Help me to know
that this hunger
is not personal.

This form that
holds my soul
is more delicate
these days,
but the mind
is also clearer.

Help me to be
patient, help
me to trust
what comes.

Within the heart
is a deep blue light -
a beckoning presence
and I listen, awake.

Bundled into my blankets
seated yet floating
in unbounded bliss
My stomach says:
"Feed Me!"
and I do.

Steaming, pale pink, moments ago
these rosebuds were sleeping, dried, unfragrant.

Now, like a single paper flower that blossoms from within
its scrubbed clam shell, held together lightly, then opening slowly
in its requisite, tall, crystalline glass of water,
these tiny buds are softening, unfurling, reviving,
intoxicating me with this heady, womanly scent, and
moistening my face as I lean over this healing brew you sent for me.

Born of humans, linked to me by human blood and a shared, ancient selkie ancestry,
wise, beautiful, deep eyes, flowing dark hair, blessings pour forth from you
in all, and every moment, of your gentle, earnest, worshiping life.

Kinswoman to my open heart,
to our ceaseless inquiries into sacred mysteries,
your power to transform finds me
wherever I am.

Wrapped up tight,
held in your light.

Find me now, vaulting through these years of loving
that only you and I have ever known.

Only this brimming, milky
sweetness...

Beyond familiarity, you and me, tumbling
again through lifetimes of just knowing,
fully feeling, without ever calling.

Held in your light,
wrapped up tight.

Only our brimming, milky sweetness,
eyes closed, and minds wide open...

Wrapped up in your light,
held so tight, dear full moon,
my own cocoon.

Flickering indistinctly, like the last reel
of an early silent film,
these blurry shadows of windblown leaves
project themselves into
the corners of this simple room.

Inside my mind is another room, lit by intuition.

It is here that possibilities are delicately considered,
weighed, ever so gently, for their potential as eventuality.

This is not to say that my heart never holds sway
in these measured evaluations.

Oh, yes. It does win, from time to time.

Life is just sweeter, I have found, when peace reigns
between these two old friends, and a mutual accord is reached.

First snow is falling...
melting on the wet road,
flocking the grasses
and crispy leaves.

Smiling sweetly, my
brother eats his last bite
of warm corn pancakes.

Local honey shines
on the empty
white plate.

Just between you and me,
I'd rather be a saint than a poet...

But to see the world like this:

A huge, shining consonant, lying on its side,
over the very ordinary clothesline,
well,
that's something, isn't it?

First-born to you,
into a world of light and music,
myriad words, and all their possibilities.

Birth of another kind for you now.

The sphere of light that is your heart
attenuating beyond all fear,
merging into your limitless beginnings.

The secret love you have for the universe
has taught us,
will always teach us.

Three bright yellow stars on a little box of matches,
in a kitchen in Reykjavik.

When lit, they flare up with uncommon energy and brightness.
This little box of matches is from Sweden, like your people.

Having said it badly once,
I want to tell you what you have taught me.
How joy and strength, honesty and humor, create sanity.

Goodness is a fragrance you exude, like soft brown bread.
Green shoots of grass, and leaves,
are brighter because you have told me about them.

Once, sitting together in a park,
a real-live bluebird settled onto a telephone wire in front of us.

A metaphor paying a call, making a personal visit.

You brought that bluebird to us.
I know it.

Because you are my beloved best friend,
a Swedish form of light.

These words, floating to the surface,
come from amongst an ocean of others.

Sleeping, ripening, unformed,
swimming in darkness, some rising
into green, translucent waters.

Titles, remembered images, voices
of loved ones, colours, scents,
secret moments never spoken aloud.

More, and more still, residing,
unseen, unheard, unknown
beneath this iceberg of words.

Each of us women is one,
you know.

Animated patterns of light and dark,
quavering here on the wall beside me.

Through this window glass
from another century,
denuded branches
dance --
But only apparently.

One morning in India, I learned
what I am remembering now
folding soft brown blankets,
beginning my day.

Taught by example, without any words
as brightly-colored fabric
flew deftly into perfect folds.

However simple our home, we honor it
with our care, to its walls and floors,
to ourselves, the people living within.

We honor it most of all with the words
we choose, with the silence we keep,
defining our lives in each simple moment.

Folding back winter clouds, resplendent
with color moments ago,
a prairie wind clears the sky
honoring this one and only today.

The sweetest smile, and all for me.
Loves come and go.
She stays on.

Smiling into the night ahead,
long dark hair
spread out widely
on her pillow, slender
arms resting
on all that softness.

She is the one who brings visions
in the depths of night.

Lucid clarity
and saturated, unknown colors.

Unvisited places, deeply longed for.

She tells me about the life within everything.

