after “Stone” by Charles Simic
I cannot make them out,
these strange writings
on my inner walls.
Each time I feel closer
to deciphering the marks,
it’s as if they rearrange
themselves into new
more mysterious lines.
Some part of me deeply
wants to read them,
to know their secrets.
She takes out her eraser,
her pencil, and begins
the translations again.
Some part of me sits
easily in the midst of all
I do not understand.
She watches the swallows
trace shapes in the air
with the dark inky tips
of their wings.
Posts Tagged ‘unknowing’
Soul Searching
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged language, soul, swallow, translation, unknowing on July 18, 2026| Leave a Comment »
Letting Go of Knowing
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged forest, knowing, nature, scent, unknowing, walkiing on June 13, 2023| 14 Comments »
Walking in the sweet honey
and musky scented woods,
I keep searching for what smells
so good, until finally I let
myself be content to walk
in the woods with a honey scent,
and I give up for a time
on naming the world,
and let a step be a step,
let a scent be a scent
and know only I am lucky,
lucky to walk in the musky woods,
the air so refreshing, so sweet.
About Conviction
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged certainty, conviction, nature, poem, poetry, unknowing on October 25, 2018| Leave a Comment »
So much to learn from the fallen leaves,
the barren trees, the still green moss,
the skittish deer, the unturned stone,
the smooth gray limbs of loss,
fog hung like garland in the woods,
a secret spring, the brittle grass,
the yet unfurling truth in us,
the path that forgets it’s a path.
Revelation
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged holding on, poem, poetry, revelation, unknowing, words on October 12, 2018| 1 Comment »
Perhaps when we don’t know what to say
we have at last arrived at the one true thing—
and in our thrill to share it with words, dilute it.
It is like the seed, perhaps, that in sprouting
at last understands its purpose, only
now it is no longer a seed.
How easy it is to lose revelation.
Not that it is ever gone—more that it
drops its petals, and we are left
holding an empty stem, trying
to remember how beautiful it was,
failing to see how beautiful it is.
The Wayfarer Speaks
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged Hieronymus Bosch, love, poem, poetry, spiritual path, The Wayfarer, unknowing on October 7, 2018| 2 Comments »
written after viewing The Wayfarer by Hieronymus Bosch, circa 1500
I have learned to love the broken world,
the holes in the roof, the shutters unhinged.
I have learned to love the tapped out barrel
and shattered panes and the stench of men.
And I, I love being a man, which is why, I suppose,
even now as I walk toward some new life,
some life as yet unknown, I turn.
I turn, but do not stop. I turn to see
the life I’ve loved, my home, my friends,
my ochre lot. And trust my feet to lead me,
trust my hidden heart. Trust the bird outside
the cage who guides me through the dust.
And though I know there will be struggle,
though I’m lost to where I’m going,
I begin to fall in love again, this time
with the unknowing.
Chapter Two
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged narrator, poem, poetry, unknowing on September 8, 2015| 1 Comment »
So when the narrator of my life
told me she needed a vacation,
what could I say? She was tired,
she said, and wanted to get away
for a while, preferably somewhere
with a beach and no children,
no poems, no dinners to make, no
lawn to mow. And oh, by the way,
she said, when I come back,
my rates are going up. Of course,
I said, wondering about the present
rate, and just how much I already owed.
Oh yes, she said, and while I am gone,
keep it straight. Present tense only.
No highfalutin’ language. Just the facts.
And spell everything correctly.
Even since she’s been gone, I have
this strange feeling that nothing’s
ever happened. And nothing ever will.
And that I am some stranger I’ve never
met living in a place I never knew.
What Was the Question?
