This Exact Life

A String of Beads

2012-02-02T00:05:00.000-05:00

String each breath together
like a strand of beads;
prayers for the moment
in which we live.

I am silent
but for the mind
that must travel
to places I've never been
and into the future
where I might never
arrive.

Patient,
the cool, smoothness
of the body pauses
smiles between my thoughts
and my clumsy fingers
and narrowly
escapes--

the light of the half moon
laughs as she dances
in spite of the racing clouds
and abundant stars.

Morning, she realizes suddenly,
is just over
the next rise.

Crocus at Twilight

2012-01-29T14:47:00.000-05:00

Reach over and turn out the light
on the day that is leaving us,
my Love,
blue twilight escaping
into the January snow.

We have worked hard
side by side
shoveling away the grief
of our lives,
and now we must rest
nuzzled against each other.

Kiss me sweetly, just like we did
in the spring--while we held the hand
of hope
with the wonder of the crocus
against the cold.

Oh the crocus: so much like our hearts
need to be;
beautiful, strong
ready to risk exposure, fragile.

Hoping, beyond hope, that the troublesome snow
will melt quickly
so that a new season can begin,

new and noticed
by those who are looking
carefully.

The Year the Bears Forgot to Sleep

2012-01-06T10:41:00.000-05:00

The year the bears forgot to sleep
the insomniacs arrived
after dark on the deck
at the feeder
meant for creatures of flight
with feathers,
not fur—

for aviators
who sang to me
in the sunlight of morning,
not huffing like prowlers
or old men in heavy boots—

not this old sow
licking black seeds
from the wood outside the window,
pawing at the compost pile
hoping for a morsel
of moldy cheese.

But they came,
night after night,
zombies in the balmy Vermont moonlight
and air

wandering dangerously
near the house
on Sunset Lake Road
just around the corner
from the all-night glow
of the neon
Chelsea Royal Diner sign

drawn, like all poets
and things that go bump
in the night,
to Rumi
and Kenyon
and the lullaby
of Goodnight Moon.

Walking Into the Thinness of Air

2011-12-13T23:16:00.000-05:00

Why not
start
where every other time
you have stopped
and ignored
the smallness
of the mind
like it was less
than nothing.

Take in the next breath
and then exhale
and before you know it
you've forgotten
what it means
to know the intimacy of air--

the thin line we walk
as the sky opens
and the light pours in
to morning.

Save the risk
for some private thought
and let it evaporate
before taking one step forward.

Only in this space-
between thinking and grace-
will the blade of grass
between your toes
sparkle
and ignite
the world with hope

without
a glimmer
of security

or the promise
of even one drop
of elegant
understanding.

Old Orchard Beach, ME. . .November Walk

2011-11-07T20:02:00.000-05:00

The sea curls
around itself like liquid glass
in the light of this early morning.

November chills my cheeks
and my nose begins
to condense the air-
drips joyfully
with each step
along the sand
where the weariness of days
filled with too many troubles
dissolves into the saline solution
and fades.

I smile and greet
the pink faces
of other inmates
set free into the yard
for meditation
and the medicine
of this hard labor
of hours and hours
of listening
to the whispers
of the dark water
against the brilliant moon
and vigorous fall stars.

We look briefly at each other
and return to the silent chanting
in our heads
that will release
the Gordian knots--
the confusion of these ropes
that gather like detritus
on the edges
of this nearly frozen
landscape.

My joints ache
and my heart
nearly bursts
with the knowing
of the kindness
in the eyes
of all these strangers.

Early Snow

2011-10-30T07:39:00.000-04:00

My limbs
and fingers ache,
delighted as a child
at this whiteness--

this pure, spun sugar
that melts on the tongue,
almost sticky
as a carnival.

When the power
failed,
I groaned,
lit candles, and retrieved
the book
next to the bed
I hadn't had time
to read.

Flannel,
a glass of wine,
and words.

Nearly heaven
and just
as quiet.

Girl

2011-10-13T23:32:00.000-04:00

Girl,
What is your name?
What is it that the universe calls you as you
walk by my house,
day after day, fast
all in black?

Miss Mary Mack, Mack, Mack. . . .echos
like a child crying--
like you Girl. Like you.

What is it that your mother called you, Girl,
who were you -- baby
when you cried?

Cried tears
like silver buttons. . .
all down your back.

