A Woman

I look like someone familiar

to you;

you smile at me as we are

attending to our coffee.

What you cannot see is

what’s going on behind the

smiling face, manicured hands,

cream stirred into coffee.

On the surface I am

a pleasant sea of calm,

but underneath there is a

vortex in constant flux.

I look harmless, believe me,

I know,

but every now and then

straight line winds come out of nowhere.

The weatherman is at a loss

to describe or predict

the storm’s fury and course;

he only knows to say, “Danger.”

Women Rising

In the end I see that
pleasing them for once

        and for all

had never even been

a remote possibility.

        For so long

I kept insisting to my

reflection that I had to

        get it right.

If you paint me as a

vessel and you pour

        me full of


patriarchy and shame,

I will look familiar.  I will

        distrust myself


and other women

who try to convince

        me to distrust


misogyny.  I will have

all kinds of guilt if I

        try to get


away.  I will be driven

to heed the voice that

        tells me


to discount myself.

This is how power is

        maintained for


generations.  Listening

to her own voice will

        often bring a


woman pain.  She has

known the pain of

        betrayal and


the pain of being called

names and the pain of

        being hit


and the pain of being

rejected and the pain

        of being just 


too damn much so 

you'd think that hearing

        herself would


be a piece of cake, no

cause for even one

        "Ouch."

Field Trip

I only remember already knowing the history
of the people who lived there.  The house
tall, light gray, at the edge of a corner, too
close to the sidewalk, was just down the
block and a hop across the street from mine. 
It held some dark history in trust, something
that was trying to get worked out.  My house
had a happy porch swing and a foreboding
basement and its own history.  One day a toy
gun, metal, a child's abandoned toy, small
enough to squeeze into hiding in a little palm,
had been found, along with fading postcards,
under the attic floorboards. The rafters were
musty and sixty-year old blueprints lay
discarded in the corner.  My father sketched
his own grand ideas, an attic transformation,
but such plans would never have changed
what was.

Schools organized field trips to my neighbor's
house.  In the house, a doctor and his wife,
polite but keeping to themselves, had famous
blood sighing and lingering for visitors.  In
the cool, carpeted basement, one-hundred
year old history lay in wait: a bed, a table,
doctor things, glasses, a recreation of a scene,
letters requesting reconsideration of guilt.  There
was urgency in the memory.  I was a child in
the neighborhood, could yell Trick or Treat 
in October, be recognized, maybe called
by name.  I was not a traipsing student out
with her class and teacher, discovering that
John Wilkes Booth lay here and that Dr.
Samuel Mudd had been innocent, how he was
only a doctor setting a broken leg.

We entered through a side door and walked
past the kitchen on our way back in time.  Mrs.
Mudd is a smiling, tolerant memory wearing an
apron.  Dr. Samuel Mudd's grandson Richard was
already leading the class down the stairs,
already defending the man he had never known,
already adding twenty or so lifetime witnesses
for the defense, already convincing children
that his blood could not possibly be tainted,
it had all been a terrible mistake.  At sixteen, I
sat in a courthouse and heard false allegations
against my father.  Our family had to work out
getting stuck in time; had to learn, like Dr. Mudd,
to shake off shame and keep going.

The children peeked in and pushed and jostled
against one another and had to be told to stop. 
Upstairs in the kitchen, the sun was shining
and Mrs. Mudd was already a grandmother.  The
house was curtsying in pride, everything neat as
a pin and nice.  My kitchen had a black and
white linoleum floor that got soft when I scrubbed
it; the cupboards were metal and you had to
yank to get them open; in the pantry, buntings
and coats hung motionless in cold air.  Before
leaving with the class, I went to the kitchen to say
goodbye.  Mrs. Mudd was tidily preparing lunch.  On
the spotless counter sat a tiny television, no
bigger than a toaster.  I was amazed at such luxury
and I remember thinking how unlike us are
the famous.

Hawking's Question

There's a question above all the others
so innocently framed, but intense,
Why does the Universe bother at all?
Is it aimless, some cosmic nonsense?