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged chosen, inquiry, knowing, poem, poetry, unknowing on March 11, 2014| 2 Comments »
in the sweets shop
standing in front of the shelves
unable to choose—
realizing that I am the one
who wants to be chosen
*
unable to see
the mountain at the end
of the clouded valley—
never once doubting
it is still there
*
choose me, choose me,
choose me, I say to the world,
but of course I mean
choose me
the way I want to be chosen
*
outside, of course,
preferably in the sun, far
away from all
other eyes, an inchworm takes
all day to measure one lily
*
all day asking
myself, what would be lighter,
and even lighter
than this, all day I land
more softly
*
who is the one
who thinks she wants to be chosen?
leaning into the
infinite whatever it is
that notices her wanting
On the Way
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged love, poem, poetry, unknowing, willingness on January 29, 2014| 2 Comments »
The evening decides to walk in the door.
And by evening, I mean me. And by walk
in the door, I mean to go home. And by home,
I don’t know what I mean. A woman
thinks she knows who she is and then
she is not that who at all. There are ravens
in her hair. There is a snake in her side.
There is something untamed in the night.
It tugs at all colors until they dissolve.
It scrubs away all shapes, all names.
And by night, I mean a different shade of love.
And by shapes, I mean these old thoughts.
And by names, I mean all these labels
we’ve learned. By untamed, I mean
I am ready to walk through any door.
F Equals
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged acceleration, laws, physics, poem, poetry, unknowing on October 15, 2013| 2 Comments »
At the campfire, Sam’s father
tells me that Newton’s Second Law
is not always true. I add it to
my growing list of rules to not
depend on. Let’s say in this equation,
the woman is the mass. This is,
of course, a private joke, and
she can laugh about how inconsistent
the mass might be. Fix her to a moment, then,
say that Sunday morning when her kitchen
smelled of apples simmering whitely on the stove,
the steam of the giant canning pot filled
the room with warmth. Let’s say the force
is the voice of the man as he says
the words he knows she hates to hear.
The force is soft spoken and low. Then a equals
the increasing rate at which the woman’s heart races
then runs from the room, though her body still stands
behind the green counter, stirring the simmering fruit.
And a is the increasing rate at which her tears fall.
And a is the rate of the wind as it moves the storm closer
to the walls of the house where the kitchen is warming.
And a is the rate at which the mass learns yet again
that she must be her own bliss.
And what has happened to value m? There is less
of her now than the equation might suggest.
I believe you, I say to Sam’s dad. The fire
snaps between us. The leaves rustle
in the wind. In a perfect world, I could
measure them. In a perfect world, I wonder
what happens to the force.
Rich Beyond Wishing
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged ee cummings, freedom, poem, poetry, unknowing on October 7, 2013| 7 Comments »
(though love be a day
and life be nothing,
it shall not stop kissing)
–e. e. cummings, Thy Fingers Make Early Flowers
Make me then a flower
that is unashamed of blooming.
And make me a river undammed.
Make me a leaf that surrenders to death
but surrenders even more in life.
And make me a dawn that keeps
unfolding, a book that has no last chapter,
a phone that rings only love.
Paint me rose and then unpaint me.
Make me the door that forgets
how to latch, and just in case,
make me the skeleton key.
Make me a black wing that gathers
the light and gathers the wind,
and make me the light as it breaks on the wing
and make me the homeless wind.
And What Is It that Fuels the One Who Thinks She Is Thinking
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged auxin, letting go, plant cell, poem, poetry, unknowing, wanting on October 4, 2013| 1 Comment »
On the spiritual path, there’s nothing to get, and everything to get rid of. Obviously, the first thing to let go of is trying to ‘get’ love, and instead to give it. That’s the secret of the spiritual path. How can we give ourselves? By not holding back. By not wanting for ourselves. If we want to be loved, we are looking for a support system. If we want to love, we are looking for spiritual growth.
– Ayya Khema, “What Love Is,” Tricycle Magazine
Forgive me for wanting, dear.
I have wanted so much. Your eyes,
for instance. Your hands. Your arms.
Your thoughts. I have wanted your name.
Your time. Your words. I have wanted
your now. Your yes. Your forgiveness.
Yesterday I read about dying wood cells,
how they dissolve themselves as they die,
leaving their cellulose walls as infinitesimal
tubes in the stems and veins of the leaves.
And water pushes through the tubes
and nourishes the plant. It’s elegant,
this dying, this giving at the end.
