Posted in Uncategorized, tagged choice, life, poem, poetry on March 31, 2015| 1 Comment »
standing on the unstable
edge of the life raft—
choosing to fall in
*
between one wave
and the next, writing
love poems to breath
*
everything that hasn’t
happened yet—
the end
*
the urge to take control—
by controlling
the urge to take control
*
finding a life raft
on the inside—
resting there
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged death, ekphrasis, life, poem, poetry, window on December 19, 2014| 1 Comment »
No space of regret can make amends for one life’s opportunities misused!
― Charles Dickens, ”A Christmas Carol”
Through the window, I see myself,
dead. The white sheet doesn’t cover
my feet, and they stretch, stupid and pink,
off the edge of the gurney. There is too little
callus on them. They should be dirty
from walking the world. What a waste to die
with clean feet. The earth would not be
so covered in dirt if we were supposed to stay clean.
And there I am, facing away from the corpse.
So human to want to turn away. My sleeves
are rolled up, but my hands hang empty.
And here on the street, I see in the window
some semblance of my face,
not quite transparent, but substanceless.
I pick up a rock small enough to throw,
big enough to break the glass. No.
I drop the rock, untie my shoes instead.
This poem is a response to a picture, part of Rattle’s Ekphrasis challenge …
http://www.rattle.com/images/ekphrasisbernal.jpg
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged birthday, death, life, poem, poetry on November 3, 2014| 3 Comments »
They know what we do not.
Not that I envy the dead their knowledge.
I am grateful to be one of the ones standing here
amidst the crumble of granite and marble
while the words of Merwin and Yeats and Hafiz
weave into the quiet of the graveyard air.
I am curious, but not eager to slip out of this
human garment. What a blessing
to have a body, to look long into another human’s eyes,
to hold each other as we weep, to laugh
and to kiss and to wander arm in arm through the cemetery
on a day when the sun and rain both have their way.
What a blessing to read poems in the presence
of the dead about what it means to be alive.
Before we leave, we sing a prayer for every being—
and though I stumble on the words and fumble
the tune, and though I do not know who
might grant the prayer, I sing, I sing.
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged beauty, life, poem, poetry, time on October 19, 2014| 2 Comments »
Sometimes, astonished by beauty
the heart fumbles the next beat
and the breath stops—it sounds awful,
right? but you know as I do that these
are the finest moments in life,
when we somehow escape the bells
of the hours and shackles of language
and wade in the edgeless fields of infinity.
But then the involuntary nervous system
kicks in again with its relentless drive
to pulse, inhale, exhale, and blink, and the brain
begins to rifle for a word or two to explain, to share,
perhaps to prove what a strange and beautiful
terrible marvel just happened.
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged alter ego, coffin, death, life, poem, poetry on October 13, 2014| 5 Comments »
Wild Rose Goes Shopping for a Coffin
Not the one with airplanes painted on it.
Though it was fun to climb inside and pretend
she was the pilot, passing out barf bags to imaginary corpses.
Not the bamboo one, too bamboo-ey.
Not the willow one lined with wool. It scratched her face
during her afternoon nap. The salesman really didn’t like
the whole nap thing, but Wild Rose just invited him in to join her.
Not the sixteen-gauge stainless steel with hermetic seals.
Sure it looked durable, but when she danced in it,
it made such a racket, and not the kind of racket she liked.
The mahogany, too somber. And the blue and white veneer
reminded her of her Holly Hobby lunchbox from second grade.
Well, she told the salesman, there’s nothing here for me.
Stepping out into the sharp autumn wind, she’d never felt so alive.
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged life, poem, poetry, sadness on March 18, 2014| 2 Comments »
As it is, I would rather be
a something else today. A vine
or a wind or a crocus leaping
purple-ish and fragile out of the earth.
Or rather to be the bulb that did not
come up. No one to please and no one
to disappoint and keenly unaware
of so much misery. I am not suggesting
that today is not a blessing.
I do not mean to be ungrateful
for this precious, amazing life.
There are plenty of reasons to fall
in love with the world today, including
the wind, the crocus, the bulbs and the
hands that planted them, but I
am too tired for falling in love,
and my pockets are full of sadnesses.
Which is perhaps, another reason
to fall in love with the world,
the fact that I have pockets at all,
only it’s very quiet. And resembles
a bruise. And very not what
I thought love was. I would curl
into a corner, but no corner
is small enough. There is always
more space. And every wall
becomes a mirror. And every
sorrow seems to smile at me
with gentle eyes and say,
it isn’t what you thought
it was now, is it?