The Universe continues on purpose,
it's no fluke that it bothers to be.
The reason for all its existence?
Something simple, spelled L-O-V-E.

1978

Put me there.  Among the diners stirring their mediocre coffee, the
waitresses making their rounds, the hostess leaning on the counter, bored.
Put me there, across the table from someone who thought she
knew me.  Say I never left the table, say I never made a difference.  See
the blue sky shining hope, the late August day far too cool for summer. 
See something break open, a momentary glimpse.

Making Sense

It is not good for man to be alone, that's what God said.  Try
telling that to someone who is otherwise convinced.  So I wrote
a letter to God and told

Him what I had been thinking.  I talked about hearing
and listening and hearts that are open and others that are
not.  I asked just what was

the Point of me wanting something.  If all I had in
store was more thwarting, this is what I said, why is Your
plan so much better than

my own?  In my plan, I have made allowances for slings and
arrows of fate, but with enough happiness and love that the
hard parts are at least

tolerable.  My ways are not your ways, neither are my
thoughts your thoughts, that's what Isaiah the prophet wrote
speaking for God.  Why is that

supposed to make me stop asking questions?  I am wondering if,
when God said that it was not good for man to be alone, He meant
to add, however it is just fine

if she is.

First Hello

He was just the one for me.  A handshake, a first
smile, sly, mysterious, secret.  I was not looking
for anyone else, having only recently unearthed
myself.  He pretended to be interested in
such intimate archeology.  We both liked
wine and music and walks in the park and kissing.  But
after a while I did it again.  (I found myself
thinking of love and him in the same
sentence.  It was enough to make you write
a poem.)  And then he did what must
scare him to death.  (He thought of intimacy and
him in the same sentence.  It was enough to make
you take off running.)  I think he could win
a marathon at his age, just as long as he made
sure to think about emotional intimacy
as he ran.  It somehow seems to give him added
speed when fleeing.

Yarmouth

This one is on my left, that one is on my right, the little one
is straight ahead. I am balancing
plates on dowels.  Singing in the dark, I walk
the room and remember
what I can.  All that stays, all these years
later, are warm outlines under blankets and the shadow
of toys and mess.  Then it was a mother singing
about surrender and children
falling into dreamland, carried by her voice.  Now it is nothing
but a distant memory, something woven into forever, a note
hanging in eternity, a little forehead
brushed by loving hands, a door closed goodnight.

Articulatory Phonetics

My cousin a high
school English teacher in
Tennessee said they
got nearly an inch
of snow tonight so
school has been
cancelled for tomorrow.  She
said besides the
usual stuff she teaches her
drooling with excitement
students about
linguistics a field I
love
and that just that
little bit of
extracurricular oomph
catapults them forward
magically
better readers.
Mystery remains unsolved.
Outside here where I
live it's been snowing
non-stop for about three
years but school is
not cancelled.  Houses
are just bumps under
white.  Everyone goes in
and out through
the chimney.  Three-fourths
of a Tennessee inch
with a polynomial of exponential
proportions.  In graduate
school my advisor
a gray haired
unkempt woman
eyes wild
hands gesturing
mouth open
taught Articulatory Phonetics
descriptions of action and noise
teeth tongue palate
clicks clacks tones glottal stops
aspirated p non-aspirated k
sounds exploding out of her
mouth and face.
Sometimes I thought she looked
a little like a frog.

Off-Kilter Destiny

I am thinking about how I said that one day
I may be a time traveler

and I may end up on an empty lonely planet,
not one with a rose under glass though, waiting
for you, and how I meant that, even if I had to wait

forever almost, I would and even if you tarried, I would never have
stopped preparing for your arrival. Even if our timing
was out of sync and when you finally
got there, I had long since died again, the entire planet would
have been covered by my prose, every dusty atom
infused by my longing, every surface etched
in tribute to you.

Now that I am thinking about this again, (since things have changed
between us), I guess I meant that in the preferred version,
it'd be you and me happy like kids holding hands, excited

about our next adventure, but, more
than that, I had already assumed that we were each other's
elixir of bliss, and there, distant there, we would be wholly free
of the exigencies of life, as if that were all
that ever stood in our way.