There’s more. The dying cells
in fact release a hormone that fuels new growth.
And the growth leads to death, and death
leads to growth and on and on it goes.
What I’m saying is what if thoughts are like plant cells,
and as they die, they leave more space.
And what we once thought we knew for certain
becomes an empty frame. And the new thoughts
flow in like water and become us as we grow.
Thoughts such as there is nothing to get
and everything to let go.
What I Would Bring You
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged love, nature, poem, poetry, presence, unknowing on June 8, 2013| 4 Comments »
Flood of lupine,
break of green,
door of sage
and yes of rain,
dandelion,
gold then wish,
home of river
bridge of breath,
silk of crow,
and lung of seed
hummingbirds
and rave of blood,
wave of kingfisher,
shy of know,
arms of blue
and moon of now,
gaze of peony,
ungauze of love,
heron wing, heron wing,
moon enough.
Who Do You Say I Am?
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged disappearing, knowing, love, poem, poetry, unknowing, wanting on May 30, 2013| 4 Comments »
You are the path
beside the stream
and you the snowmelt,
too. You the cumin
in the curried soup,
and you the empty spoon.
You the wreath
of dried flowers hung
on my door, and you the hinge,
the lock, the knob,
the latch, the key,
the draft
that whispers in.
I have wanted you
to be other things
because that is how
I am. But you are
the sky that holds
the moon, and you
are the moon and
the finger that points.
And you are the night
that craves the sun
and then disappears when
so lightly it comes.
The Price of Right
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged letting go, love, peace, poem, Right, sonnet, unknowing on January 27, 2013| 3 Comments »
So much grace available, but how we receive it depends on what we can let go of.
—Joi Sharp
Inside the place where we are right, the rain
can never fall. Inside the place where we
are right, the leaves fall yellowed off the trees.
No breeze. No bells. No peaches. We explain.
We judge, contend, defend and claim, maintain
our certainty. And meanwhile, we don’t see
the lilacs wilting, grasses browning, bees
without their hives, lost crows, the sunset drained.
But sometimes in this shrinking cage of right
wings in a doubt. A question. Nothing’s clear.
And see how soon the crows return, a slight
of breeze, a scent of rain. I’ll meet you here,
this open place, exposed, unclosed. How light
spills in as our defenses disappear.
The End
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged answer, dead, knowing, living, poem, question, unknowing on December 27, 2012| 2 Comments »
Dusting the heads
of dead animals,
I think of how much
my father cherishes
this antelope, this duck,
this winged thing I cannot name,
and I understand that it is not
the thing itself that still
thrills him and makes
him want to keep it on the wall,
but the memory of the thing,
how alive it was, how alive
he was in the killing of it.
*
Over tempura, Pam tells me
of the time that she went
to a man’s home, and there
on the couch was his rich wife,
stuffed, her hand stretched out
in eternal greeting. It had been
in her will, the taxidermic clause
stating that he would lose everything
if he buried her. I sip my sake
and laugh, perhaps because
it is funny, perhaps because
I do not know what to say.
*
Though it is snowing
the room is filled with slant sunshine
and the light does what light does,
it seeks out the darkness.
I feel how what I think I know
has become something dead,
though once it greeted me
with open hands. Though once
I was ripe with it.
*
If we’re made of dust
what is doing the breathing?
*
Not that I want
an answer to that.
Only to be a vehicle
for asking.
*
In the parking lot,
the sound of geese.
No one could say
it is beautiful,
the strangled song
slicing the cold, clear air.
But they’re singing,
my god, they are singing.
Somewhere in Cygnus
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged poem, solar system, sun, unity, unknowing on November 27, 2012| 3 Comments »
Just before sleep,
my son says he heard
about a solar system
with three suns.
I try to imagine
the gravity of it,
wonder how
it might change
our ideas of god
not to mention love
if we, too, looked up
and saw all that light.
check it out here:
http://www.sciencedaily.com/releases/2005/07/050715222557.htm
Doce Pequeños de Nicaragua
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged love, Nicaragua, poem, poetry, travel, unknowing on November 25, 2012| 4 Comments »
One day, el escorpion.
