Tag Archives: poetry

what hope does

give me even a silver wisp of hope and I’ll slay every dragon.

one look in the mirror of you
betrays all the bored lies I’ve been spouting
and offers a door
straight through to the pool.

all this time spent dreaming and I dream still
but this dream is a rope my two hands know
so I will live and die following them.

I will take your face in my hands or eyes or dream
everything you give me
will be kept and used well
flower or flower meal

all feeding this idea–
(the one I’m talking about is
just as real as any letter on this page
but lit up
and alive with its own heartdrum)

these letters and faces, eyes and fingers
are simple tools for the show
but what’s built requires none of it. 

what I want to tell you about is
there is a great eye inside my chest
I’ve coupled with so securely
you can touch my skin and watch me move.

I can see you did too

So I do remember, though they say I don’t.
I remember despite this hopeless unceasing din
and I will slay every dragon on the way to you
and I will dive in every pool you offer
to wash and quiet me
into yes,
I remember
again. 

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I give and receive music as love

I give and receive music as love
because there is no second place for the kingdom of heaven
to cleanse all these flavors of longing

I give and receive music as love
because the notes write a smooth fence for my mind dog
with a bone she loves

I give and receive music as love
because the plucked string of my pain is pure fire
and cannot be put out by an imagined pool

I give and receive music as love
because it defies the urgency of consciousness–
the most earnest root cannot know the river

I give and receive music as love
because it never goes,
always resting in these teeth,
singing

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heartbeat repeat

Is anything happening in there?
have I dulled you to nothing or is a lid still tight?
thump, thump;  thump, thump
gives me no notes to make a song with.

you keep turning in the direction of the nearest sun
which right now came yesterday and left
leaving my skin burned and eyes tired
wanting empty dark

cold again, putting back pieces
I would turn about face forward
were I willing of the loss

but same-old uneasy today has nothing on you
all that love and pain
awake fresh
waving your flag
like there might still be someplace in me
left unclaimed

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The Leaf and the Tree

Mama Tree and Papa Bear

Mama Tree and Papa Bear

As I prepare to lift off for a new experience in the tropical wonderland of Bali, I am celebrating and appreciating both my parents who decided to take the leap too.  They accepted my invite to participate in the retreat I’ll be co-leading there – Soulful Relating Through Song and Dance.  It’s truly a leap for them at every level, and their courage is inspiring.  I’m really looking forward to this time with them and with everyone in the group – reflecting on the ways we connect to our self, our soul and spirit… to others and the outside world as a whole.

Gratitude is one of the most direct routes I know of to that sweet spot of connection, and it’s the key ingredient in my annual holiday poem hunting for family members.  Honestly, the tradition has given way to a (ahem) more fluid and unpredictable timeline – the poems come when the muse stikes and I make enough space in my crazy life.  This year, one made it out on time- my splash around the big pool of Thank You to Mom.

The Leaf and the Tree

I knew of a great tree,
standing within a great forest.
Great, not for anything but being as it was
a natural climber that sought the sun.

She was one of a million sisters, brothers there
making life among life
Raised by the sky that brought food and storm.

She grew strong, like the others—
shapely, positioned on a high slope on a clearing,
more strongly sown than some perhaps, for the exposure and angle of her roots.

She spoke in slow stretches of bark, making leaves as fruit.

She became my tree.
I would come and go, connected to her in grateful, silent ways
though my days and purpose were different, moving—

I spent hours against her trunk yet I could not tell you her true story.
I spoke another, noisier language,
seeing from behind my own reachings.

I wondered how it was for her,
if I had come to serve her, or she me,
if she saw herself reflected in my shiny, watchful face.

She saw me surely,
tended me generously, being tree as she was,
sheltered me as she knew well to do,
with no instruction but her forest and seed.

I saw her from my own eyes, alone among that forest
not knowing if she knew
that my very presence was testament to how she lived
her roots unfurled, giving thanks to her sky.

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The Owl & The Kitten

owl-kitten“Something will always be something”, said the owl.
And the kitten thought this a strange thing to say.

For the kitten, knowing nothing of somethings,
Thought some somethings might not like to stay

Something when they could do nothing.
And she went from the owl to go play.

On Sunday the owl said “let’s do nothing”.
And the kitten said (like nothing she knew),

“But if we do nothing, nothing happens.
And nothing happens to be something to do.”

The owl hooted, “Oh yes but, clever kitten,
I’ve never done nothing, have you?”

The kitten thought of somethings and nothings,
then asked of the owl the next day

“I’ve tried to do nothing, but somethings
are the one thing that stand in my way.

Is there something to do about somethings?”
Owl said, “On that, there is nothing to say.”

The kitten found this nothing unhelpful.
“Then what, Owl, would you have me do?”

Owl cooed, “Something will always be something.”

And the kitten knew nothing, anew.

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the stream

today I decided that
tension
is an about word
as opposed to an alive word

alive words come in a stream
ink on the page.
about words come from the left,
chosen and chewed.

I suppose it’s unfair to just cast you out,
tension
I’m sure you’re perfectly alive someplace.

But like looking for ghosts,
this work is an exercise
in seeing without looking

picking up the stream

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