Posts Tagged ‘possibility’

I am suddenly wildly sure
my life is very possible.
I am not asked to leap off cliffs
on a motorcycle or land a parachute
on a runaway train. Not expected
to pickpocket diabolical masterminds.
Not forced to drive a car backwards
down a long set of stairs in a crowded city
while handcuffed to someone else.
In fact, all I’m asked to do
is have a few conversations that,
upon reflection,
don’t seem so difficult to have after all.
Just one word in front of another.
No guns, no swords, no knives.
No one chasing me with a pipe.
All I need are a few well-placed adjectives,
like sorry, like grateful.
A few true nouns,
like connection. Like love.

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I remember when everything was impossible.
Impossible to move. Impossible to not move.
Impossible to eat. Impossible to not eat.
Impossible to sleep. Impossible to wake.
Impossible to imagine a time
when everything wouldn’t be impossible.
Today I walk out into a world where,
at the same time, the sun shines brilliant
and snowflakes sift through the air.
When they touch my face, cold and soft,
it’s as if the god I am not sure I believe in
has used this moment as a chance
to brush impossibly delicate fingers
across my cheeks and whisper to me
in a voice I don’t hear, yet I hear perfectly,
everything is possible, sweetheart, everything.

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inspired by “Wheat Field with Crows” painted by Vincent van Gogh and “Blackbirds” composed by Kayleen Asbo

Oh Vincent, I long to pause with you
where the three paths converge in the wheat field.
We can stand there beneath the sullen sky
like two piano notes side by side,
which, when played at the same time,
rub against each other
in an awkward, uncomfortable music.
Sometimes what unsettles us
is so unbearably beautiful.
I want to meet you in this moment
before you return to a wheat field
with not a brush, but a gun,
want to meet you in this moment
before the choice, before the shot,
this moment when there are still three paths,
all of them leading beyond the frame.
Let’s linger here, Vincent,
beneath the dark arpeggios of crows,
linger here while everything is still possible.
The storm is coming, I see it, too,
turbulent and full of change
while in the honest wheat, look,
you’ve shared so much light, so much gold.

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Meet me in the moment
after the song,
a moment silent and sweeping
as the second hand
on a wrist watch,
a moment that gathers everything,
an evanescent moment
in which anything is possible,
anything at all—
the kind of moment
that feels rare
but is always here—
when we see our lives
as more shimmer than solid,
the kind of moment
that decides who we are,
then lets us choose for ourselves.

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On this longest day
I walk right through
the line of what
I thought was
impossible, hush,
can you hear it,
the sound of fear
as it dissolves
into (oh, beautiful)

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Why, sometimes I’ve believed as many as six impossible things before breakfast.

            —Lewis Carroll, Alice in Wonderland



I put off breakfast for hours,

hoping it will allow more time

for impossible thoughts to come.


They trickle in: World peace.

Inner peace. Healing.

Pure love. An abundance


of unrestricted hours.

Then, stymied,  I put off lunch.

Put off snack. Just before dinner


I meet a sixth impossible thought:

accepting the world the way it is,

falling in love anyway.


Who wants to believe in that?

But acceptance shines

through the window like a full moon,


as if it’s the only thing that makes sense.

Eventually, the night is so bright

anything seems possible.

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One Gratitude




this eager heart—

in a stuffy room, suddenly

the windows flung wide

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There are no barriers for a person with talent and love towards work.

            —Ludwig van Beethoven



Everyone knows Beethoven

went deaf, could hardly hear

by the time he composed

the Moonlight Sonata.

I think of him sometimes

when I want to believe

in impossible things.

Like great harmony

born out of dead silence.

Like love in full bloom

despite drought.

Like finding a pocket in time.

Like hope, growing like mint.

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There are darknesses in me,

places I would disregard.

Is it any wonder every year

I plant thousands of tiny seeds

and then wander the garden,

rooting for each as overnightly

they put up rows of tiny leaves.

How easily I forget what is possible.



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Never Mind It Was a Dream




because when the wise old man said

that the loving itself

was all that mattered—

somehow, for that moment,

while his suggestion still hung

like perfume in the air,

all the stubborn queries

of how and why and when

that usually knock and crack

and rap and ring, they all laid down

to take a nap,

and in that fragrant silence,

what rose was the most

beautiful tenderness,

a shining faith,

how improbably it opened

like a stone turned iris,

like a bone blooming

into spring.

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