Another day, la tarantula.
I learn quickly
to watch
where I step.
*
Settling into
this routine: just another
perfect sunset.
*
Red and voluptuous
this flower
in the wetlands.
We ask the guide
its name.
Labia de puta,
he says,
then translates
with his blush.
*
The bird
I cannot see
gives me its song.
I give it
my silence.
*
That white-faced monkey,
that cucaracha, that sparrow, that stone—
always meeting myself.
*
Never again to return
to the waterfall
cold rush of clear
I die a small death.
The trail away from
is worn the same
as the trail toward.
Not emptiness but
spaciousness grows
around the loss.
They are the same,
only not the same.
In the growing space,
a parade of ants
marches past, the cut leaves
on their backs
still bright green.
*
The waves roll my body
into the sand and
away again.
Above me,
the vultures slow
their circling,
their heads
so pink against the blue.
They know
the time will come
soon enough.
*
a leaf falls—
all the arguments
I never had
*
Oh child of Colorado
crying for the mountains,
do you not feel
how the dark sand
makes space for
your every step?
*
Mama, she says,
it hurts when I touch here.
There is a bruise
on her leg
where she ran into her bed.
I consider telling her
the obvious—
Then don’t touch it, darling.
With my heart,
I touch those old thoughts.
I tell her, I know, querida,
just what you mean.
*
in the estuary
the only alligator
the one in my mind
*
I want ask him
what is it like
to live in one place
all your life.
What is it like
to know one
kind of food,
to hear one kind
of music
to make one kind of life.
I want to know
how to say
pleasure in his language,
and is it a word
he often would use.
He tells me
about what we see
out the window.
Trigo. Sorghum.
Platanos. Melon.
I nod and smile,
understanding
so little of what he says.
I want to ask
if the women
here are happy,
if people listen,
if he wonders
about who he is.
Instead, I say,
Que bonita,
esta isla donde vive.
What We Call Waiting
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged allowing, election, peace, poem, poetry, uncertainty, unknowing, waiting on November 6, 2012| 2 Comments »
And then there is
that moment after
the thrust and jostle
and sprint, after the longing
and righteousness, after the fever,
the furor, the fire, the conviction, when,
burnt out by our own
red ferocity, we see
there is nothing, nothing
to be done. There is
no defeat in this,
only release,
Then only
uncertainty is sound
enough to hold us up.
Then unknowingness is the only
place we can truly rest.
Oh World
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged loss of self, poem, poetry, self, silence, unknowing, unraveling, words on September 19, 2012| 6 Comments »
Oh world, I love you,
you with your roots
that thrust up through pavement,
you with your mudflows
and rockfalls and storms.
See how daily you feed
and destroy me. How
gorgeous your fruits,
how merciless your gravity.
I love you, world, how
you make me and fuel me
and undo me again and again. Always
another death to die
and always a new bloom.
Never the same, always
the same. World, it feels
too proud to say I am you,
you with your splendor,
you with your grace.
I am dust and ashes.
You move me, adventure me.
World, thy will be done.
My problems are not problems.
My laws all are nonsense.
My rules, my dreams are cages.
Sometimes I forget to let you
raze me. I try to wrestle
the club from your hands.
And when the destruction
is done, I try to rebuild the walls,
not seeing you were offering me
infinity. Sometimes you first bring me milk,
then tear me down tenderly,
your hands the hands of a lover
undressing me slowly, but not
stopping with the scarf, the skirt—
taking also every idea I have,
every certainty, every word,
everything I would say is mine.
World I am rambling through
the silence you hold for me.
I am like a woman dying of thirst
who splashes the water with eager hands
instead of cupping it, raising it to her parched lips.
Oh world, I am losing my mind
and laughing about it. All language
is dust, and look, you blow it away.
Still I am talking to you, crazy,
I love you, I love you. Come wind,
catch these words, rend them
from the one who thinks
she is speaking. Let them fall
all around her like leaves.