With each poem
written February 4th, 2021

I write
the same poem
again and again.

There are
slightly different words
but it is always

the entirety of my life
that I write
with each poem.

Weft and warp
started January 22nd, 2021

The cloth is woven
weft and warp
twigs and twine
bits and pieces
gaps and flaws
make the fabric
of my life.

I try to worry out
the threads that I know
aren't right
the flaws that threaten collapse
yet have become
integral parts
of the weft and warp
that is me.

I smooth this cloth
with my worn hands
then fold it up
and put it away
to work on
another day.

Precious gems
started January 14th, 2021

Sometimes I think of
poems and people
misplaced lost missing gone

they live on
as gems in
my heart

tumbled smooth
by the turbulence
of my frantic love

each a precious
polished stone
ruby labradorite jade peridot

nightly before I sleep
I kiss them each one
so they will have sweet dreams.

Turn on the lamp
started January 13th, 2021

Turn on the lamp
for the end of the day
is near

Turn on the lamp
let the light
warm this page

Turn on the lamp
and let go
the worries of the day

Turn on the lamp
there is nothing to fear
from the coming night

Turn on the lamp
that is your heart
tonight you are enough.

Planting words
written December 26th, 2020

Each day
I plant words
eager to see
what they will grow into.

Some sit as seeds
buried at the back of my notebook
jostling against each other
drunk on their own potential.

Some get lost in the wind
gone before they can be grasped,
someone else will catch them
and plant them deep in distant soil.

Some are so bitter
they burn through the page
leaving ash as their only record.

Some form themselves sweet
into orderly patterns
ready to be released
into the world.

Some days it seems right
to polish those planted before
that only now
have started to sprout.

Today what will you plant
with your words? love? attention?
I watch to see
what you will grow.

~Will the sunflower turn to us, will the clematis
Stray down, bend to us, tendril and spray
Clutch and cling?
—T.S. Eliot, "Burnt Norton", Collected Poems 1909-1962

Tendrils Twining
written January 21st, 2021

Tendrils twining
tightly around
pulling me towards?
or is it away?
or apart into pieces?
wrapped tightly
by tendrils twining
these cherished treasures
I have been pulled into
resting here held safe
while the world builds around
over them and me and us
until we are seen no more
known no more
remembered no more
tendrils twining
tightly around.

~but you dart through the future
which is memory
your boys voice shouting out
the remainder of poems
of which I know
simply beginnings
   —Carolyn Kizer, "For Sappho/After Sappho," Gift of Tongues

For you
written January 18th, 2021

My future self
I want you to have
songs in your heart
and words on your tongue.

I need to see you
darting through the future
boldly singing chanting screaming crying
words that today are unimagined and unborn.

Beginnings are anything but simple
but for you to be comfortable
having a voice
I have to start today.

So I write these words
which feel so inadequate
forcing myself
to not be mute

for you.

"Silence is the only common language." - James Baldwin

This silence
started December 26th, 2020

Our days are filled with words
words around us and on us
words that embrace and pierce
words comprehensible and strangely made.

Among all this chaotic cacophony
sits each of us with our own words
spoken and unspoken
understood and not understood.

Now it is the frayed evening
and the one thing I can offer
is to listen to your words,
to bless them in my own way
like the abbot at compline
in the monastery dark and deep.

Then we both will part
into the silence of the night
the silence that surrounds us in the womb
and greets us when we cross over at our ending

this silence which is
our only common language.

I stand in the kitchen
not really present
talking about baking potatoes
with my husband.

For a second
the girl who baked potatoes
in so many other people's kitchens
looks out of these woman's eyes
awed at the fact
that she can bake potatoes
in her own kitchen.

In that instant the woman
receives as a gift
the incredible pleasure
of baking potatoes
in her own kitchen,
and is grateful.

His lips
written January 1st, 2021

The formal farewell committee
is with me at the airport seeing
me off for my return flight home.

I told him not to come
that there would be no hiding
love breaking my young heart.

He comes anyway
love pulling
us relentlessly together.

The boarding call wrenching
me away from him and over the ocean
to the life intended for me.

A lifetime later
he can't stop love pulling
him towards the ocean.

He stands at the shore looking
back at our love
across the water with me.

