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Posts Tagged ‘inspiration’

Inspiration

 

 

 

And then one day, everywhere you look,

a door, waiting for you to open it.

In the apple tree. In the parking lot.

 

in a blade of grass. In each stone.

Not that it appeared because you are here.

More that it always existed and now

 

you can see it. In the asphalt drive.

In the dotted line. In the telephone ring.

In the scent of lemon. And every door

 

a world you might choose to enter.

Kiss on the neck. Cloudy sky.

Magpie wing. News headline.

 

You can’t possibly enter them all.

Button hole. Rising bread.

Sometimes you can go back

 

and the door will still open. Sometimes,

even on the most familiar path,

you can never go back again.

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One Not Quite Accident

years before the fire

the match in your thoughts—

what isn’t tinder

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And if you are lucky, you might stand

in the place where the horses were loaded

before they were led to look for gold, for silver.

There are journeys you, too, wish to take,

though you know now that the journeys

you long for the most are often made

by pledging yourself to a place.

The old stone walls were built with flow in mind.

Even now, they keep nothing out—not the sunlight,

not the wind, not the curve of your imagination.

And every window is an invitation

to see the same beauty framed a new way.

What might be possible here? No way to pretend

to predict the infinite. Still, this chance

to show up, to serve our own passion

in a toast to potential, and to be humbled

by our own hearts so eager to be opened.

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10-5-15 Finding Poetry in Life

Join me in Grand Junction at the library this coming Monday, at 6 p.m. for a conversation/reading/presentation as part of their ongoing “Inspiring Presentations” series. Free!

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not once

has a firework apologized

for being so bright—

like that, I think,

live like that

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No Strings

Here, we might say, here is where

a road should be. But road there is none.

Isn’t that like us, thinking we know

the world better than the world itself.

There isn’t a road. That is clear.

And we want one. That’s clear, too.

And we don’t like the fact

there is no visible road.

Whether our intention is to run away

or to move closer to,

well, that changes, doesn’t it.

And isn’t it just like us to think

we need a road. Instead,

there is this change of light,

this scent of rain. There is

nothing we might call a path,

but there is this urge

to begin to move, this desire

that causes the legs to lift,

again and again and again,

less as if we are marionettes,

more as if there is some inner drive

more real than even the real world,

and it helps us step one more step,

one more step toward what we do not know.

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Wearing their life vests made of cork
the Kolb brothers rowed their canvas boat
down the Colorado River.
I watched them on scratchy black and white film.
It was different then—no dams,
no crowds—only no different.
Humpback chub and pinyon jay,
mule deer and cliff rose,
ponderosa pine, white roar
of the rapids and two billion years
of geologic record.
Revelation must be passed through
with the whole body,
though the brothers were not looking
for revelation. They were looking for,
well, only they can say, and they are gone.
I did not intend to travel to their home
at the edge of the cliff,
but when I found their legend,
I felt an uplift, a collision, a drifting apart.
Is that, too, what revelation is? I swallowed
their story as if it might carve me,
undermine any harder layers
so they might collapse,
might erode me into whatever
is essential, a woman who longs
to launch herself into the flow,
no matter how flimsy
her protection, no matter
how loud, how unruly it is.

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