Oh, Miss Mary.
I would pay you fifty cents
if you will tell me

What calls you to dress
in a dress. . .when nobody your age-in this age-
wears a dress. . .that covers arms and legs
so sweetly,
so mysteriously,
so plainly,
and matches the night . . . .

you walking in meditation
for miles and miles
until you are thin as the long hair
that falls down your back,

as thin as the line between
love and the smell of ginger
and cloves,

as thin as the light before winter

closes in,

as thin as the sound of a voice cracking
to call out to you—

to ask you your name,

to make room for your sad story

this sunset
before the lake

freezes over.

The Last Sunday Morning of Summer

2011-09-19T19:49:00.000-04:00

Silent
but for the sound of my own breath
and a few cars on the highway--
the breezy light gently creeps
to the edge of my bed
and whispers me awake.

I am almost able
to hear the leaves releasing
their hold on the end
of branches
as cold comes
and makes that grip
impossible

save the stubborn oak
who presses his lips together
and turns his face away,
resisting the ease
of so much joy.

For him
freedom will come
in the dark of December
and with the tumble
of ice and snow.

But today I watch
the color of the sun
escape into reds and gold
tripping drunk
after a long night
of forgetting.

I will ready myself
for the communion
of Saints
and the raising of voices
to the universe in praise
of this soft leaving.

The new way
eventually surrenders
to the low moan, the humming
of long notes
at the end of the spirit
so much like gospel
and blue grass
we move our feet
in a gentle waltz,

aching to be held
in the arms
of a distant lover
before kissing goodnight.

These blessings are worth keeping
in well lit places,
or between the pages
of the hymnal,
so we don't forget
we have them.

Jumping the Banks

2011-09-07T06:36:00.000-04:00

The rain that has fallen
for what feels like forever
is at it again--
eroding the roof over my head
one particle at a time
with this tapping at tin--
this invitation to open up
to the sky.

Maybe Noah has a new contract
with God
"Please clean the Earth.
Get between the cracks."
is all it says
this time.

But I have
my own contract
to sign
as I jump the banks
of my body,
let my mind and my heart
flood the fields
where I live,
ignoring the same paths
I have carved with each spring
with each new rain.

I am weary
of the same grooves
I trace through the trees
and their ancient roots
that stand over me,
holding me in place,
where I have smoothed
the jagged granite
until it is comfortable
in someone else's
hands.

Today I will change
direction forever--
ignore everything solid
but my will of watery power
and glide free on my way
toward oceans
and the places
where the tides
gently caress
the white hip
of the moon
with so much joy.

It is here
where my laughter tumbles
onto the swimming skin
of my Love
and I am
reborn
as a single drop
of rain.

Clean
and ready
to begin
again.

Before the Storm

2011-08-27T06:10:00.000-04:00

The electricity
that is summer
has moved from the air
thick with fireflies
into the wings of angels
and the black crickets
that hop and play
in the dried leaves
of grass.

What was summer hums
and sparks at pink dawn
before the storm of fall
announces itself
in frost and furry of winds
not seen
in my lifetime.

You have traced my soul
with your fingers
in this sweetness
and the single steady note,
this simple touch,
sustains me.

A kiss
to my neck
awakening me
from my silence
in this empty nest.

Curtain

2011-08-12T06:43:00.000-04:00

I see it.

The future
in a single window.

A wandering breeze
exactly in Italy
on a lazy August afternoon

and this curtain
allows imagination
to take flight.

You
don't even touch me
and I am
gone.

Fading

2011-08-10T06:33:00.000-04:00

August, you escape me.
Your heat and light disappear
into the vegetable garden;
into the parched grasses of the field
and the promise of lush lawns.

How I resisted
capturing summer
in a jar like fire flies--
let it drift by my window
at midnight--

not holding on to anything

only the observer
of this fading--

this folding in
on myself.

These dirty feet
carelessly soiling
the clean, creamy sheets
of cool comfort,

exhausted
by so much
heat.

The Luck of Two Herons

2011-07-31T09:13:00.000-04:00

The young rooster crows
early this morning
as summer begins to fade
with the exhalation toward fall
and all things dark.

He is finding his voice—
finally gathering the sound
of wisdom in his chest
and making that mighty sound
fly from his throat
while he still
has a chance.

Birds are like that.

Yesterday
two herons circled
the lake into which I dive—
gather the truth of myself
together in the waters
so that I might make it
through another winter—
gather the light in my skin
and in the blood that will be
made in my bones.

The luck of two herons
circling above my head
and reflected on the surface
of this mighty pond
is almost enough.
I might live forever
with this much joy. . .
with this much good fortune.

I grab a breath,
pull myself under,
glide smoothly
for a long and delighted
blessing of water--

an enlightened flight.