I watch him turn away
with a smile on his lips
that no one knows.

the trees watching us
written December 29th, 2020
for Thomas

we walk down the old logging road
the trees watch us pass
noting our presence
our comfort with each other

we make our way to the small stream
and sit on its banks
listening to the sound as it flows past
bouncing over rocks and roots as it goes

i sit with you and listen
to the sounds all around us
and if i listen closely enough
i can hear the trees watching us

whispering to each other about their day
wondering what we will bring
as we pass through their stationary world
their roots entwined under the ground

i feel you beside me
my leg resting against yours
i take ahold of your arm
and lean against you

with you, here
i am at peace
watching the trees
watching us.

My forest
written December 28th, 2020

My forest is the 2 trees
outside my front window

the overstory of my forest
is a prickly ball tree
research says
it is a chestnut or sweetgum tree

the overstory is tall and hearty
giving generous shade in the summer
and raining prickly *****
on the yard in the fall

the understory of my forest
is a dogwood
that blooms gloriously each spring
as it reaches from under the prickly ball tree
for the sun it's greedy sibling hogs

there are forests (and poems)
much more expansive than mine
built more complexly
more often talked about
photographed, written about

but this little 2 tree forest
has been my company
for 20 years now

they are my trees (and my words)
and they are precious to me.

My work
written December 16th, 2020

When I was young
I thought I would have children
work I dutifully showed up for
and a home
maybe not with a white picket fence
but you get the idea.

The children - the home - the work
did not come
I thought I had failed
not tried hard enough
fallen off track.

I did not realize
that life had diverted me
put me on a different path
which I am still discovering.

My children are different from yours
my home and my work
things that only I would recognize
as home and work.

Do you see them?
I will teach them to you
with my words
in these poems.

When heaven turns from light to dark
the substance remains the same
but the sense of it changes.

What was just clearly seen
now shadows only hint at
ghostly outlines of mouse giants.

Now the moon with her varied phases
rules the shaded depths
in this time of her dominion.

The petals of the moss rose
curl up in close surrender
bereft of the sun's bright light.

That which was bold
curls up under evergreens
to sleep on a bed of pine needles.

Owls pierce the night sky
derisive of the night-blind masses
as they dive for their just rewards.

All waits for the heavens
to turn back once again
from dark to light.

Longing for the sun
written March 6th, 2020

Do vampires long for the sun?

Do they sit in their safe shade
and reach a pale cold finger
towards the brightness of the sun?

Do they dream of standing in the open
faces turned upwards towards a sun so bright
they have to close their eyes?

Do they lift their arms
in sun salutations
adoring the sun?

Do they yearn to feel the sun
touching every inch
of their naked skin?

Do they paint
picture after picture
of worlds filled with sun?

Do vampires long for the sun?

the singing sun
written december 9th, 2020

the sun sings to me
of sweet shoots and stems

while darkness dictates descriptions
of decay and disintegration

i have spent lifetimes
concealed in the dark

now i want to walk
from the darkness
into the singing sun.

"... in the end, all our journeys have to bring us home." -from "The Art of Stillness" by Pico Iyer

Making home
written June 19th, 2020

For some home is the place they start
The place in their hearts
That was love safety comfort
And so they spend their lives
Trying to get back there.

For others of us
That place we were born
Is something to be survived
Escaped from as soon as possible.

So we journey through life
Finding people
and places
and treasures
and memories
To build our home of.

Making for ourselves
This thing called home.

This poem was written on a cold winter morning in the North.

winter sun
written february 5th, 1995

laying stretched in bed
after sleeping all night
all night in my head
with the walls up

i open my eyes
to the winter sun
winter sun burning bright
bright and white and pure

winter sun is such a contrast
sparkling off the cold snow
cutting through the crisp air
brightness the only thing left of its heat

i feel the walls go back down in my head
i shut my eyes to the blinding brightness
and let the sun make its way unaided

into my self
can it make its way around the walls?
find its way through the maze?
discover all the secret places?

winter sun doesn't have vision or reason
it isn't confused by the barriers i put up
by the false walls that i have built
or the inaccurate signage

for a few minutes
on this cold winter morning
in spite of my defenses
the winter sun illuminates all of me