Underneath these words she gives me,
are sacred, and secret images,
abiding in silence,
abiding in vast inner space.

At last,
she is loved.

And she is listened to.

High above the Holy River Ganges
where the water flows like Brahman itself,
  is an ancient cave, a place of sacred pilgrimage.

Entering silently, our small gathering
sat together, meditating here where the great
sage himself transcended in deep samadhi.

Wrapped in warm shawls, dhotis and saris,
eyes closed gently in the stony half-light.

Early hours had seen us awake, readying
for this auspicious day, and the sleepiness
of a little child began to overtake me.

With that same innocence, a childlike feeling,
I curled down into a woolen bundle, asleep
in the inner depths of that holy, dark place.

Sleep was sleep, and not sleep,
as awareness shone within me.

Limitless akasha unfolded inside me now,
and the ground where I rested expanded
into that same unbounded, cosmic space.

From far beneath the cool, damp earth,
a radiance travelled into my small frame.

Renewing energy suffused and blessed me.

Bowing in my heart, I touch the lotus feet
of Maharishi Vashistha. His darshan
shines on into our present day, and
throughout all of Ved Bhumi Bharat.

Across town, a train whistle sounds
and I drift away again.

Early morning sleep,
healing a delicate heart.

Several states over, my best friend
begins her day, so much
goodness given,
and always.

The challenge in this season
is to find the fullness
in emptiness.

Zellie Eugenie, embodiment of  French elegance,
  consummate graciousness of a native Texan,
a lady ever and always, so delicate and so strong.

You are still my role model, Nana,
even far away, where you live now.

Your voice stays vibrant in my heart,
even after all these years of you living in Heaven.

It was a summer afternoon, expansive, warm,
like the residual, slight drawl of your San Antonio accent,
when I brought a little bucket of these dark, juicy berries,
picked from your own tree, into your sunny, quaint kitchen.

My parents were rarely away, so this time
when we could just be the two of us,
me staying in your ruffly, cosy guest room,
was treasured by us both, and each.

This, as it turned out, would be the day when I learned
to bake my first pie, beginning a life
devoted to fine cuisine that still stays at my core.

Your hands, feminine and capable,
skillfully gathered flour and shortening
into the shaggy, powdery ball of promise
that establishes each new pie crust.

I think you taught me then how to use tapioca,
added to the berries, to soak up some of that
deeply purple juice, as this first pie
bubbled to completion in your well-used oven.

Every time I use my mother's solid maple
rolling pin, sliding it forward on my palms,
I am one with her, and with you.

Do you get to see each other in God's home?

Or do you live in different neighborhoods?

All I know for sure is that you both reside,
forever adored, respected, emulated,
as best as I know how, inside of me...
from whence these tears pour, blurring
what I can see of what I humbly write
to bring you closer to us, way down here.

Zellie Eugenie DuBarry Downing Regan Wright,
your courage in following your heart, and withstanding,
as you must have, the criticisms of a world, of a society,
that likes to put us in categories, especially as women,
still informs my own courage under similar circumstances.

And so honour and admire any and all couples who remain together,
loving, supporting, respecting one another,
while allowing each other to grow into more of themselves.

Some of us, having put everything we have into each,
yes, each, of our marriages, have yet to reach the place
where we are on equal footing with our one true beloved.

May the dear Lord continue to watch over us,
as we bend and search and grow, and may we, too,
even much later in life, know what it is to be happily married.

A small boy with dark eyes
grew to dream, and invent.

Toys for the children of the
world, and for us, your own.

What began as a limp
took over your whole body,
robbing the light inside you.

Before it did, one winter
evening, you taught me
to ice skate. Around and
around we went, on
the small circle of our
frozen swimming pool.

My mother called us
in for dinner. Usually
obedient, I pretended
not to hear. Something
told my young heart
that this would never
happen again. Around
and around we went,
father and daughter.

You gave us your
native land, and your
vision that invention
could create a life.

The last time I saw
you, it was to feed
you a favorite dish.

As I turned back  
from the open door,
your eyes met mine.
A steady, direct
unfamiliar look.

It was good-bye.

There was nothing left
unfinished between us.

Junction point
of your
head and heart

It was all you had to give

And you gave it anyway

Compassion training ground,
telling so many stories.

A delicate blind child flutters like a young bird,
as I transcend into meditation across from him.

A handsome young prisoner is wheeled in,
orange jumpsuit identifying only part of him.

He sits in that wheelchair, head held high,
chains on his ankles and wrists.

Allowing judgments to pass him by,
he lives in his own interior world.

Some hybrid of grace and shock coexist,
when one we love faces medical uncertainty.

Coming from your humble and holy
houses each morning bringing blessings, your lively and
cheerful "Good Morning!" sounds - all the power and energy
that a good life brings. Living by the light God gives you
every day, eschewing electricity,
and all of the worst that it brings with it,
teaching your children and loving your wives
with gentleness and devotion.