I draw and erase
the images from time to time, shooting for one success story,

even if it is only in eternity. 

I think that fairy tale reunion was because I felt like I was already
waiting for you here on this planet, lonely for you, thinking

if I hung around long enough and wrote another poem,

fate would fall in line. 

Or maybe it's not that bad after all.  Even though on earth
you are vigilantly busy preventing the slightest breach
in your armored fortress and we never last, maybe I

have been miserly in my possibility thinking

and perhaps the story line isn't foolish at all.  Maybe when I get
to that distant unexplored shore, surprise!, you will have rushed

to get there first and will be waiting for

me.

And since we're talking possibilities, maybe I
won't wonder anymore if

you love me or, a little more

painful yet, like today, know that you

don't.

Maybe with regard to physics and space-time and

energy, mass and wonder, our love

was like that of Skip and Beatrice, ill-fated and
bitter in the end.  Maybe I shouldn't take it
personally and it was just that
destiny was off-kilter somehow and by mistake
we ended up like Kazak and his master who

were torn away from Titan
by chronosynclastic infundibulum,

one before

the other.

Invisible Luck

You would not be able to tell by looking at me, but I
have had some incredible luck in life.


First proof: an old black and white snapshot of not-quite-two
year old me wearing nothing but toddler's white cotton
underpants.  I seem quite happy, dwarfed by a Great Dane, Pal.  My parents,
who were probably smack in the middle of another argument
while on vacation fifty years ago, said that Pal was someone else's dog but
that he had taken to me and we were inseparable.  Plus, he did not eat me and he
could have, so I think that this makes my first proof an astonishing and
auspicious start for a life of luck.


Second proof: Summer recreation not quite a decade later.  The counselors
announced a contest with a special prize: First kid who could bring them
a picture of a pirate would win a fifteen-cent soft drink from the brand new
fast food restaurant kitty corner from the playground.  Maybe the counselors
innocently imagined they would have some time alone after issuing that
challenge, but they did not know me.  In about five minutes, I had dashed home
and was already running back as fast as I could, clutching the orange 1954
Childcraft volume of poetry--Ho, for the pirate Don Durk of Dowdee!  Nobody
else ever stood a chance.  Sipping that root beer, I felt victorious, leafing through
the pages of my book, smoothing fingers over that tale of wicked mermaid
attraction.  I never said, but I kind of had a secret crush on that rakish
swashbuckler, so my lucky win had the added thrill of girlish infatuation
with a drawing.


Third proof: Seventh grade, my very first boy-girl dance at the YMCA.  When
you needed a break from the sweaty gym humming with girls with long
straight hair dancing like bored zombies and thirteen year old boys vibrating with
surges of testosterone, you could step out for a refreshment.  Down the hall, they
would mix all the soda pop together and call it Grave Yard--ten cents
a cup.  And someone would mix all the ticket stubs for an end-of-the-night
drawing.  Mine was the winning number.  I walked downtown a few days later
to choose a record album--the prize.  I no longer remember
if I chose The Frost or Led Zeppelin II that day.  Some things--dogs, root beer,
happiness, choices--last longer than others, even in our memory.


My three children were all born healthy--bonus evidence inserted
amidst ordinal proof--but each one stayed inside their mother at least
two extra weeks until it was be born or else.  I don't blame them
for not being in a rush to hear their parents' misery first hand,
its woeful sound unmuffled outside my body.


Fourth proof of luck: Fast forward almost thirty years from me dancing
to Spirit in the Sky and see my husband and me
at his department Christmas party.  Again, there was a
drawing for a prize--a travel voucher--but only those present could win.  I wasn't
about to go home early; I got out about once a year then, usually for a
department party where I would discover two things: how wonderful
my husband was, and how lucky I must feel, according to all the
women there.  The dance floor was crowded but I was shy and my husband
hated dancing.  At the end of the evening, everyone stood, fidgeting, looking at
ticket stubs, waiting.  The first number was called.  Silence.  The second,
same thing.  But the third time's a charm and we were the winners that
night.  My husband and I never did end up going anywhere together but
seven years later the children and I flew away on that prize to visit
my sister.  Back at home, things were increasingly complicated in spite of
my fabulous streak of good luck.


