Climbing Up

Today I climbed

up past the monument of

self discovery and cracked

open the door to the temple

where I already sat cross
legged, draped in sheer silk
and ribbons, listening to the wind.

I hid from my father, whose

adamant tyranny, whose rules

for how to become, whose

depression disguised as

genius, whose proclamations

of doom had finally been

enough, whose definition of
who I am was finally given
back to him.  I left

him extrapolating to no one
and cloaked myself from 
his sight. Of blame

and correction, I had had

enough.  From where I stood,

watching me, I saw what

had been expanding all

around. Children, their lives

in vignettes, now three, now

grown.  Friendships, once

when we were young,changed

as we have aged.  Marriage,

intimacy, stages, failures,

hope, hatred, love, vows,

divorce.  Lovers who did
not last, lovers who wanted
less.  A tray in my hands, hot
tea for me and God.  Bells. 
A humming energy suffuses 
this peaceful sanctuary, buzzing 
aura of my eternal spirit 
aware in present form,

a little one pressing past 
the mortality of time.  In the doorway

with the past behind me and

unwritten life before me, I walk

toward my resonant self and settle

into me. 

petit poeme

Quand mes yeux verts
s'ouvraient au matin,
j'ai vu, après mes rêves
et par les fenêtres, un ciel
plein de petites fleurs
blanches, dansant,
tombant, un tourbillon
fragile de neige, chuchotait
au monde.  Très lointain,
au-delà des nues
silencieuses, de l'autre
côte du monde, tu
restes, ton visage levé
a l'univers, vers Dieu,
qui se cache dans
les étoiles.

Christmas Eve

In the hush time, the eve of the
arrival of our liberator and redeemer,
all is calm, all is bright.  Holy
Night still beckons, angels still
sing.  Voices clamor over the
starlight, raucous noise of
failing earth.  Inside of me, a fire,
a welcome hearth, the door
unlatched, listening for your
coming.  Always spinning, the world
keeps rushing, a furious stream
toward an end, but in the soul,
a quiet night of waiting.  Let love
push its way up through ice, melt
frigid hurt, heal broken hearts,
bring laughter where tears laid
tracks of pain.  A patient silence,
borne of surrender, a choice to trust
that the arrival is sure, the fruit lies
dormant waiting for the warm
sun of spring to call it forth.  Christmas
again, you there, me here, wonder
all around.

Supernova

Q: What is the difference between
me and a supernova?
A: I can think.


And sometimes it is
too deeply and too
often for some who
know me.  Yet I can
no more hold myself
in than the star can keep
from expanding, from
exploding, really.
The star has lived longer than all of us put
together but it does not
comment on its existence, nor mine,
nor yours.  It merely keeps
shining, brilliant, a nuclear
fire far far away hurting
no one, destroying nobody's
life on earth, but making
men's minds busy with
wonder and mystery and
my mind busy with
words.

Morning First of Year

I did not plan to awaken early
you know it's not my habit
any longer
though every night I say tomorrow
I will rise while the morning
is yawning and stretching herself
across the sky.  But up I got and
dressed and out the door for wood.
The old wheelbarrow was bottom
up in the yard and big enough
for what I needed.  The dogs ran
too and down the hill we went to
where new wood lay chopped and
sour and old wood had evaporated
into kindling.  I worked then
hauling and piling until the well
was full and the door was pushed
shut for another day.  No easy task
trundling back up the hill out of
breath but full of fuel.  Two logs
I carried in and placed them
in the fireplace.  Flames licked
dry wood and I shut another
door.  This time, golden morning
in a stone-framed box.

whoosh

run step now go
fly churn lift off cry
push me wild eyed
fall down in deeper snow
spread heart to wings
up over beyond
the branch reaches down
jump high hold fast
swing by me grasp tightly
here we go
running into speed

Whisper

I said, I don't know what
I mean. I thought
you would understand the way
I understood while writing every
word, painstakingly, full of
who I am, pen pressed hard to
paper, heart pressed into you.
Perhaps I have imagined you
into existence, formed you
in my mind, fashioned you
out of ethereal pulp, wrote
professions of love that you are
now surprised were supposed
to be said by you.  Maybe the
memory is where we really
dwell; maybe what happens
outside us is the pale reflection
of truth.  I put the gown on
in my dream and danced.