Ruben, Glen David, Marlin... did I spell these right?

I only heard your beautiful, traditional names in your own, clear, grounded voices,
as we began to know each other, while you travelled back
and forth, from bright and early each day, onto our ailing roof.

Tearing into four layers of old, sickly roofing tiles with your
wonderful vim and vigour, a healing began that went deep,
deeper every day, as we absorbed the precious fortune
of having you in our midst. Your chosen, Amish lives inspired
us, and still do, as we still, quite often, hear the echoes
of your footsteps above us, each one a prayer and an affirmation
of lives well-lived.

One fine afternoon, one of you stood straddling the very top of our
steep old roof line, and that image of a man mastering his craft,
invested in a life that blesses everyone he cares for,
and teaches by example, everyone he meets,
will stay with me for all of my days.

The moon, just now
is a cradle full of milk
pouring sweet glowing soma
into our drowsy hearts
rocking us so deeply into sleep
and the gentlest of visionary dreams

Halfway around the world
and here in my heart, dear friend.

Writing brave, wise poems,
so vulnerable, so original,
inviting us into your life and home.

Early this morning, a flash of red
shone at the very top of our oldest pine
like some tropical bird, here by holy magic.

The tail, in fact, of one triumphant,
energetic little squirrel, bright sunlight
transforming that waving tail
into a banner of joy.

"Sally", I smiled. Somehow
it was you, sending me another delight
in this morning display.

Rosalia, a sweet garland of God's own goodness,
connecting us with grace and cheer,
all time zones made as one.

Fourteen years ago on this Hallowed Eve
you joined ancestors and fellow poets,
traveling through time, and into God's light.

Always one to find meaning in your days,
perhaps you chose your last one too,
even after months of summoning
all the bravery within you.

Honoring both saints and magical living
especially in our childhood,
even a velvet mermaid's tail
embroidered with shining sequins
manifested in your deft and giving hands.

You are always with us now, Ma/Patt
even as you are always missed.

Today, your long auburn hair that never turned white
tumbles over a deep blue satin costume,
embroidered with silvery stars.

Your generous, enduring smile
is so at home, beloved Ma,
in the Heavenly company
of God's own angels.

One beam of morning light
blesses a simple kitchen apron.

Standing here, and only here,
the whole world is made
of small, white petals.

On a day much like today,
infinity became my home.

From the door inside your mind that opens on today,
on over to the bend in the road that was unforeseen,
is the greatest, most joyful adventure ever,
and it is all happening here within you!

Find yourself in the territory of untamable goodness,
And the freedom of that exquisite sweetness on your tongue!

Never be afraid, ever again, to write down your deepest heart,
To speak your most illumined, unbounded mind!

Every color, every sound, every kiss, every cry, every life,
All of everything is here to be honored, for just what it is!

*Hug your own heart as no one else can, until or unless
Someone comes along to do it better, but just keep writing!

Early in its life, this grand old tree
decided to grow in opposite directions at once.

Not exactly conducive to longevity
my beautiful, leafy friend.

I know.

You have seen many of us,
also our marriages, our families
trying to do the same, impossible thing.

Inevitably, the weight of years, the pull of gravity
splits us down the middle, leaving us with a fatal wound,
like this one of yours, old friend.

Recent, rogue storms,
torquing you with gale force winds,
have opened fresh, damaging splits.

Even your own generous embrace of the sky
has left you open to disease where you are weakest,
as are we, dear friend, who have stood in your shade
imagining you destined for a venerable old age.

It is not to be, not this time.

Already, limbs are being cut down to lessen the risk
to the neighbor's roof, and to the skulls of passing pedestrians.

Enough of you will be left,
as the chilly nights come on,
for you to blaze out
in generous, leafy glory,
one last time.

Once a place of crossing,
  on this sensuously and
precariously warm
February day
I have come to be still,
and to watch, and to listen.

Shadows of trees,
so immensely tall,
stay oddly motionless
under green river water,
even as the surface
moves and swirls
carrying itself ever onward.

Leaves and mud are newly wet;
walking is softer, soundless.

Below the path winding upwards,
melted ice sings again as water.

I drink in its sound, soul diving
heart first into perfect, liquid treasure.

I am thinking about newly-hatched sea turtles,
and about how perfectly formed they are.

And about how, with independent instinct,
they head straight for the open ocean.

In our dream worlds,
where convention holds no sway,
we do the same.

Left to our own unencumbered instincts,
and when we are rested and happy,
we make choices that nourish our souls,
and the souls of those around us.

Finding a point of origin,
and finding where we belong,
are two sides of the selfsame coin.

