Broad hands

Launching from plush chair

to a seat below

and beside me

on the wool carpeted floor,

he comes closer.

Our talk bounces

ping-pongs

even spins some

between now and then–

the surprisingly many shared thens.

As his broad hands, accustomed to touch

in work, in nature, on board, on bow,

brush and pet, across and across again,

beneath and atop, thick warmth of blanket

upon which I sit,

I almost speak his unspeakable–

Why not bring your hands to the warmth of my flesh,

as they keep wanting,

and carry the rest of you right along with.

These inches between us

aren’t the turbulent ocean of your imagining.

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Soft pawed

If the book leaves you in tears,

consider it a friend.

What can’t salt water wash away?

A central gripping has

kept me off-kilter,

winter storms filling gutters and feeding

blue mold.

In a sense,

nothing is going as planned–

precisely how this melting,

sanding, scuffing and lonesome roll

is meant to go.

As the slow unfurling tightens me into

a speedy withdrawal,

reminders trickle in to soften,

a kitten-stretch of a soft pawed

softening,

when I can.

More friends,

words heaping page upon page,

sit kindly waiting nearby

in a generous pile.

Symptoms

Aching back, pounding head,

weakening eyes, softening memory,

anger, nightmare, spasm..

Symptoms.

What loves to be complained about

over tea, through the phone,

aloud aloud somebody hear this, oh please.

Imagine turning attention around,

bear chewing his tail-

Wake to me!

Symptom becomes lotus

opening

from murky waters into light.

Manifestation of inner

to outer,

an offering

a medicine

a gift.

Pain is not for pain’s own sake.

With suffering,

we alter to listen.

Awareness reaches up,

roots down,

grows.

The rest

An initiation ritual,

in the dusk-scape of dream,

of shared finery, costume, camaraderie,

and non-blood family

emerging from here, over there,

here, here, there

unexpectedly,

for the me before me,

with a gathering of eager others,

to mark time with life.

Saying no, no but I am not she

not anymore

no–

But as beads pass over head, and colors add up,

layers of feather, bone, cloth

none mine

each display on this body

currently

a light in mind shifts-

not for me

but she

who may pass through, closing

beginning years, finally,

in step with those knowing when it is meant to happen.

Dressed, prepared, without doubts,

I walk the procession.

To celebrate.

To say goodbye.

To welcome all the rest.

Hunger

Wanting to know what satisfies

an ancient hunger you’re not even certain is yours,

countless streets, endless questions,

bottomless pans, and tears of frustration

over a lifetime

have added up to a hillock of humus,

dark, fertile, and remembered.

The sought after whatsit, the toil of time and love,

may or may not ever amble up to you,

paws dirty with devotion.

The wanting filling your carved out places,

a blue, swirling smoke scented from the beyond,

is itself required elixir

drawing you deeper into life.

Cursing that desire away, and aimlessly trying to fulfill it

means trading your own gold for dull, already forgotten tin.

Break the rim

Sorrow pools,

tears break the rim and,

with them, shadow of knowing

that salty drops rise when it matters-

any thing,

something,

this thing-

and a quarter turn brings

appreciation,

saying

stop

in this place, now-

where old meets new

gently

and slow.

To the fierce woman

To the fierce woman–
not the girl, whatever the age, trying to look pretty,
to be nice,
not the girl in the woman’s body aiming
to be desired, seductive, adored, heroic, cool, mysterious,
No, no-
To the fierce woman who knows the song of her own heart’s beat,
who cares not about how she appears, but about who she is,
who isn’t reaching for the next best outfit, witty comeback, title or
right answer–
To the fierce woman who walks how she walks,
talks how she talks,
ages as she brilliantly ages,
sees how she sees and
loves how she loves,
my God, Welcome.
Welcome to this world.
You
are
needed.

between

there’s a place between.
of occupying the holiness of longing,
of seeing
that wanting
is for what we don’t have.
while sensing
what is
is more than enough.
it’s a suspension bridge-
rope strung between two islands-
and how the wind does
make it sway.

This year

I think I’ll choose a valentine this year.

Maybe,

my valentine will be

the perfection of bells ringing

from the strand strung across the handlebars

of that bike slowly riding through town.

Or the wet bark of vanilla-butterscotch scented pine,

the one dropping sap spring into fall 

for the bottoms of my feet to collect.

Or the lovely world view offered up by that children’s librarian.

Or the reflection of the silent patron

who sips coffee and dives into book and notebook-

shadow and light of paper, letters, pencil.

Or the hands of that man,

rough in all the right ways.

Probably, though, it’ll be the spark in your eyes

when the magic of this finite existence

brings a smile from rivers so deep

you never stood a chance to resist.

Hmm,

It might be worth checking your mailbox real soon…

Warm blood and yellow shirt

He felt it

upon walking through the door.

He met the spirit of the place 

and, recognizing not his hunger but

the food that quelled it,

eyes searched piles and corners,

while feet took him further inside

than the visit required.

Touching countertop, dishing questions,

noticing, lingering, sensing, offering,

eventually the task on the roof-

the reason for the call-

pulled him back outside to search there, too,

for holes letting in winter rain.

A ladder leans against an eave

though his warm blood and yellow shirt

departed down cold canyon road an hour ago.