2011-07-23T08:41:00.000-04:00

Chronic Joy

Who wouldn’t want that kind of joy?
The chronic joy
that sits in our belly
before making love
after a long separation
from the body--
that joy that makes us shiver involuntarily
as we brush our leg waiting
at the pause of a stop light—
smile at the stranger
who is us
in a mirror.
The stranger we have
passed a million times
not noticing the confidence
in so much beauty.

I am willing to bet
I don’t have to show you anything
to have you understand
that noticing what is missing in my language
gives meaning to what is overflowing
in my mind.

Don’t look away at sorrow ever again—
that friend of sadness and suffering
you’ve ministered to
for so long.
Look me in the eye
and find that familiar ache
that sits uneasy
between us.

You crave that chronic joy
as much as I do.
That low hum,
the dull ache
of time knocking
at the window,
that shows us how
to love ourselves
with each breath
before we kiss our beloved.

All the angels
and the saints hovering
in our constant prayer
know we can’t hold on
to this much love for more
than a moment at a time.
The gift of your laughter
or in a story about a memory of peace
lets us sleep as we are protected
from the enemy the heart knows best.

Take me into your bed
howling at the pain of blood
flowing freely-
the damage informing
the exchange.
Say good night to all the fear
of losing
something that was never
yours at all.
It is only mine to give.

Adore the poem
waiting to be born
every day--
each time the tide of love
comes in and washes you clean
back into the churning waters,
polishes the cutting edges
you are so afraid of,
yet run your fingers over carelessly
waiting for the skin to break open.

Take the stones you carry
in your pack for ballast
and hand them to me
one at a time.

You cannot forge your own life.

In all your weeping
you have forgotten
that I already know you.
You share my blood by the transfusion
of pain we know—by this disease of the heart
infected by the healing surprise
of another day.

July

2011-07-10T08:07:00.000-04:00

Cornflower blue
suddenly appears on roadsides
everywhere
as the miracle it is.
Equally bright in the sun
or the mottled drops of rain,
the smooth surface
of absolute color
strikes the otherwise green.

My hands so often on the wheel
I smile at the ways I have arrived
with purpose,
confidence into another summer.

Just for today
I will not worry
about winter.
I will laugh at the way
the world romances me
with flowers
that grow wild
at the edge of the path.

Orange lilies and Queen Anne’s lace
dance. Pinks and daisies can’t help
themselves. Black-eyed Susan
incorrigible in their short, golden glory
near the purple heads of milkweed that sing
before weaving themselves
into the cocoons that will sleep
until the silky wings of fall
unfold into the looming darkness.

But come, July,
and the suddenness
of this glorious waking

in all this beauty
of unstoppable,
breath taking
light.

The Never Ending Sequence

2011-07-09T05:44:00.003-04:00

There is no shame
as I walk alone,
mile after mile
of nothing in my head,
while reading old,
and often tattered maps,
to places I’ve already been.

I adore looking at the lines,
reading them slowly
like a beloved poem
reminding me of the pull of the sea,
to trace the roads
with my fingers
knowing
eventually
I will come out
at the places
I am supposed to be.

All I can do;
all anyone can ever do,
is to walk with toes pointed
forward and believe
in the sky
and the Earth
uniting at the horizon
to give us a point of hope,
something good and clean to focus on
in the never ending sequence
of forgiving days.

Easy Dawn

2011-07-03T06:58:00.000-04:00

At this easy hour of dawn
the air touches my face lightly
tracing the edges of my smile
and the crow's feet
around my waking eyes.

The ocean is open
and the clouds above
take nothing away from the birdsong
and the clatter of the simple waves
lapping at the sand.

I fold and unfold myself here--
a washer woman
scrubbing the stains
out of my skins,
snapping the fabric I have woven
and hang myself out to dry
in the sun and breezes
filled with the force of life.

Clean again and again
with each wave of water--
each moment of laughter
at my lack of faith.

I am new
in the slow movement
of this long night
into the coming day.

Four Haiku Poems from Sky Meadow

2011-06-25T17:37:00.000-04:00

Surface of the water
calm, yet under consciousness,
death and life are close.

Rain drops drum slowly.
The tin roof an instrument.
Peace is present here.

Tadpoles and crayfish--
new life and warriors make love.
Water heals us all.

My body empty.
My mind follows close behind.
Joy in the silence.

Without Words

2011-06-24T11:01:00.000-04:00

Without words
this silence cleanses me,
strips me to my nakedness
in the cool, new summer rain.
The wind is still
with only the song of birds
and the low-throated gulping
of the frogs to drift with.

