Tag Archives: Poetry

how I spent my vacation

1 Jan

May you share my actual dream of a thousand birds released,

ten thousand balloons out from my grip,

going into the sky

without environmental impact.

My gripping hands have eased

and opened once again

into release and flight, oh my.

Watch out your window so not to miss it.

No story about it, but if there were one,

it would be about the body

where hidden spots of thought had turned muscles

into prisons.

Breath has gone there and released what was too familiar

and practiced as to not be seen.

Breath reaches into what feels like a knots, holding,

control, and eases what namelessly cripples

the entire body machine.

Simple and senseless is grace, thank you.

Visceral can extend where intelligence has no sway.

Breath goes into atrophy and life begins again,

with this body a vessel, yes, but also a map

with roads of scars and light.

Who helps light

the outed bridges

when our own blindness will not let us see?

Who offers their own shining scars

when whole sections go out and bring us down?

Is there a difference between a friend, a tree, a spider web, the chilly morning,

or breath? Use it all, as offered, to light the way.

Even Air, she in her soft hat authority can go every where.

May you find any and every where

the breath is not reaching

with help from the love mirrored here

reflecting back to you

in and from every corner

of our rounded body shells

of mystery–

separate yet shared and free.

 

 

 

You dropped a bomb on me, baby

28 Dec

I asked for it,

and it was given;

I feel ice

and see fire with it’s dropping.

I knew a year ago,

that I needed an explosion

but I couldn’t stop

pretending,

and so a bomb was dropped.

(I am loved that much!)

After the realization

of certainty is lit

in my head

the world is moving

slow-motion and

my ears will not stop ringing

just like in the movies.

Every move beyond check mate

is pretense.

My prayer:

May I have the courage

to not bury the dead.

this or that

24 Nov

we dream that we are choosers–

that our minds can weigh

our lists of pros and cons

and offer us the way for

sensible action.

Lists and justifications and choice

at best

are curtain decoration

for the windows on the plane ride

through turbulence.

We can torment each other with plans for the future,

but we would be better off telling the truth-

that we are surfing

avalanches with briefcases

and nice shoes.

 

The trees have chosen,

after weighing their options,

to drop off the green,

and then to disrobe,

desperate for a little attention.

Those of us alive are choosing breath

after the pros came out ahead.

What’s next tees up

while we color,

like earnest children

with fancy, art store pencils,

in our sleep.

 

 

 

 

 

 

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.

%d bloggers like this: