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Posts Tagged ‘heart’

Made to Love


 
 
That love is complicated
is no surprise—
consider the human heart
pumps blood to almost
seventy-five trillion cells,
and if we were to stretch
out our blood vessel system,
it would extend over
sixty thousand miles.
Of course, things
get tangled and messy.
 
And perhaps, love is also
not so complicated.
Perhaps it’s as easy
as waking up in the night
and feeling the darkness hold us.
As effortless as sipping
sweet licorice tea
and letting it warm the body.
As inclusive as the lily’s white perfume
that touches the whole room.
Yes, perhaps loving is as instinctive
as the human heart that beats
over a hundred thousand times a day—
not because we ask it to,
not because we try,
but because that’s what
it was made to do.
 
 

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Hearing Aid



 
 
I slipped my ear
into your pocket
close to your heart.
It wanted to be near
the steady thump
of those chambers,
a rhythm more reassuring
than any lullaby.
My ear likes it there
against your chest,
likes the warm hum
of your voice floating
over it, your words
indistinct through the cloth.
Forgive this eavesdropping
on the pulse of you,
but it is the only news
that interests my ear today
while the rest of me
works far away.
Yes, the only thing
my ear wants to hear
is the red song of you
like a faithful drum beating
here, here, here.
 

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Scale

The heart
is perhaps
more bonsai
than redwood—
constrained
by the size
of its container—
still, it branches,
it grows,
learns to thrive
inside,
no less
remarkable,
no less
evergreen.

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The swirling ash

doesn’t try

to be become

log again.

The flying leaves

don’t attempt

to return

to the tree.

The girl

can’t untwist

her genome

back into

separate strands.

The flour

in the bread

can’t return

to the sack,

can’t undo

the kneading

of hands.

In all things

lives a memory

of letting go

and the chance

to transform

into what

it can’t know.

What do you say

to that, heart?

Good self,

what do you say

to that?

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There is treasure in you.

—Joi Sharp

If you were here

I would put my hand

on your heart

and hold it there

until our breaths

became a single tide,

hold it there until

I could feel the moment

when you remember

your infinite value.

It’s so easy to forget

we are treasure.

So easy to lose track

of our own immeasurable worth.

The chest rusts shut.

We think we are empty.

Amazing how easily

we are fooled into believing

we’re paupers.

Sometimes it takes another

to remind us

we have always been

not only the treasure

but also the key.

Though the hinges

are a metaphor,

the treasure is not.

We were made to open,

to share our priceless gift,

to press our hands

to each other’s hearts

and hold them there

until we all remember.

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Stubborn

When the brain is separated from the heart, it is capable of doing terrible things to each other and the planet.

—Jane Goodall

And so I try to tend the path each day

between brain and heart.

Whatever smallnesses I trip on,

I try to remember to bow as I remove them.

Whatever weeds try to overrun it—

weeds of should and shame—

I try to yank them out, knowing full well

I never get the whole root.

The more I travel the path,

the easier it is—

though steep sometimes,

and the effort to go on

makes me weep.

And sometimes, it feels unfamiliar,

though I’m sure I’ve travelled this way before.

Frightened, lost, tired, exposed—

yet I try to find and preserve the path.

Because the stakes are too high

when the path is gone.

Because the healing is so great

when I honor the path

step by stubborn step.

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Endurance

In the middle of my heart

is a meadow with tall golden grass

and a big blue blanket

spread out like an invitation.

I never fold it up.

Not ever.

It is always the right time

to meet you there.

The light is always golden.

The air is always sweet.

Even when I ache.

Even when my heart

ticks in my chest,

not like a clock,

like a bomb.

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Library Cardiac

In the library of my heart

are thousands of slim volumes.

There are no rules

against dog earring pages.

Writing in margins

is encouraged.

There are many comfy chairs,

sage and amethyst rugs,

and surprisingly tall ceilings

with ladders for reaching

the highest shelves.

Dust never collects here,

the cream candles never burn out,

though sometimes

a chapter or two is lost

and no one notices.

It smells of vanilla

and lavender and old paper.

It smells of autumns

and moonlight and loss.

Is it any wonder

I sometimes go days

without leaving here?

But sometimes,

though I have in my hand

the key to get in,

I just can’t find the door.

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One Comfort

good to remember

when I feel like I’m drowning—

the heart floats

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Remedy

 

 

 

Not tea, not pills,

not herbs, not tinctures,

not creams, not salts,

not drops, not injections—

what the heart needs

tonight is a song

so true that its cells rhyme

themselves with the beat.

Tonight, the only medicine

this tired heart needs

is to listen.

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