Without words
and the sound
of your voice to comfort me
I must go within.
I seek relief
in my own skin
and the touch
of my warm and eager fingers
to find the truth—
answers to the questions
of my birth.

Without words
the birds sing for me
and carry music
to your window
with no effort.

These winged messengers
simply open their mouths
and the words of the loving universe
gather the language
we have carefully crafted
and return to trace the letters
of an alphabet
our souls know
by heart
with their feathered faces
looking joyfully toward the sky.

Return Address

2011-06-13T05:52:00.000-04:00

Just write.
Just put the sharp point
of your pen to the almost empty page
and let the words make their way
past the milky screen of your mind
flow like the trickle of life
over the dam
full to overflowing
with the unimaginable power
to inform the heart,
to change the shape
of the landscape
like a flood
God sends to cleanse
the earth from darkness.

Just write
and let the soft body of your words
be what they must be.
Let them love what they love
and not cage the obvious flesh
that was meant to touch
and gather electricity into magic
each night gathering magic under the skin
until dancing becomes art of motion,
until eye contact with your lover
is enough to light a city
with all that sweetness.

Just write
in the comfort of the mornings
where the breath is easy and full.
Pen letters.
Outline stories.
Sketch the beautiful curves
of breasts and the smooth line
of a hip like you are seeing them
for the first time.

Address the envelope
to the universe
and clearly print
the return address
to the place
your heart lives.

It is where the sound of tomorrow
knows where to find you
already.

2011-06-09T06:51:00.000-04:00

On Hearing Thunder at Dawn

The rumble,
the low hum of love’s thunder,
arrives with this day—
the storm of cleansing rain
blessing my soul’s home
with the force of God’s voice
whispering in my ear.

I am beginning to believe
in each morning moment
where inevitable smiles
signal the welcome
of the invisible hand
of a lover I have yet to know
and who gently strokes my skin
with hope.

Mist has risen
from the tired and aching heat
of the earth
where the first cut of June hay
is soaked by the unexpected clouds.

The farmer—
who worked so hard.
sweating to gather this early light—
digs his toe
into the thirsty soil

not in disappointment or regret

but rather
thanks the sky
for the answers to his prayers
to be washed
and to breathe each breath
in peace.

2011-05-14T07:03:00.001-04:00

Morning Poem

The trembling leaves
of my hope
are tender and still
pink around the edges
of the green and golden light
of another
new May morning.

Fear and the iron taste
of aching anger
no longer live
at the base of my brain
but have been abandoned
near the sea’s shore
for the first tide
to wash these deaths away
with salt
and the vigor of cold waters.

Hold me to your chest
like breath returning
to empty lungs.
Feel the warmth of my hands
over your heart
where blood flows red
with the kindness of only truth.

It is at the remembering of this purity
that I wish to awaken
every day.

Psalm

2011-05-03T07:37:00.000-04:00

How I have learned
to be without want;
to lie down my heart
so that comfort can be
as still as water at dawn
where not even the wind
dares to disturb the calm.

Restore my soul
and explain righteousness
for my sake.

Yes, I have walked
through places the color of sorrow
and with the ringing walls of emptiness.
I have learned that fear
is illusion, and alone
is a state of mind
when a feast of kindness
awaits me,
anoints me with joy
until I am filled,

drunk by the cup
my lover has handed me.

Surely goodness and mercy
are with me as I gaze at spring
and I take the keys,
turn them in the lock,
and gather the treasures of my life together
to sing the prayers of a monk,
repeat the chants of a warrior,
and form the notes
in the mouth of a woman
who is remembering
the words
to the most sacred of songs.

Finding a Crocus in the Grass

2011-04-11T06:38:00.000-04:00

You gasp
and run to me
like only a small boy can

with delight at the wonder of finding
the color purple
in the brown grass
before spring has her way
with the sun

A single crocus
makes herself known
in the midst of that nothingness
so that you might pluck her
and present her
to me,
your adoring mother.

Miracles like this
are only for sharing
with this kind of unconditional love
between us
like a secret kiss,
like a longing unfulfilled
for a thousand lifetimes.

Blossom

2011-04-10T08:08:00.000-04:00

Watch me blossom
like this day
where spring has arrived
at the party
ready to laugh
and drink deeply
of the golden light
that lives in the bottom
of the cup.

Watch me blossom
like a tulip
wound tightly
by winter
bursting open
with no understanding
of beauty
until you discover color
in the garden
next to a melting
mound of snow.