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Posts Tagged ‘thoughts’


 
 
night so dark
even my thoughts dim—
then (oh!) fireflies!

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One Memoir

 
 
these beautiful thoughts
old pages turned yellow
every word still true

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A pomegranate, tennis racket,

wide open lily—basically anything

can act as a Trojan horse to get

those old ideas close to me,

and dang, I’m confronted again

with all the ways I’ve let down

the world and all the ways

I could have, I should have

done better. How many times

have I tried to escape these thoughts?

I’ve run mountain races and

written thousands of pages

and wept a spring flood and

confessed and bled and still

they find a way back to me.

Sometimes they come knives drawn,

but more often they come

wearing fluffy robes and slippers,

making themselves at home.

I cornered one today, looked it

right in the eye. What? I said.

What do I have to do?

It shook its head and said,

All I ever wanted

was for you to say thank you.

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Progress

Perhaps I am more like the earthworm

  than I thought—

    one part of me anchored in place

      while the rest of me moves forward.

    Every time I go, I also stay.

  Every time I reach ahead, part of me holds on.

Over and over, I pull myself along.

  What looks like progress is slow.

    No path except the one I make

      by letting the world move through me.

    In order to proceed, I make of myself a wave.

  In order to proceed, I must let go.

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for Colette

 

 

Beside my bed, she left

a beautiful beaded hummingbird

and a story about how the Mayans

believe that these birds will transport

all of our good wishes and desires

to another. Tonight, there is no one

I wouldn’t send this bird to—

not just to my loved ones,

but to my unloved ones, the ones

I would rather forget, the ones

I would rather ignore. Oh little bird,

with your bright body and shining wings,

let’s get to work. Let’s send out

extraordinary beauty tonight,

extraordinary love.

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One Persistence

 

 

 

in my thoughts

a tap-rooted weed

sometimes I notice

its beautiful pink blooms

before I pull it again

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It is the child of cold and warmth.

It is right it should show up

both cloudy and clear,

this union of opposites,

shaped like a spear, piercing

the silence with dripping, dripping.

It forms itself

the same way it disappears.

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scraping snow

off the car windshield—

so, too, these frozen thoughts

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It’s not so much that you want the snow

back in the drive, it’s just that your back

felt so much better before the shoveling,

 

and so, using your sideways logic, you think

to yourself that if the snow were unshoveled

your back might unhurt. And while

 

you’re at it, you think you might unthink

those thoughts you thought the night before

shoveling the drive. Though they didn’t

 

amount to any action, now that you’ve

thought them they’ve become a frame

that’s changed everything. So you start

 

with the snow, because revising that seems easier

than anything else, but to shovel it back

in the drive would seem to exacerbate

 

the problem with the back, so

you consider ways the snow might unfall,

all of them fanciful. At least for a while,

 

it amuses you, the idea of ten million

million snowflakes rising, but then

the reality of drought returns and you

 

feel guilty for unwishing the snow. No,

better to put your hope in perseverance,

better to put your hope in healing.

 

It happens. And you walk up the drive,

so snowless and clear you can safely look up

at the sky and see all those stars. The snow

 

gathers whatever light there is. It can’t

unshine. You thrill a bit in the chill. Some

of the shine reaches into you. Some of it stays.

 

 

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Slow roasted,

the beets

become tender,

sweet,

how I long

to do the same

to these hard,

red thoughts.

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