Fifth and final proof of my incredible luck:  The summer I filed for
divorce, a hummingbird flew into my garage.  I heard it buzzing and banging
again and again into the ceiling looking for escape.  I could not understand
why it did not turn and fly out through the wall of daylight.  No one saw, but I
rescued the hummingbird all by myself and held it in my hands,
its wings at rest, lying quiet and amazing, after it had been terrified and weary. I
had swooped it to safety in my grown son's cobwebby insect net, a real one, stiff
from disuse.  There had been other summers, now faded along with
his freckles, when his particular brand of little boy luck had seemed
never to end--cicadas, cecropias, cowkillers--and more!--all had
their moment in that net, but I think that, in a certain way, after so many
years of neglect, the hummingbird was the net's finest moment, its
swan song of all it had ever captured.  For me, that moment was like
winning the grand prize: it was like I was holding the smile of an
old, old woman, or holding the laughter of a new baby.  There was something
like the glory of God shining forth from its green iridescence.  Finally, I opened
the net and gently nudged the hummingbird out and it zipped
away fast--faster than people change, faster than a gavel strike ends a marriage, faster
than anyone danced that Christmas, faster than childhood flees.


Luck has a way of surprising you, and sometimes people knock on wood
to ward off any threat of thievery or other loss.  I do not need
such superstitious measures.  My own luck is thoroughly unjinxable.  All of this
has already happened and can never be undone.  I thought my luck had ended
along with my marriage, but I was wrong.  Sometimes there is nothing better
than being wrong.


It is a secret kind of luck I've had, I know.  Some of it
has been bad.  I only really told about my good luck here.

Walking in Love in France

I think if I lived in Plum Village they might ring a few bells
more than usual.  For a while, anyway.  There, each time you
hear the sound of a bell, regardless of its source, it is
a reminder to come to the moment.  Rather than hurrying
faster to answer a telephone's urgent brrringg, even this bell
is a reminder to purposely slow your pace and teach
the telephone to wait.  I think those well-practiced in this
method of emergency response would see my inner struggle
and would ring more bells to help.  I do not think they would stand
me in a corner the way my first grade teacher did when
I could not help exploding with intention for life.  At Plum
Village, I think squelching with shame is frowned upon.  I think
when the bells ring and they slow down, it is so they will
remember to hold one another, and themselves, with love.

True Love in the Time of Impermanence

Part I

Everything changes.  Impermanence is just the

way things are.  Ashes to ashes.  Soon enough, I
will be dust and even if you haven't quite personalized
that for yourself yet (insert name here), you will soon
enough be dust, too.  Maybe you are just someone else
interested in the scary idea of impermanence and have
been conducting your own research investigation.  Maybe
I was a footnote you found, an example, an illustration.  I am
still sorting through my own search results; google discovers
new ones every day.  The card catalogue is dusty now, rendered
obsolete, an anachronism, like a God I once knew.  Or maybe
I had not understood.  No matter, let us say I am speaking
things into existence while I still can.  Before I change form,
not essence, there is this one thing I intend to have in my life
for as long as my impermanence lasts: True Love.  Maybe you
thought I had that once, maybe I thought so, too.  It's easy
to be fooled sometimes, especially if your own certificate of
appraisal was significantly below actual value:  It tends to skew
your bargaining power.  You naively haggle from a disadvantage.  Then
one day a certified letter arrives and suddenly you find you are
the missing princess.  Royal switcheroos are intriguing but I do not
want to lose my focus.  I do not think there is much time left for
error, not anymore.  So, think of me describing True Love in exquisite
detail to protect the innocent.  Think of me populating a map
with all sorts of items in the legend, things you'll only see if you
zoom way in up close.  Think of this intention as a ruling out
of impostors.  Let the priests tell the scribes to have their quills
at the ready.  Let their ink be permanent, if ecclesiastical
rules permit.  Let the insivisible promise be on its way. 

