Posted in Uncategorized, tagged ice, personal growth, poem, poetry, river on January 28, 2016| 6 Comments »
choked with ice
the river impedes itself—
I catch myself
thinking
it is beautiful
*
why dream
of unrestricted days
says the part of me
that stands
in my way
*
love, let us
be naked together—
how did we ever
get fooled that we
are not enough?
*
dark current
its edges invisible—
just because
we can’t see the path
doesn’t mean it isn’t there
*
a lifetime,
not long enough
to watch the river move across itself
and still this moment
holds everything
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged bridge, hope, partnership, poem, poetry, river, stubbornness on March 18, 2015| 3 Comments »
It’s true, sometimes the river can’t be wide enough
between me and you. God knows it’s cold in there.
And deep. And full of secrets I don’t ever want to know.
And that old bridge joining us, sometimes I pray it falls.
Tell myself it’s better that way, what, with you over there
and no way to get over here except to swim—and I know
you won’t do that. Yeah, I say, it’s better that way,
you and me just keeping our distance. In fact,
sometimes I pretend it’s gone already, that old bridge.
But then next thing I know, I’m making up smoke signals
to say hey, there’s a really pretty light on the water tonight,
and hey, I’m wishing you would tell me that story again, the one
your mama used to tell to you when you were scared.
And that’s when I know that if that bridge collapsed,
well, I would build a new one with all my resources—
my stubbornness, my hope, my hands. It is hard
to build a bridge out of stubbornness and hope.
But I would. Sometimes it’s all we have.
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged appreciation, boat, contentment, poem, poetry, river, under appreciated on March 1, 2015| 4 Comments »
I deserve better
said the lock to the oar.
You never thank me
for holding you close.
I deserve more
said the oar to the boat.
You never praise
how I move you along.
I deserve warmth
said the boat to the river
you are always so cold,
so cold.
And the river said nothing,
nothing at all
and it kissed the earth
as it flowed.
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged cancer, fear, poem, poetry, river, singing, surgery on March 4, 2013| 3 Comments »
We were better at it then.
On the muddy desert river
in our yellow rubber boat,
you would sit in front
and I would sit in back
and as our bow
would slide onto the glossy
slick tongue of the rapid,
we’d begin to sing.
Opera. Neither of us
knew a thing about opera,
except that it made us feel
invincible to sing the highest
notes we could hit and to hear
each other trilling just above
the white roar. We thrilled
at the edge of chaos. Joy
in our ignorance. Confusion
did not seem to have the same
bite it does now when you call
me to say the surgery is Wednesday
and you’ll know then if the three tumors
are malignant. I do not sing
when you tell me. Nor after we hang up,
unless you call whimpering song.
Which perhaps it is, though I do not
feel brave, standing on the edge
of this new chaos, you in front
again, this current much stronger
than we can paddle against. I feel
our humanity, how the end is all
wrapped up in the middle,
the beginning, how little we know
and how fragile we are. I look
out the skylight at the buds
on the cottonwood trees.
They are swelling, though not
yet green. They do not resemble
what they will become,
but experience tells us
to expect a bright green unfurling.
We have no experience now
with what comes next. But we
do know how to sing a high warble,
trill it high above the hospital hum.
I am rusty, but mustering the voice
to sing to you from here,
even though I no longer believe
it will keep us from sinking.
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged allowing, flow, letting go, poem, river, surrender on September 12, 2012| 3 Comments »
Something softens when we enter the flow.
—Joi Sharp
Not that I didn’t try to find the shore.
I scraped at the stones, grasping as I passed,
clawing until my fingers bled. Not that I didn’t try
to stall in the eddy where I spiraled down,
down. I tried. I tried. What if, instead, I had
fallen in love with the angry swirl, fallen in
love with the waves’ white froth, fallen in love
with the chill, the roil. It did not last, the chaos. It delivered
me to the warm quiet water that also did not last.
At one point, though, it happened, through no effort
of my own, the small unvoice in me began to whisper,
world I love you, world I love you, world I love
you I said to the rocks, to the shore, to the heron
standing in the center of the stream as I passed.
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged dissolution, love, poem, poetry, river on August 25, 2012| 3 Comments »
The way the river meets our bodies,
meet me that way. Though I resist,
surround me. Rush to me. Lick me.
Drench me. Insist. Touch me
everywhere at once. Float me.
Don’t care about my name. Always
leaving me, always arriving.
Bring me news of the sky.
Shine me. Glisten me. Shiver me. Hush.
Bring me the moon. Bring hum.
Wet me. Wake me. The years go by.
We are more ourselves and less.
Meet me the way the river meets
our bodies, with infinite tongues,
none of them thirsty, all of them
curious. Surprise me with your
strength, your pull. Say nothing.
Meet me. My hands are stone.
Erode me. Soften me. Release me
in you. And when we are done,
kiss me anew.
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged flow, obstacle, river, song, tanka on August 6, 2012| 4 Comments »
the river song
fills the evening—an homage
not to flow
but to what
stands in its way
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged haiku, love, poem, river, solitude on April 23, 2012| 3 Comments »
empty room—
through the windows
river song
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged communion, lose the self, love, poetry, river, unity, video poem on April 5, 2012| 3 Comments »
As salt dissolves in ocean, I was swallowed up in you beyond doubt or being sure.
—Rumi, translated by Coleman Barks
Glisten and wet lick
and thick river scent—
that is everything.
Swords. Shields.
Stories of who did what
to whom and when—
and all those hows, whether
divine or horrendous—
gone.
Even these words
you and me
reduce to vacant syllables
in the face of such
movement, such shine—
I could never explain but
it rushes in so clear
that whatever
we once thought
of as other is here
in the clamor
of snowmelt, here
in the river birch
waiting for green,
here in the shove of tumbling
breath as we realize wave
and lose
all we were sure of,
lose the path
that got us here,
lose even the loss of it.
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged allowing things to be, change, haiku, letter, lupine, morning after the storm, mountain, poem, presence, river, storm on January 18, 2012| 1 Comment »
nothing holds back
the river forever—
these hands still trying
same cold, same dawn,
same landscape—even that hill
seems tired of standing
*
again I write
in my head the letter, again
I rip it up
*
and then the day came
when I sat in the lupine
instead of climbing
*
morning after
the storm each glittering limb
the most lovely