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Posts Tagged ‘poet’

Sometimes When I’m Quiet, I Think of Art Goodtimes

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , , , , on March 9, 2026| 6 Comments »


 
 
I hear the beat of his hand on the drum as he chants,
We are an old people, we are a new people, we are
the same people deeper than before. I have seen
his body explode with poetic energy, sparks leaping
from his fingers, his full voice booming inside my cells
like monsoon thunder in the mountains, and knowing
how big he can be, I feel his restraint as he sits in a circle
and listens, taming all that shakti into quiet attention
as the gourd is passed from person to person and stories
and songs and poems are shared and Art shows us how it’s done,
how together we weave the heart strands into a basket of communion,
and there no strand not welcome—thick ropes of sorrow, gold
threads of devotion, the spidery gray strands of loneliness,
red silk of holiness, scratchy gray of desolation, the deep forest
green of elation—and the circle is always and never the same,
and Art calls us in again and again to aliveness, to share
what matters, beating his drum in time with our hearts
saying welcome, welcome, welcome.

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Ode to the Woman of Odd Jobs

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , on March 14, 2025| 6 Comments »


 
Make something beautiful. Learn something.
                  —Wendy Videlock
 
 
She would not put on her resume, Dreamer of Spaces.
Encourager of Humans. Collaborator with Chaos.
Queen of the Incantation. The One Who Brings Drums.
Invoker of Imagination. Co-creator with Wildness.
One Who Lives on The Edge. Maker of Beauty.
But this how she changes the world every day—
with song. With paint. With poems. With trust.
In a time hellbent on hurt and destruction,
into every room, she brings love.
In a chapter defined by the most selfish of us,
she lives into how good humans can be
and invites anyone to join her.
Gives them a pen. A brush. A drum.
Gives them a nudge. A tarot card. An hour.
Feeds them poems. Feeds them dreams.
This, too, is our work in world, though
I doubt she would call it work:
To meet what aches. To do it together.
To open to hopelessness with wonder.
Like an artist. Like a mother.

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Grieving Barry

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , , on January 29, 2014| 4 Comments »

for Barry Spacks

the last poem he wrote
to me was in pen, about tears—
indelible metaphor

*

his words like bathtub
rings on my mind, nothing
will rub them out

*

meanwhile, our flesh
is written in lead and is already
nearly erased

*

sometimes I would
curl inside his words and make
a home there

*

into my breath
he tattooed
kindness

*

sometimes his words
would curl inside me
and then explode

*

not any of these words
the right words
oh sad alphabet

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