Part II

First, write True Love.  Then, build it as a house.  Flesh out your
dream.  Next, draft the architect's version.  Gather any missing materials.
Lay a foundation that will not crack.  Make the basement deep, pay attention
to the attic. Do not neglect the corners or the plumbing.  Include
ornamental details.  Or, write it like a recipe. First sit down and think.  Close
your eyes and listen.  You will hear your tastebuds and your stomach
talking; salivating is natural.  Don't forget to consider your digestion.  Then,
without any cookbooks to make you feel guilty or dumb, write your
ingredients and amounts and directions.  Make enough so you won't
run out.  Or, tailor it like a suit.  Stand before the mirror with a tape
measure.  Turn this way and that. Write down every inch, every bump,
every angle.  Transfer numbers to the cloth and cut. Sew the seams
securely, leave extra material in the hem just in case. Don't scrimp on
what matters and don't leave off the lace.  With regard to True Love, it's
best to be specific in advance.  It helps you recognize what's yours
et nul autre's.  We are both already here, according to Rumi. I flow
out. The beloved flows in. Our waters swirl together and evaporate
to become invisible permanence.  We've been in each other
all along.

Cheeky Relief

All in one breath quickly, from the perspective of having survived a doozy:
When-you-get-to-the-place-in-life-where-you-finally-realize-that-you-are-pretty-damn--
uh, wait,
maybe I better not say
someone tell me if the Evil Eye is lurking anywhere near
no? okay, good--well even if he were--
When you get to the place in life where you finally realize that, lo
and behold, you are pretty damn great and you aren't ashamed
to admit it anymore, well, it's just pretty damn
aaaahhhhh.

Peaches and Me

Beautiful and remarkable
she wrote
and it was about
me.  I wanted to
cry.  I am not the
sister of the barren
peach pit I buried
just below the dusty
earth next to the
yellow garage of
our neighbor.  The peach
pit never sprouted,
a tree never grew.  I
was too little
to know that
a peach tree can be
thwarted by poor
soil, insufficient sunshine
and the lack of
tender care.  I thought it had
been a faulty peach.

At War

She screamed into the telephone
and I said slow down I can't
understand you. Something about her dad
being psycho, you know how that goes.
It wasn't a good time to talk.  I was, at the
time of her shrieking, smack in the middle of
a check out line: Next!  Everyone heard her
yelling and laughed.  When she called back,
she was still going strong and oh boy again
I had to say slow down please.  Teenage girls
and their psycho fathers--the one child who lives with me
and hates me from time to time, the other older one
who has only now started to once again live
with me and maybe hates me
from time to time, too, and both
of them using me as the spindle post on
their stereophonic turntable and there
they go, around and around, faster and
faster, louder and louder, and soon
they will turn into butter
just like Little Sambo before them
and having become butter
not girls
that could be the end
of that phone call and
whew even now I feel like
sighing in
relief.

Union Pier

Cold, really, for that time of year
and raining dismally
but it had stopped
and we walked down to the
deserted beach alone,
and I left my shoes by the stairs.
It was windy and the lake
was rushing headlong
toward shore
with white tipped waves
and the sand was cold.

I hardly knew you.

When we walked back
to the car down the road
I carried my shoes and
braved the rough shoulder.
You did not see but
I skimmed my body,

nearly naked beneath
my brown dress,
and with my other hand
I brushed the gravel and sand
from my feet.

On the Little Strip of Earth

The very odd thing is that he said,

and I think he believes, that

he never meant

to hurt me. I am

talking about my history here.

Outside walking down the sidewalk,

there is some kind of terror inside.

I see that

it is summer: I do not need a coat.

In the backyard a tent is still up,

makeshift escape in our

tiny backyard. In the daylight

the children might be giggling inside.