Peace: a poem about healing
written January 10th, 1995

peace
washing over me
gliding over me
breaking over me
playing over me

peace comes and washes over me
washing in sparkling clearness
carrying in fresh sustenance
taking back with it
terror fear pain sadness
leaving a smooth reach of my soul

peace comes and glides over me
a gentle front of sensation
moving across my body
bringing awareness and sensation
taking back with it
a dulling physical numbness
leaving a new reach of body

peace comes and breaks over me
a swirl of foam
gentle break of wave
momentarily hard angry strong
showing that soft gentle peaceful
doesn't have to mean weak victim passive

peace breaks over me
leaving a new reach of turbulent emotions
and gentle strength

peace comes and plays over me
stimulating my mind
tickling my body
moving my heart in new patterns
sometimes almost drowning me
other times just a trickle
but peace always plays over me
leaving a constantly revitalized reach of potential

this reach never forgets
doesn't forget the tides that came before
doesn't forget the patterns that were there before
but allows peace
to wash
glide
break
play
and see what new patterns will be made

every season
of a tree
has a beauty all it's own

spring sprouts - blush of first love
summer lush greenery - the fullness of love
fall explosion of color - love burning itself out

but it is
this tree - winter tree - witch tree
that speaks to me most

your branches
spindly fingers
clearly reach
for your lover the sun

this tree - winter tree - witch tree

every cell
strains upward
wanting to be one
with the sun

this tree - winter tree - witch tree

raw skeleton exposed
loves first bloom long gone
longing for
your lover's touch

this tree - winter tree - witch tree

do you know
that your lover's skin
will set you both aflame
until her desire is quenched
and you are left
but ash and bone
do you care?

this tree - winter tree - witch tree

reaching ever upward
towards your love
wanting what you want
regardless the consequences

Ancient forests
started on October 9th, 2020
revised on November 30th, 2020

Translation of a Chinese poem by **** Wei:
"I know no good way
to live and I can't
stop getting lost in my
thoughts, my ancient forests."

I think getting lost
in ancient forests
sounds lovely.

I get lost in my head
in old familiar battlefields
and imagined future apocalypses.

But an ancient forest
with cool, shaded layers of trees
doesn't sound so bad

I guess it is the lost part
that is the problem.
Maybe the ancient forests
wouldn't be so bad
if the poet knew where he was.

Feet touching the earth
anchoring this self
to this exact spot
the soul a beacon
to the world's gps system.

I am here.

I am not lost.

I am.

Lily magnolia
written November 29th, 2020

I walked by you this summer
dressed in all your green finery.
If I thought anything
it was, "what a nice little tree."
I am sorry to say
I did not look close enough
to form much of an impression.

Now fall has come
you have shivered most of your leaves off
a few hold on tenaciously
trying in vain to cover your virtues.

I look at you and am I ever surprised!
Your branches are craggy and twisted
displaying the lovely complexity of advanced age
result of many exposures to the storms of life.

The tips of your branches
hold fuzzy little nubs
that remind me of ***** willows.
I stand near and marvel
at the aching tenderness of your womanhood
kept hidden until now
under your leafy raiment.

I look but I do not touch
I have not asked permission
and I will not.
I hope the world
continues to pass you by
leaving you unmolested.
It is not easy to be so revealed.

I look forward
to seeing you next summer
all dressed up again.
I will smile and nod
as I pass by
knowing what your verdant covering
hides beneath it.

moon glow
written november 27th, 2020

I live in the city
where the constant pulse
of man-made lights
has stolen the stars

but the moon still shines
an amorphous glowing ball
behind a haze of mist
hung in this starless sky.

If someone was looking
13 March 2020

If someone was looking
they would see me seated
at my dining room table
hurriedly scribbling down words
chasing a line from a dream
aching and exposed and raw
before it is gone forever

If someone was looking
they would see a person
seated in meditation
taking on different postures
taking on myriad forms
coming back to my breath
aching and exposed and raw
after chasing everyone else's breaths

If someone was looking
they would see my body
slighter than it used to be
walking on new knees with new shoes
standing in line among people
aching and exposed and raw
vulnerable to people's piercing glances

If someone was looking
they would see my life
composed of
husband and home
cats and books
aching and exposed and raw
the watcher watching

If someone was looking
aching and exposed and raw
they would see.... ?

What substance do I have?
bone muscle blood skin.

I know there is more to me
than these.

But it is so fleeting
slipping through these mortal fingers
squishing up between my toes as I walk
wetting my hair as the sky falls on me.

So I write
thinking that maybe
I can catch something by surprise
pin it to this paper with my pen
some fluttering gossamer wing
that tells me what am I?