Posted in Uncategorized, tagged haiku, humanness, love, poem on August 17, 2013| 1 Comment »
holding three flowers
thinking only of the fourth
that lost its petals
*
valentines
in August, a heart-shaped
hole in the night
*
unfolding memories
trying to read through
the creases, the tears
*
staring at the aspen
all those living scars
so beautiful
*
another hole, another
hole, my wounds make it lovelier
this music
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged acceptance, body, bow, humanness, humility, poem, practice, suffering on June 26, 2012| 3 Comments »
I bow to the ache of it,
the deep inner eating
away at itself, I bow
to the shivers, the gooseflesh,
the waves of nausea and pain.
I bow to the unnamed,
to question, to dark.
And I bow to the fear
that swells in small spaces
and the vast quiet
that dissipates the fear.
I bow to every other human
who hurts and I bow
to the yellow flowers tonight
blooming in the muck
where the river used to be.
I bow to the ache, goddammit,
I bow to it and I bow
to the reluctance to bow to it,
bow to the longing to shove
it all away, and I bow,
hush now, just bow.
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged Amy Schilling, haiku, humanness, petroglyph, poetry video on May 29, 2012| 4 Comments »
this heavy shell
I sometimes forget it, too
is holy
*
your eyes
everywhere I look
your eyes
*
god needed a flute
tried blowing into me—no note
still too much of me here
*
it sure does make
a lousy guard dog
pride
*
every pore, every
bone, every hair, every cell
an altar
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged humanness, life, love, mortality, paradox, poems, poetry on March 31, 2012| 5 Comments »
A gift for you my heart would bring—the sweet release of everything, the breath I take before I sing…
—Jan Garret, JD Martin and Lisa Aschmann
This is what
we were born for—
the almost unbearable
softness of grass,
the sweet perfume
of blue weeds in spring,
listening to voices
that cannot be heard,
and reaching for that
which can never be held.
The popping sound
of the daffodil bloom,
Having our hearts
ripped open, and again
ripped open, ripped open,
still beating,
the weeping, the salt,
the communion of blood,
the awkwardness of it all—
and the grace.
The wanting and
the wanting to not want,
the roar of the river’s brown shush,
wings we don’t have,
the new leafing out
of the old, old cottonwood tree
and the long walk
to the cemetery
not long enough.
Oh this beautiful ache.
Ashes, we are not ashes
yet.