Now it is night and the children are asleep
upstairs in their beds. I enter the tent and close
the zipper behind me. All around are blankets and
pain.  I look for intermittent muted flashes of light; it's
too late for fireflies. I am in there praying.

When I can stand it no longer, I

open the tent door and

step back outside.  It has grown chilly
in the meantime.  I can feel

the dew beginning to descend, molecules of air
growing heavy and sleepy. Next to me is the tree

and the ordinary sound of crickets and cicadas.

Neighborhood houses hum

with families, but

nobody sees me.  When I

stood outside the window of the

living room near the hydrangea bushes

in full bloom, I could see him.
He seemed content, unmoved, sitting on the couch,

watching television.  His back was to me.

Red Banks with Pebbles

I've memorized
that particular excerpt of
the stream in
Stowe
on the side of the road
near where we parked the car
many years ago and crossed
the footbridge to the other side
I kept something of myself there
near where clay and earth slanted on a hilly bank
strewn with pebbles
that flowed down into the cool stream
maybe I turned to look back
near where the salamanders
slipped quickly into the waters and swam away
trees behind us and full summer
all around
near the pass in the mountain that closes
mid-autumn because of snow
to get to the other side you
have to go the long way around
through the sad late afternoon lights of Jeffersonville
and the mountain road won't open again
until after the final spring thaw.

The Baby Wore Pale Yellow

i remember
the black.
we had to be somber,
he said,
but not the baby,
put the baby on the swing
and we will pretend to be happy
for back home,
always for back home
movies made
but never sent
not even once
grown dusty now
creaking on plastic spools
hidden away
decades of forgetting,
words spoken to people
now long dead
who never heard
what was said
just for them
only one mother the whole world over
and in the blur of grass
one particular blade
green among all the many others
beckoned
and he reached down to touch it
and then I put him
on the swing
smiles, laughter
for the baby just today
nothing different
how do you like to go up in a swing
striving, asunder inside,
valiantly and happy
i will be the gladdest thing under the sun
even when inside i would most like to fade away
and come back another day
and try this again
with someone else
who can feel happiness and loves me
and does not call me names
and does not try to force me
to exist as though i were not me
as though i were the same as all he was inside
and everywhere he had come from
no way to get there
no way to ever be
anyone but who i was
but i kept molding myself
fervent student of perfection
even when motherfucking bitch
came out of such a lovely smile
and tears welled up in sad eyes that
had once been filled with wonder and hope
even then the precious moments
the rain is falling all around it falls on field and tree
and holding hands and saying look at the birdie
and oh see the pretty leaf.

Afternoon Naked in Bed

She lay there
nude with her
breasts slopping lazily
over her ribs and her belly soft
her face turned toward the windows
covered by sheer cloth
billowing from small breezes
one hand behind her head
the other smoothing the sheet next to her
naked body
where
not too long ago
he had lain
warm and good and dear.

All her memories arose and convened
with all her hopes and she
felt again as though she were
in the witness box
and a faceless jury watched and wrote
and she did not know the
verdict.
The sheet was cool beneath her
and the air felt fresh on her skin
and she could hear her own breath
in and out
the walls sank into themselves
and up she went into the hum
of judgment
forgetting altogether
which pronouncement
she preferred to receive.

At Night in Winter

From here I shall rise
and put on high boots
and off I shall go
into the snowy depths
down the hill.
My legs will disappear
each time I step into
the white and leave
behind chimneys
without smoke.
Under the sky
earth lies cold
and covered in
frosty comfort
brooding winter hen.
Overhead crystal
beacons shimmer
through Kelvin night
lighthouses at their mooring
beam from space.

Thanksgiving Over

Renaissance music is playing in the other room.
My father sleeps on the long couch that is there
under the trio of bare windows that face
the empty fields behind.
It is cold and grey, late afternoon, twilight really.
My mother and my youngest daughter have returned
to the dining room table.
I hear their voices, low, in between bites of sweetness.
My son has drifted into the perfect sunroom where it is cool;
he's asleep, too, on the loveseat there,
small black and white invitation to linger,
his too-long body stretched over its edges.
Their sister, the middle child, is at her boyfriend's house,
the beginning of the necessary distancing.
Their father lives elsewhere,
having excused himself years earlier
before anyone noticed he was gone.