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged death, fate, life, poetry, short poem on March 17, 2014| 1 Comment »
watching them move,
those lips you haven’t
kissed me with
*
I am equal parts
delight and distraught—
the melting pond
*
on my inner thigh
impression of twisted sheets—
by noon all is lost
*
I am not the one
behind the bars, but her story
imprisons me
*
another day, another
day, another day I
haven’t died
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged life, poem, poetry, snow on February 1, 2014| 1 Comment »
By the time I am done
shoveling snow, already
two more inches
have covered the drive
where I first began to shovel.
This is how it always is.
Unfinished. Like the dishes
that find their way to the sink
just after the last dish is done.
Or the dust that already
starts to collect on the piano
right after the duster is gone.
Or the words I wish I would
have said but could not find
when you were here, how they
rush in the moment
you leave. There is always
more to be said, to be done,
to be heard, to be lost.
Just last week that pain
that I have been living with,
it left, just for a little bit,
and then, just as I began
to believe it was gone
it was back full bore.
Oh life, thank you for
all the returns. For the cat bowl
that always needs to be filled,
for the hunger that never quite
goes away, for the love
that changes and changes again,
for the snow that continues
to fall and for whatever mystery it is
beneath inside around above
it all that never ever changes.
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged life, poem, poetry on January 5, 2014| 4 Comments »
I fill this bucket
and empty this bucket
and fill this bucket
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged death, ekphrasis, gratitude, life, poem, poetry on December 4, 2013| 4 Comments »
Notice, says the docent,
how the slash of flesh
creates a diagonal across the canvas.
This creates movement,
he explains, makes the painting
dynamic, more alive.
The slash is Jesus. His naked body
is clearly not alive. His blood
has stilled inside the pale skin.
The people around him
wear the pink stain of anguish,
behind them the sky skews toward black.
After forty four years,
I have never seen a dead body
unaltered by a mortician.
This is a fact aided by luck,
a small family, and a national obsession
with pushing death away.
Every hour, 6,319 people die.
Every minute, 105. Every second,
1.8. Excluding natural disasters.
Though it would be more polite
to say that 1.8 people passed.
Or 1.8 people breathed their last.
Or that 1.8 people departed.
Though since you started to read
this poem, over 60 people have
died, no matter what we call it.
All this perhaps explains why today
I noticed so many things
on the diagonal. The mountains,
of course. The sloping bangs
on the face of the girl. The tilt
of your voice as you greeted me.
The wine as it agreed with the angle
of the tipping glass. I noticed them because
I only this week learned have learned to notice the angle
of things, and perhaps because I am learning, too,
to notice the false guarantees.
On days such as these, I wake
and think, my god, what a gift to wake up,
what a windfall, this cold floor,
this dark of the morning
before the sun leans through the dark
to slant its faraway light into our room.
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged all souls, birthday, cemetery, day of the dead, death, life, poem, poetry on November 3, 2013| 6 Comments »
On a hill
in the sun
at the edge
of the grave
in the grass
let us meet
on the day
when the veils
are thin
between
the worlds—
and perhaps
the Aztec
goddess
will open
her fleshless jaw
so that all
the stars
fall out
as they did
today
so that we
might find them
inside
each other’s words
and speak
of darkness
with syllables
made
of light.
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged bolete, life, mushroom, poem on August 14, 2013| 1 Comment »
So easy sometimes
to forget how to be alive,
and then, walking the edges
of the spruce forest,
we come across in the duff
not just the brown cap
of boletus edulis but
that whatever it is
that we have forgotten,
simple and humble and miraculous,
it was there all along,
not really hiding,
just waiting for us
to find it.
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged letting go, life, light, love, opening, poem, poetry on June 12, 2013| 5 Comments »
What could be more
important today
than falling in love?
Look at you, with
your list of reasons,
your itemizations,
your tallies, your shoulds,
your predictions.
Walk away from
your accountings
and smell the river.
See the water ouzel
flit and bob spritely
from stone to stone,
as if traveling
from heart to heart.
Look at her diving
beneath the surface.
You don’t need
a poet to tell you
that’s a fine metaphor.
You don’t need
to squint your eyes
or tilt your head sideways
to see this is
the right time of light
for loving. Everything
is golden, my god,
even you, you
with your lists,
your inventories,
your records.
You don’t even have
to lose them
to be beautiful.
There you are,
golden, chosen
by the light, reports
and shoulds and all.
And still, such a hard sell,
this falling in love
business, as if
it will hurt, well,
you’re right about
that. Everything
you love outside
yourself will be
lost. You will break
and it will be a mess
but you will be
in good company.
Even those lists
you say you love
will leave you.
Might as well
give them a toss
on your own.
The river will take
them, no questions
asked. And in this
light, imagine
how they will shine
as they ride the waves
around the bend.
But in a light
like this it’s only
a matter of time
before you notice
how everything
shines, and surrounded
by so much beauty,
even the muck wears
a glimmer, what is
there to do but break?