Trundling into the sea of our own authenticity
may seem too simple, lacking in choice.

It is our bravest, most definitive act.

As vital to our real survival,
as to those tiny beings,
who innocently do as they must.

Endlessly
inviting,
the river
that flows
between us
flows everywhere
at once

our internal words,
warmed by
being
held for so long
are all at once
sent flying
into the open air

making a splashdown
landing into this  
deep old river,
we hear the words
in our unknown voices
for the very first time

all that we know of each other
is waiting now to be heard

as if this river was a room
and this book that does not yet exist
was open on the table beside us

Jupiter and Venus,
radiantly dancing.

Proximate partners in a velvet ballroom,
somewhere over the eastern trees.

Light from a fiery source,
transformative and transforming
heart and mind of the Universe.

Convergence renders conversation
almost null and void.

Nothing but each other
will ever give them peace.

Flash of lightning fuses
a moment of dreaming
with momentary reality.

As I drift off again,
rolling thunder finds
all the cells in my body.

An ancient prayer moves
through my mind,
and before I know it
inner vision has found
a new story to see.

The sweetest smile, and all for me.
Loves come and go.
She stays on.

Smiling into the night ahead,
long dark hair
spread out widely
on her pillow, slender
arms resting
on all that softness.

She is the one who brings visions
in the depths of night.

Lucid clarity
and saturated, unknown colors.

Unvisited places, deeply longed for.

She tells me about the life within everything.

Underneath these words she gives me,
are sacred, and secret images,
abiding in silence,
abiding in vast inner space.

At last,
she is loved.

And she is listened to.

Sitting in silent bliss,
absorbed in the Absolute,
that perfect smile
so at home
on your beautiful,
radiant face.

Regal as a queen, laughter
busts out of you
suddenly
like tropical rain.  

A colorful flower opening
in time-lapse magic.

Hands of finest delicacy,
refined by teaching
the pathless path
to infinity.

A mind as clear and wise
as the heart is kind,
strong and loyal.

Infinite tenderness is
the Unity within you.

One early morning,
first of your birthdays
I was to celebrate,
watermelon juice whirred
to completion while I cut
two huge banana leaves
on which to place my gifts
before your door.

In the yogic flying hall,
just a little later,
there you were, transformed.

A Balinese angel wearing jade
green wings sat amongst us.
Soft dark hair swept up into a
sanyasi's top knot, and that
same eternal smile of bliss.

You were wearing the love I had
given you, making those giant leaves
into wings that would carry us into
decades of friendship, through
passages of loved ones, and
life's hardest challenges.

Unfathomably,
wherever we are on
Mother Earth,
we are always we,
even as you are you,
and I am always me.

My very dear friends and wonderful, international tribe of poets:
When I first joined you all here last August, I was in a time of deep solitude, culturing inner silence.
It became an ideal time to make real progress with my writing.
The part I had no idea about then, and that has become such a treasured part of my life, is the growth and blossoming of new friendships
with many of you!
On June 2nd, 2016, just over a month ago, I felt an innocent, spontaneous impulse to open up, once again, to the world around me.
After all that immersion in transcendental bliss consciousness, life began presenting me with beautiful new opportunities, which has in turn lead to the most fantastic job I have yet had the honor to call my own, in which I am able to express and employ
all of my particular set of talents and abilities.
Hence, then, my long absence, and my enormous, growing admiration for those of you who have families, jobs,
and also contribute excellent poems here!
*May the force be always with the poets, the writers, the thinkers, the artists... all the good and sincere well-wishers of our dear world family, and of our precious Mother Earth.

(I have just re-written this poem that speaks to my present experience and frame of mind, and thought to offer it again in this context.)


Eyes of Light

Momentarily, two eye-shaped
places in these thick grey clouds
stared directly at me, and there it was:

"Always be truthful.
Always be kind."

Just that.
A reminder.

Slipping down into the place
beyond all words,
feeling knowingness
seeping
into my bones,
residing in quiet bliss,
at home
in my own authenticity.

The lamp at the door shines,
both within, and without
residing, just being,
knowing, in the the words
of Julian of Norwich:
"All shall be well,
and all shall be well
and all manner
of things shall be well.”

Gentle silence
has soaked
into the
thick walls
around me.

And
there is
blessedness
amongst
the boxes.

This simple sauce: twelve blueberries,
water, vanilla (no, I'm not going to tell  
all my secrets!) was everything I have
learned about celebrating frugality.

A red-headed woman, my young mother,
shining elegantly at a cocktail party
in a dress made by her
own delicately beautiful,
strong hands.

One three dollar silk remnant,
purchased in a little shop full of
cardboard boxes, each bursting,
to overflowing with fabric, and
texture, and color, high up on
Upper Broadway, in 1961.