And here I am, all that hustle and bustle of the cooking behind me now,
stomach full, dishes to be done, kitchen to be cleaned.
Pies wait to be cut; cream needs whipping.
If you were here, I would grab your hand, steal you away,
and off we would go outside for a walk
around the darkening neighborhood.
We would hurry around the block and I would,
finally,
just decide to do it,
to hold your hand
--I would slip my hand into yours nonchalantly--
and you might kiss me and smile.
But you are elsewhere today, busy as usual,
and probably
embarrassed by love.
And I am here, again, writing poetry.

Particle or Wave

Particle or wave
he asked
and I wanted to say
one lump or two
but didn't.


I didn't know if he
would get it
brilliant as he is
because our childhoods
did not collide.


Light from the
Big Bang is not really
from then at all
because photography
had not been invented.


I showed you a photo
of my mother and I
said here she is
as a little girl
and you said huh.


In the photo she is thirty-five
and she is sitting next to
her alcoholic father
on a bench years after he
had left forever.


How is this a photo
of her when she was
a little girl
you asked handing the
photo back to me.


Standing over you I said
remember it took
three hundred eighty thousand years
for the universe to cool enough
to show up on film.


Is that all
you said and laughed
and I said yeah and it took
thirty-some years for the
kid to show up in her.

My Children

I hear the pounding of their feet

up and down

up and down

the stairs.  They are

mostly grown now.  Let me not talk
of nostalgic moments when

they had to climb one foot two,

hands on banisters and

me, close behind and

hovering.  Closed now, hushed,

a Robert Louis Stevenson regret. 

Yesterday this news was still
a far way off.  You see how much

difference a day

can make?  Tomorrow

a leap, a chasm opens, no way

to get to the other side.

Merlin and the Boy

He is writing now
Things I did not put there,
with sleight of hand
Magic that I did not put there.
I put lullabies and love and storybooks
I put pots and pans and building blocks
I put yelling and spankings
Frustration and moments to regret
I put disorganization and depression
Anger and constant marital strife
I put tea parties and Santa Lucia mornings
I put snowmen and treasure hunts
I put looking into tidal pools
I put autumn leaves under wax paper
and posters of whales and sharks
I put throwing him on the bed once
I put forgetting he was hungry
I put apathetic immobilization
I put curses screamed at God
I put holiday traditions and broken promises
I put two sisters and a divorce
So many things I put
I have lost count of
Through time or on purpose
I put all these things and more
And not once did any of it ever spill out
And escape
Lately I wonder
How it happened that
All that history
Pinned to his soul like insects in a box
Has apparently transformed over time
to become poetry made of gold.
Strange alchemy indeed.

Destiny

I took Destiny by the neck
and said
Listen you
and wrung it
until it could not
breathe but it
never even flinched.
And now
I'm even more guilty
than I was before
the strangling'd begun
but not one iota more
informed about
Destiny
and other
secrets of
my life.

Winter Hush

It fell softly while we slept.

White.
Quiet.
Dancing down,
back and forth
sifting here,
shaking off branches there,
building itself
into layers
and drifts.
A hush from
the heavens,
a finger laid across
God's lips.


You and I were lying next to each other,
breathing together,
sighing in sleep.
Minutes ticked by,
and hours,
and still,
we dreamt,
turning from time to time
and touching one another,
my hand reaching for your hip,
your kiss on my cheek,
my smile.

Snug in bed

and all around
outside
a cathedral of
snowflakes fell.
In the morning,
you padded silently
into the next room
and I heard your
fingers against the
blinds,
clashing them apart,
and there was the snow,
and I felt your face
break into a smile.

As Rumi to His Muse

What manner of spell did you

cast on me, my love?

You have made me yours.

Who taught you this magic?

Was it in secret, this incantation
that mesmerized me?
When did you unfetter the charms
that captivated me?

I do not remember
any potion or thorns,
yet nevertheless,
you have bewitched me.

