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Posts Tagged ‘freedom’

from a dream inspired by Sharon

 

 

And I tried. I tried.

Except steep hills. Except

stop signs. Except fear.

 

Then one day,

the brake simply

didn’t work anymore.

 

I thought perhaps

I’d forgotten which pedal

was the brake.

 

I tried flooring the pedal,

anyway, though I knew

it wouldn’t work.

 

At first, I hated it. Was terrified,

really. Then—right through

the intersection,

 

right down the steepest hill—

there it was, I was in it,

the flow, the flow.

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One Release

 

 

you the red kite

I thrill to fly—

and me

cutting the line,

learning I, too, can fly

 

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In the movie,

that’s not being made,

the one I star in,

my character, who looks

exactly like me,

is mowing the lawn,

exactly like me,

only when I go

to put the lawnmower

away by the barn,

she just keeps walking,

pushing that red Toro

down the side of the highway,

oblivious to the drivers

who stare and honk.

And there’s no orchestra

swelling, just a single

bassoon with a dark,

warm reedy timbre.

There she goes,

in her flip flops

and sun hat,

obviously not ready

for what’s about to happen

and not caring a whit,

leaving in her wake

a trail of freshly cut weeds,

and the scent of spring grass,

her figure getting

smaller and smaller

on the horizon.

 

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Runoff

 

 

 

We are perhaps

like the plover

who made her nest

in the rocks

too close to the river’s

edge. The water

is rising rapidly.

We never

expected loss.

We almost

forgot that we

have wings.

 

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This morning when she pours the milk

into the child’s cup, she doesn’t stop.

She pours until the cup is full, until

it spills across the counter, ’til it spills

onto the floor. She pours and pours

until the kitchen is flooded in milk,

it is up to her knees, it is up to her waist,

it is dammed against the kitchen door,

which she opens, then she floats the creamy tide

into morning, riding atop the pearly tide.

With one hand, she waves at her neighbors,

with the other she continues to pour the milk.

She is surfing now through the streets of town,

past the bank, past the school, past the crowd

who has gathered to stare. “Oh,” they say,

with a shake of their heads, “she has really lost it

this time, bless her heart,” and they step

on the curb to keep their feet from getting wet,

and she smiles and blows them a one-handed kiss,

and with her other hand she pours and pours.

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Concourse B

She walks so easily down the concourse,

the young woman in the short dress and sandals,

her purse slung across her slender shoulder.

She’s not encumbered by much that I can see—

no children pulling on her shirt, no carry on

rolling behind her, no backpack or heavy purse.

I can’t help but notice how light she might feel,

what with her skiff of a sundress. I can almost smell

the freedom like a perfume she doesn’t know

she is wearing. I was like her, once, at least that

is what I would like to think, though I know better

than to project this way. It is easy to imagine

that she is free in ways I once was, though

never knew. Who can say what invisible chains

weight us down. Looking back, I notice

how little I noticed then. On a whim,

I decide to pretend I am older now looking back

at myself. Oh look, look at her, how light she is.

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This Very Here

And then came the day
when I knew to stop asking
to be anywhere else,
when somehow I no longer
believed any other garden
was better than this one,
when I wanted only
these weeds and this field.
There will come a day,
I am sure, when I forget.
But today, oh the freedom
of being utterly tethered
to this very here with no
other dream, no plan
for other plots, just
a song on my lips
that I sometimes know how
to sing and sometimes
have to hush to hear
how it goes.

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Love Bent the Bars

hiding in this cage
felt so safe until
I began to notice
what else
was hiding in this cage

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The sea lion swims in the glass-framed pond
with his eyes closed. Lap after lap, he barely
seems to move his great webbed feet, his smooth
gray body flexes and curves. I try to imagine his eyes
are closed in contentment, but that is such
an utterly human wish. It is human to wish—
to see what we want to see, to believe what we want
to believe. The sea lion swims in his cage
with his eyes closed. I can’t stop watching.

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It’s an Inside Job


Before we can be what we are meant to be, we must accept what we are not.
–Mark Nepo, The Book of Awakening , June 29

Bird in a cage
every day she drops the seeds
till beneath her
then all around her
a tangle of wild things.

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