Posted in Uncategorized, tagged love, warmth, wish on January 23, 2020| 2 Comments »
Perhaps because I am cold
I want to bring you warmth—
isn’t that how it goes?
We wish for each other
what we most want for ourselves.
And so I wish you real love,
the kind that is as familiar
as brushing your teeth, as spectacular
as the sky tonight drenching the world
in pink just before
the dark took everything.
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged jude Janett, love, poem, poetry, question on December 23, 2019| 2 Comments »
for Jude Janett
All day, I replay these words:
Is this the path of love?
I think of them as I rise, as
I wake my children, as I wash dishes,
as I drive too close behind the slow
blue Subaru, Is this the path of love?
Think of them as I stand in line
at the grocery store,
think of them as I sit on the couch
with my daughter. Amazing how
quickly six words become compass,
the new lens through which to see myself
in the world. I notice what the question is not.
Not, “Is this right?” Not,
“Is this wrong?” It just longs to know
how the action of existence
links us to the path to love.
And is it this? Is it this? All day,
I let myself be led by the question.
All day I let myself not be too certain
of the answer. Is it this? I ask as I
argue with my son. Is it this? I ask
as I wait for the next word to come.
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged love, openness, poem, poetry, relationships, tiger on November 30, 2019| 7 Comments »
Easier to keep open the doors of the heart
when a feathery breeze comes through, or
the scent of lavender, or slant of sun. Harder
when a wounded tiger comes in. Of course,
the impulse then is to run it out and close
the doors. Lock them. Barricade and block them.
But now is the time to take those locks
to the second hand store and to pull the chairs
away from the door and place them at the table,
then pour two cups of water. Say grace.
Let the tiger pace. And always, I pace, too.
Of course, I’m afraid it will hurt me.
That’s what wounded tigers do. And when
the inevitable happens, it’s hard to not wish
it were some other way. And it’s tempting
to lock those doors. But when I do, I quickly
note the lack of light in here, I want
for lavender, I rue how very stale the air.
Rather to die by tiger claw than live cut off from love.
Even now the wounds are raw, but oh, the breeze,
it touches them, and how soft it licks at my chest, my cheek.
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged conversation, love, poem, poetry, relationships on November 25, 2019| 2 Comments »
Because we are traveling,
I say, We’re on the plane.
I say, Just landed. I say, See you soon.
As always, my heart leans beyond
the transactional. Longs to say,
Tell me about the pain. Longs
to say, I feel lonely. Longs to ask,
What do I most need to know?
But it’s not easy to hear. And
there isn’t much time. Is that
just the same old excuse?
And so I say, I love you,
because it is true. Say,
Can’t wait to see you.
Say, Gotta go. All through
the flight, the heart keeps leaning,
rehearses the five
most important words:
tell me all about it.
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged love, poem, poetry on October 30, 2019| Leave a Comment »
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged birth, complexity, evolution, hand, love, poem, poetry, science, simplicity on October 23, 2019| 4 Comments »
Before you were born,
your hand had more muscles,
for instance the dorsometacarpales,
a reptilian remnant, an atavistic relic
from when all blood was cold blooded.
By the time you were thirteen weeks
in utero, a third of the muscles
in your hands and feet had fused
with other muscles. Your body
simply deleted them, proof
that before we are born,
before we are ready
to inhabit our forms,
we are in some ways
made less complex.
I think of this now as I open my hand
for your hand, think
of how much things change.
How once we had fins, then claws.
And now, look at us,
with hands that might caress,
might soothe, might reach.
God, this impulse to be warm.
And I think of how sometimes,
growth means to become more simple.
This is my prayer. To do
what the nascent body can do:
to remember where I came from,
to streamline, to know what is needed,
to know what to let go.
https://earthsky.org/human-world/Evolutionary-remnants-muscles-human-embryos
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged aggression, fencing, learning, love, opposites, poem, poetry on October 16, 2019| Leave a Comment »
You’re hesitating, says John from behind his mask.
Each time I invite you to strike, you wait. And he’s right.
Each time before I extend and lunge, I drop my sword.
It’s crazy. I tell myself not to do it, but every time
he motions to strike, instinct says: drop the sword.
John, I say, I’ve trained myself not to be aggressive.
When people are vulnerable, I do everything I can
to make them feel safe. It helps that John
is gentle. It helps that he beams at me a genuine smile.
Don’t think of it as aggression, he says. If someone
you love gives you the signal to touch them,
aren’t you always ready to meet them then?
And I am. Think of it as an invitation to touch.
I wonder how many stories I’ve hardwired into me.
Thou shalt not hurt. Thou shalt not strike.
Thou shalt not stab another with a sword.
I wonder that I struggle so instinctively now
when this is so clearly a game.
John drops his sword. I extend, I lunge.
I touch his chest through his silver vest
with the tip of my sword, then retreat.
Good, he says. Good. Again. Again.
Is this the way we learn all the rules
we have written for ourselves?
By breaking them. Is this the way
we might choose to meet our opponents?
By loving them.
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged apple, hands, love, poem, poetry, touch on October 15, 2019| 4 Comments »
It’s something the hands learn
with practice—how thin to slice
the apples for drying, how close
to cut to the core. In the same way
the hands learn to touch a lover,
how gently, how firmly, just where.
Oh the apple. What it knows
of desire. What it knows
of bruising, of bite. Oh the hands,
what they know of precision.
Of the pleasure of practice.
Of the joy in getting it right.
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged fence, love, open, poem, poetry on September 30, 2019| Leave a Comment »
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged cars, love, nostalgia, poem, poetry, religion, youth on September 27, 2019| Leave a Comment »
And coming closer, I catch a familiar scent
and lean my head in the open window,
breathe in, and I am sixteen again, and Peter
is sitting beside me and The Russians Love
their Children, Too is playing on the tape deck
and we’re singing along, the windows are down
and the night is warm and we’re finding a place
in the dark where we can park and practice ways
to fit our tall thin bodies into the tiny back seat.
And it’s summer. And I love him. And he loves me.
I’m downshifting and he has his hands up my shirt
and we’re laughing and we have no idea yet
just how much it will hurt when we learn
that love is not enough when it comes
to scripture and doctrine and who marries whom.
No, tonight, it’s just me and Peter and the generous
dark and Sting and the indifferent moon.