Breathless by your smile,

trembling at your touch,
I am helpless to resist
the holy nectar of your kiss.

Asleep or awake,
Prisoner or guest,
I do not know.
Pray, never bid me leave.

You have bound me with
roses and sandalwood,
I faint to be caresssed
and undone.

Neither undo your spell
nor untie my bonds.
Let me kiss your mouth
and seal my fate.

Quick! Throw away the sorcerer's book of spells.

time travel

 
time travel
 
 
and should it happen that one
day i find myself far far
away and in another place
and time
and you
have not come
too
 
should it happen that i find
myself alone upon
some unknown shore
(not earth,
unborn
unnamed
waiting to become)
 
even here my prayers
and wonder at creation
all my questions and
ideas about god
remain unanswered still
same confusion
different world
 
and should you be on your way
staggered time travel
in case you heard
me longing for you
asking for you
crying for you
adrift in the heavens
 
let us say in this question
(everything unknown and
yet) something for carving in stone
i'll cover every surface with
poems to you
mysterious planet
uncharted tribute
 
until one day the universe will lay me
to rest upon that
foreign shore
atoms ushered into dust though
even in final death
something lingers
waiting
hoping
 
when you alight from your
vessel, answering me
whispers of ancient
wind across your face
carved words fading
into solitary memory
i was here

Tying Shoes

I put on my shoes and then
I just sat back and stopped.
I didn't want to go
anywhere and
I was tired
of putting on shoes and
having to go
places and
do things.
I imagined myself taking them off
for good
and then my clothing
too.
I would climb up
into my coffin bed
and sink
down into that dimension
and forget shoes
forget clothes
forget duty
forget the past and
the future
forget the things that will not
go away
and sleep would come
maybe for an
eternity
or longer.

House, Recipe, Suit

Flowers, phone calls, emails, text messages (we are
modern people), presents just because, notes tucked into unexpected
places, being looked at, being seen, being touched, kisses, a tender embrace,
being pulled into arms and whispered to, laughing together,
having fun together, running together in rain or snow, presents on
birthdays and holidays, walking under changing autumn colors, lying in
a meadow in summer, wading in a stream, speaking other languages
to each other, speaking each other's secret language, reading poetry
aloud to each other, having morning tea or coffee together, exploring new
places together, hiking and picnicking together, listening to music
together, waking in the wee hours and tiptoeing outside to marvel at
a starry night, getting used to dancing with one another, smiling good morning,
solving puzzles together, choosing wine together and enjoying it by
candlelight, laughing at each other's jokes and laughing at ourselves, traveling
together, learning and discovering together, cooking for one another, eating
good food, teasing one another gently, chasing each other up the stairs, jumping
on the bed together, holding hands, keep adding smiles and keep adding kisses,
keeping friends in our lives, making time for others, sleeping comfortably with
each other, discovering each other's nakedness and sheltering it, giving our bodies
to one another without fear or shame, holding one another when we cry, admitting
our mistakes, apologizing to each other when we've blown it, arguing without fear
or malice, giving each other space, pursuing our dreams with courage, teaching one
another what we know, welcoming one another after being apart, encouraging
one another, caring for one another when we don't feel good, helping one another,
telling each other the truth, making room for each other's history, accepting
each other, helping our children heal and have hope, sharing burdens, living in
grace, maintaining family ties, nurturing ourselves and each other, showing our
injured children what is possible when two people love each other and do
not run away, expressing our anger our hurt our disappointment without destroying
the relationship, being able to tell each other what we need and what we
want and knowing we will get it, mending our hurts, remaining faithful to each other,
praying for each other, praying with each other, believing
in each other, forgiving one another, finding more happiness together
than on our own, experiencing peace in each other's company, never giving up,
saying I love you and hearing it back--and knowing that it's true.

The condensed version is this: Being completely ourselves and
happy with our own life, open to correction and growth, but all of it made
better and grander because of the beloved.  Just for good measure, I will add
this cherry on top: knowing we are loved and knowing we are safe.