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.

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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.

Fill our days

What if we were as fierce
about seeing
finding
knowing beauty
as ugliness, fear, and lack?
Would we not become greater protectors
of the overlooked and precious?
Would our focus not
change
from what we want to avoid
to that asking
for further creation?
From being barefoot on rain-soaked earth
while sun breaks clouds overhead,
to cinnamon in coffee,
the perfect heat of a shower,
sustained note of a well-played cello,
to strangers reaching for each other’s hands,
and friends who have plenty to eat,
a car that starts,
the woodpecker we’d like to curse
for waking us out of sleep-only-
its tapping brought us a view of the sunrise,
and places in existence where peoples
are honored and heard.
Wouldn’t the goodness flood us
even if
nothing else could we sense but
the beating of our own heart-
wouldn’t miracles fill our days?

And if?

And if the stars are talking to you

through closed sash and latched window?

And if the tree sway would catch you in a dance

were you only to step outside at dawn?

And if the thick green pond might turn blue

if you’d catch its eye while passing by?

And if the coyote call one ridge away

could reach your naked aching ear 

were technology not wedged tight,

filling the cracks where nature could get in?

And if the ducks recently born,

hiding beneath the bowering bracken

edging the water

could gather your attention as you do theirs,

would this love affair ripen

and our wild and sacred

no longer be made into amusement parks?

There is a begging for fidelity here-

make this wild love affair true.

It is our one way through.

This body is my drum

This body is my drum

beating

inside out

into the world.

If your ears sense the beat

we both may

smile.

If your heart does,

we surely will.

Pulse rhythm cracked a shell

holding me back

from the raw thwack and rocketing yes

of unrepeatable

moments.

Hiding, shrinking, running dulls

music

all of us are here to create,

together..

Pick up your drum.

Let’s dance ~