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Posts Tagged ‘lost’

Direction

 

 

lost in this meadow

deep in the grass

so easy to think

there is no path—

 

ask the mice

ask the stars

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It is not so bad to be lost.

Being lost only rankles when you’re sure

you are heading somewhere.

But once you’ve been lost long enough,

you stop believing in arrivals.

When you are lost, you can walk

in any direction, toward that mountain,

for instance, without worrying

you should be walking toward work.

You can smell the frying of peppers and onions

in oil and be led by your nose.

When you’re lost and don’t feel any need

to find a way, every path leads you

exactly where you need to go.

 

You think it’s so important to have direction,

to follow the steps to a goal.

I can tell you feel a bit sorry for me,

poor lost soul, And then with a look

at your watch, off you go to your next place

to be. You gaze lands down the road,

your foot urging the gas. But if you went slower,

what would you see? And if you didn’t know

how the path goes, where else, where else

might you go? Who else might you be?

And I, I will wander, perhaps, among

the chamisa and sage. Who knows

what might happen next?

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Just because we can’t imagine

what it will look like, this path,

doesn’t mean it won’t appear.

Just today, I took a detour

off the interstate when a rolled semi

closed down all the lanes.

The GPS suggested

a back road, which turned

into dirt road, which turned

into dozens of switchbacks,

one hairpin turn after another

rising up and away from the route

I had planned. The GPS died.

No one else going the same way,

which always makes a mind wonder.

Just because we have little idea

where we are doesn’t mean

we are lost. And being lost

doesn’t mean we aren’t right where we

are meant to be, off on our own,

more alert than before

amongst the ten thousand

shades of evergreen.

Eventually, the detour proved true,

and I was back on pavement,

then back on the interstate.

the taste of dust on my lips.

 

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Bliss in Fifteen Minutes

 

 

 

Lost in the woods

I tell myself it is not so bad

to be lost—

just look at the curve

of that red rock wall,

just listen to that wind,

how it finds everything.

How lost can I be?

The scent of juniper

finds me again, again,

again.

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Strange Prayer

 

 

 

When we know

we are lost

it seems

so obvious

to stop,

pay closer attention,

ask for help.

 

May we always

see

how

we

are

lost.

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sometimes it's clear

Lost: One woman, fortyish,
brown hair, tall, hazel eyes,
wearing black boots, jeans,
maroon sweater. Last seen
walking toward the edge of
what she thought was
possible. Can be identified
by a freckle on her left
pinkie finger. If seen,
ask her if she found the edge.
If she says yes, tell her to go
get lost again. That any edge
she can find is an illusion.
Tell here there is no
reward for her return.

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A Little Self Talk on a Snowy Evening

You are surely lost.
When is the last time
you knew the way home?
Was it back at that gas station
where you bought the chips
before you pulled out into the night?
Though even then the snow
was hurling its white fists into your lights.
But that was before your heart started
leaping like a startled deer into the
oncoming lane of your throat.
Oh darling, who are you kidding.
You were already lost even then.
Sure you could have pointed
to a dot on the map and said,
Exit 179, Here I am. But that
is just the game we play.
Something to satisfy our jumpy brains.
You have been lost since the day
you first could say your name,
the moment you knew yourself
as other, as separate, as something
that could be lost. Sometimes,
like now, when you think you
don’t know where you are,
see if you can lose a little more.
Your certainty. Your words. Your ideas.
Your shame. And maybe then,
off the map, out of hope, exposed
and unknowing, maybe that
is home.

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Making It

Not once did I think I was lost today
in the trees, but part of me wished
I were lost. It wasn’t the lost part so much
I was craving, but the thrill of feeling found.

Once I was lost in a strange city. I had
stepped off the tram at the stop where
the cathedral was. We were going to visit,
my mother and brother and I.
I went straight for the station’s candy stand, and stared
at the brightly wrapped sweets, then turned
to ask my mom for one. And she was not there.
Sure she had left the station, annoyed with my wanting,
I ran up the stairs toward the light
of the street. But she was not there.

Meanwhile, on the green line, my mother
had fallen asleep. Mom! said my brother,
Mom! When she woke, I was gone. She was sure
we were playing a trick. She checked under
all the seats. The adjacent cars.
She was without her ten-year-old girl in Boston.

I lost my mommy, I told the policeman.
He was standing right there on the corner.
He wiped my eyes, then took my hand
and walked me to the cathedral.
Out front, a man was having a seizure.
His arms flailed. His tongue wagged.
He flopped about on the square. Don’t worry,
the policeman said to me. He walked me right past.

Candles. Candles everywhere. Singing.
And stained glass. And marble statues.
And not my mother.

At the station, the policemen gave me candy.
As much as I wanted. M & Ms and Starburst.
I told them where we were staying in the outskirts.
They drove me there with the sirens off.

And though I was not lost today,
I still had in me something of the joy
that I had on that day when I was recovered
and delivered safely, through wildly good luck.
And why not feel joy. Today is as good as any other day
to celebrate finding my way home, no matter
how well I know my way around these woods.

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Lost

It was the scent
that drew me there
to the edge of the woods,
the heavy sweetness
of lily of the valley.
And at the edge
of the trees,
I found them,
tiny white umbels,
crenellated bells,
close to the dark,
dank earth.
And then the deep purple
of wild violets—
I followed their fan-like faces
into the shade,
moving from one bunch
to another, gathering
a small bouquet—and then
trilliums! Trilliums!
The thick cream of their petals.
rising above the whorl
of three green leaves. Trilliums!
I knew not to pick—
my mother had taught me
to honor them.
So I sat beside
the white blossoms
before looking up.
Trees. Trees. More trees.
No path. No field. No edge
of the lake. No sense
of how I had come.
I remember I slowly stood
and turned. And turned.
So very alone.
So much beauty still clutched
in my hand. So much darkness
all around. And how did I get there?
And what should I do? I remember
the scent of the lilies. I remember
not wanting to be found.

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That Was the Day

I ran for it, her leg,
and clung to the green plaid
of her pants while she flipped

through boy’s shirts on a circular rack.
I’d been hiding beneath them.
Why did she not right away tell me

but let me, how much later,
look up to see the glasses,
the perfect blonde hair,

the whole Kmart kaleidoscoping
around the woman not at all
my mom. The shirts,

their sleeves hung so empty by.
I was found in the toothpaste aisle.
Perhaps I looked unchanged,

but that was the day I knew
I could lose her, my mother.
I followed her past the blue lights

to the checkout, still crying, no longer
the same girl who walked into the store,
not letting go of her hand.

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