played ceaselessly,


an ultralow hum thousands

of times below what the human ear

can hear. And the hum, they say,


is everywhere, uniting the globe

in a common tone. Perhaps,

they say, it’s ocean waves


that bang on the sea floor

or waves that crash into each other.

Perhaps, they say, the sound


goes all the way to the core.

Just because we don’t know why it rings

doesn’t mean we can’t sing along.










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Seven True Stories

divided highway
late night, coming in my lane
head lights, a story


the sky and I,
both of us opening—
peal of unrung bells


the old cottonwood
tell me, when is the last time
you climbed it?


that ornery face,
yep, I folded it up,
put it in a safe place


laying in the grass
our bodies altars—
gold leaf offerings


everything shimmering
how could I not French kiss
the chill air


that bird, wonder if
he too gets so stunned by sky
he forgets how to sing

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