Tag Archives: Poetry

now or nothing

4 Nov

In essence and bones,

it becomes clear

that if peace can not be found

right here, right now,

a change of circumstance,

place,

or time

will not bring peace either.

This spot

this breath

these walls

this floor

this breeze

this body

this now.

 

 

 

nothing much

28 Oct

It may seem as if not much is happening – beat –

But water gives me endless permission slips for observation.

Field notes on just water

could keep me busy and engaged from now until the end-

I’m enthralled with:

-the way it holds it shape inside clear glass

and sways back and forth, a uniform surface at the top,

when moved

-its invisibility in the air,

-its collection on surfaces,

marking lines of temperature demarcation

-its presence in my body,

making me an ocean in motion-

just to put a few notations into words.

How I choose to spend and expand my attention

is the only game, once seen.

The abstractions of the world: war, famine, words free then taken

from our use, words to sway, words to limit,

guilt, distraction, MY job, the persona(s) — all is dissolving

in the rain of my attention, placed elsewhere,

on something so intrinsic to life as to be unseen,

now performing a private dance for me

from every where.

mercy may rain down

20 Oct

I pulled the entire damn thing  off

and started again –

and for a few days I breathed easy

resting on the pillow of my roofer’s assurances –

his reshingling was foolproof he said–

and I wrapped myself in his confidence and

my homework.

this roof is only one thing in a long series of large playings out

for the necessary things

such as air and heat

and water and waste–

a difficult year

in a decade of years

that has me asking the sky

what is the message?

what is the metaphor?

what do I not see that I need to see, please?

Is there a message for me here?

or should I open an umbrella to the raininess of life?

mercy mercy me oh why.

we surrender will

and continue until the last

drop

enters and destroys

what was temporary anyway.

we rise up again and again

against the elements

relearning how to shelter

against the relentless turning of ages

oblivious I am how short my moments are to the trees

to the hills

to the ocean who used to own this land

it is no wonder

me no bigger than a drop

in all of this

that I can not understand

why the roof

will not stop the rain

or any blessed thing

before I’m gone.

lean in

17 Sep

to pain
accept the ache
the discomfort
heat that suffocates like a wool air blanket
the past few days and now
the longing moon must be seen
and turbulence felt
belly bellows must shout over softer things
impatience will come and walk the block
with fear of missing out
exhaustion is allowed a nap
awkwardness and surrender silence the mouth…
Welcome to my home
where to sit you have to move the laundry over,
and make your own cup of tea,
I’m busy with the lean in – just now
moving into bruising joy
not done with me yet.

I watch blossom
a flower as big as a steroid house

still growing

beyond my ability to see.

seedling me

30 Apr

rooting is the yin of salty longing, an itch, an ache, as present as poison ivy, as alive as chigger pulses in one’s privates, earthy discovery grows down. desire grows legs in layers of bracing bright shoots in dark dirt. the courage to grow is found in dark alone. Blooming is only ever gained by diving and holding on to the soil before shooting toward the light.

bone soup

15 Apr

making a bone broth of me

cooking tendons of need

clear down

delicious fat and richness

from my full bodiment

boiled down

caramelized shame

fire roasted shame

fig leaf soaked shame

layers

of collective legs

there, tasted in the slurp

hot from a dipping spoon

you are here

not in the soup line

but in the building nonetheless

familiar with the recipe

available for consultation

with the apprentice

master

all in one

thank you pot

and water

and flame

and thank you space

and atmosphere

in which it all can happen

and in which we all

can hear the dinner bell

now with liquid ears of

life.

 

we haven’t reached the end of words, yet

17 Mar

The passage ending in a lowering ceiling closing in,

my view of dim, withering, repeating of days,

somehow was only respite

much needed in the overwhelm of noise,

in hindsight

tasty silence,

when surprise!

came new words

or words strung together in different ways

than seems possible

a sky

with the power to melt rock

which I can not replicate here in my simple ways

but the words of others who found me

took on the form of keys to a door

of not-alone-in-this

Here it is, the power-

the words for

what is felt yet unnamed

which can create

connecting streams

that until now, for me, a single, confused droplet,

to the ocean unseen.

Thank you poets

but also too painters, body dancers, cooks (in your own form of words)

who jumped into my sternum tightness, my adam’s apple blockage,

my longing stuck,

and released me

and started blood to flow again.

I’ve curled up here,

allowing a wordless doom

to creep too close,

but birth it comes again, a gift.

Here I am, alone/backed by an army

of deep breathers

with courage to call out truth-

is ugly in its composting phases-

unashamed for my muddy footprints

for carcasses left

in the wake of this empty

fragrance

with my name

moving

on

 

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