God it’s messy already,
we’ve only just started,
might as well follow
that ouzel in the river
and cold as it is
dive right in.
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged failure, life, non-doing noticing, perfection, poem, poetry on June 3, 2013| 2 Comments »
I came here to fail.
To fall. To miss.
To screw up.
To backfire.
To founder.
To lose. To come
to nothing.
Ah. Now
we’re getting
somewhere.
I am here and
I am everywhere
but here. I am
a mess—precisely.
I am yours and
owned by no one.
I am no so and so.
If it could be any
other way, it would
be. But it
is like this.
Oh thank you world
a hundred hundred
times for this chance
to stumble, to lurch,
to slip.
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged death, haiku, life, poetry, short poem on May 24, 2013| 2 Comments »
I am not
in any hurry says the earth
to my breath
*
turning myself
into blue sky, meeting
you there
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged death, life, loss, love, ocean, poem, poetry, value on April 14, 2013| 1 Comment »
It disappears, the shell,
just as you reach to pick
it up. The wave, indifferent
to value, draws it in.
The shell is more precious then.
Because it is gone.
Like when a dear one dies. It doesn’t matter
if it were a surprise or something
expected. Suddenly, the last time
we saw them alive—maybe
holding a peach or sitting
in a chair—it doesn’t matter
how simple the moment was,
we replay it with a golden hue,
as if every second of listening
to bird songs or talking
about the day’s events
were precious. Remember the scent?
Remember the light as it fell just so?
Remember how normal it was.
As the normal is precious—
sitting under a tree, or walking
the beach choosing stones,
or washing dishes, making the bed,
or eating oatmeal with blueberries,
or answering the phone to hear
the other person say hello.
How easy, how impossible
to reach now for what never can be held.
For a moment we think we have it,
but our hands come up with only sand
and what’s left of the tide running
through the our fingers.
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged awakening, grace, life, poem, spring, weed on March 13, 2013| 4 Comments »
Spring comes to the sidewalk
in the longer days of March.
The sun warms the slab, and beneath
it the seeds of old weeds start to stir.
They are tiny. And who knows how,
but in the dark, they begin to grow
and put down roots and,
though it seems unlikely,
begin to push through the concrete itself.
First a hairline crack. This fissure is somehow
sufficient to provide light and water enough.
Soon there are tendrils, then whole leaves,
then the yellow blooms of new weeds.
What is it in us that knows to push?
I, too, have wintered in a dark, thick cast, one
of my own making. Cramped and dormant,
I had stopped believing in hope.
But it was not hope that cracked the shell.
Nor was it anything that I did.
It was life’s longing for itself.
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged conversation, life, lost in translation, poem on February 5, 2013| 5 Comments »
It sounded,
perhaps,
like
“Please,
pass the salt,”
but the subtitles
said
(I love you
I love you
I love you)
*
From clay
we came
and today
the ground
reached up
at me
I swear,
as if to say,
“You’re mine,”
and I told
it “Yes, thank you,
yes,
but I ain’t done
with this living
just yet.”
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged dance, Godspell, in love with the world, life, musical, poem, poetry, singing, Zikr on February 3, 2013| 2 Comments »
It starts in the shower at the Hot Springs Pool.
I am singing about the water, how good it feels,
so warm on my shoulders. I am aware there
are other people bathing in nearby stalls,
so I sing it on my breath, a little embarrassed,
but by the time I flounce into the parking lot,
I am singing in full voice to my children to please,
get in the car now, it’s time for lunch. I sashay to avoid
the mud puddles, and unlock the car doors
with a minor flourish of my hand. The car, it hums
a drone for the rest of the days characters
to harmonize against, and so, it seems, the mountains do.
They are singing in the key of February, which is a white,
steep chorus I usually do not hear over the sound
of the radio. But today, it is clear and rousing, and the snow
joins in on the long ride home. Even my son points out
how loud the flakes are as they sing against the panes. At dinner,
I chant to my girl, would you like some pears,
and the offer echoes off the roofbeams. She affirms
with an arpeggio of giggles and so I waltz to the pantry
where the pears croon a late summer sweetness right
out of the jar and onto her plate. It is, perhaps, always
this way, I think, each thing singing its singular song,
and every step a step in the dance in which we all meet
and separate and meet again, turn away and meet again,
and I can’t help but wonder what keeps us
from in every moment wildly clapping, ovation after
ovation, our hands fierce and staccato with praise.
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged death, haiku, life, Regret on January 16, 2013| 3 Comments »
doing it all again
I’d do it the same only
this time no regret
*
I told her
I only sing songs—she said
save me
*
little brown mouse
on the road, I swerve uncertain
which of us should live
