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.

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.

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.

Stars spinning overhead
written June 16th, 1997

stars spinning overhead
the trials start each night

it seems this once stable earth
has become a wild carnival ride

as i lay me down to sleep
i pray the lord my soul to keep

each night this seeming reality
plunges me deeper into fright

like a never ending free-fall
drowning without dying

ever persistent these things in the night
what more do i have to give?

awake until i'm dizzy
till i finally take to my bed

but it seems that nothing
can protect me in the night

from the stars spinning overhead

Brave
written January 20th, 2021

What is it like
to see the world
through your eyes?
to actually
live
in the world
the way you do?

I ask you, green beret and swat,
about your experience of fear,
and we are so different
you don't even understand my question.
"It's not brave to jump out of planes
if you aren't afraid of it," you say.

(A small voice inside me asks
does that make me brave?
Because I am afraid all the time,
or is it only what you accomplish
in spite of being afraid
that counts as bravery?)

You face the world head on
walk through heaven and hell,
air and water part for you
and you know that they will.

What is it like
to own the world like that,
to see the world
and not be afraid?

Canoeing
written March 7th, 2021

I have spent the last few days
canoeing the Mackenzie River
making the journey in a book
with maps and words.

As I read it takes me back
to canoeing in my youth
the Boundary Waters Canoe Area Wilderness
along the northern border of Minnesota.

I can feel the paddle
pulling through the water
and hear the loons
crying at night.

The land around me
almost untouched since
Huron, Chippewa, Cree
Dakota and Ojibwa eyes
were the only ones
that had ever seen it.

Now I travel in thought and memory
the clear cold waters of the lakes
the portages through forested hills
taking me from one gem
of a lake and a memory
to the next.

Time reveals
written May 25th, 2021

Time gradually reveals
treasures dear
lines of poetry
flows of water
buds on the tree

they feed the soul
if patience perseveres
polishing
raw painful shards
until they crack open
revealing glorious brilliance
that shines briefly

time dearest
just another day
another second
hold on
for time to reveal
her treasures.

~Midnight. Heaven is
bathing, the window open.
Just a kiss away.
—Jane Miller, "American Odalisque", The Gift of Tongues

He, the moon, and I
written March 2nd, 2021

My love and I
look up at our night skies
during this midnight time we share

our eyes looking at
the same stars
in our heavens so far apart

the moon baths us
in its gentle light
embracing both of us

I am envious of the moon
touching my love
when I can not

so I ask the moon
to kiss him for me
lovers are we
he, the moon, and I.

I wait
written May 9th, 2021

I wait
for the sun to rise
so I can see
if the trees
still reside
outside.

I wait
for those who slumber
to wake
so there is the possibility
of  . . . ?

I wait
to know the question
so I can search
for the answer.

I wait
to find the key
that makes it all
make sense.

I wait
for the tears
to start?
to stop?
to know why I cry.

I wait
for daylight
so I can cultivate
something other than
silence.

I watch
my cats sleep
in the middle
of the night
and
I wait.

Why there are cicadas - a tinnitus story
written November 1st, 2021

One day there was a small child
who woke up in the night
to the sound of cicadas.
Her grownup comes in to check on her.
The small child doesn't talk very much.
She looks at the grownup and rubs her ears.

Her grownup asks, "Does the noise bother you?"
The small child nods yes.
The small child's eyes ask...
Why is it there?
What does it mean?
Why does it never stop?

Her grownup smiles and tells her...
Those are cicadas dear one
they knew that sometimes
you were lonely and afraid
so they came
hundreds of them
thousands of them
to keep you company
so you would never be alone.

If you wake up
and wonder if you are safe
just listen for the cicadas.
I know they are loud sometimes
they just want to be sure
you know they are there
so relax into the sound
float on it knowing
you are not alone
and go back to sleep dear one.

We smile and nod
written March 30th, 2021

I bring you the book
the one I have read
every day of my life

you translate it into Aramaic
then back into English
and say it is very nice.
_____

I cook for you
the food that sustains me
and offer to share it with you

you discard the food
and eat the bowl
you seem to enjoy it?
_____

I take you out
for a walk in the yard
that is my life

you stare the whole time
at the grave I am trying
to walk away from.
______

I offer to you
in my cupped hands
the flame that is my love

you put the fire out
and say thank goodness
that crisis has been averted.
______

We sit beside each other
and smile and nod
trying to decide
if this is enough.

The unknown in me
written July 22nd, 2021

I collect words
and try to fit them
to my experiences

trying to capture
this moment right now—
it is all I have.

I—looks at the page
and writes a moment
while others peer over her shoulder

shaking their heads
curling up to sleep from the overwhelm
reaching out to change a word or phrase

we are all here
sometimes all at once
other times one at a time

I always think I know
who writes these words
this   word   right   now

Until I look back
and don't recognize
words just written

I guess we are used to it
the wonder and startlement of
the unknown in me.

Loving kindness meditation for multiples (or you)
December 18th, 2021

You are safe.
You are loved.
You are known.
You are never alone.

Loving kindness meditation is a practice where people think positive thoughts for themselves and then others. You can find scripts, audio, and video examples on the web. I adapted this practice for myself as a multiple who meditates. Each person has to find their own way to healing, but this has been one huge step on my path. Adapt as you wish.

Set a timer to go off every 2 minutes. The Insight Meditation app has a very flexible meditation timer. One part (we use the term part or other to refer to the others sharing this body) starts and focuses on another part for 2 minutes, and then moves on to the next part, repeat until everyone has been focused on, concluding with focusing on yourself. There are 5 of us and one who meditates, so this is how we do it. Please adapt the statements to things that are powerful for you.

For 2 minutes think the following statements while visualizing the other part:
You are safe.
You are loved.
You are known.
You are never alone.

It has been very powerful to stop after repeating these phrases for a bit before the next bell, and see if a part answers back.

Continue for the next 2 minutes with the next part. Repeat until each known part has been focused on.

For the last 2 minutes, send these thoughts to yourself, the part doing the meditation.

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

Deception
written July 17th, 2021

I write deception
fabricating fictions
layer after layer of
perverse prevarications
surrounding my subject
with inventions and evasions
so that the truth
can be revealed
in the serpentine curves
of these words.

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.

Still Night
written May 14th, 2021

The stillness
of dark night
surrounds me
swallowing the light
suspending animation
sinisterly whispering
stealing my breath
stifling me

and I wonder
how long will it be
still night.

~I walk down the street.
There is a deep hole in the sidewalk.
I fall in.
—Portia Nelson, "Autobiography in Five Short Chapters"

My own four experiences with holes
written October 5th, 2021

1.
I walk down a road
I fall into a hole
This happens a few times
I stop walking down roads.

2.
I get tired of being stuck in one place
I decide to try again.
I walk down a road
A different road than before
I know holes can happen
I keep my eyes on my feet
Just in case.

3.
I walk down roads
I carefully keep a list
of roads with holes
It is always in my mind
Is this a safe road?
Will it be safe today?

4.
I walk down a road with a friend
I forget to check if it's a safe road
We are talking and laughing
Then I realize
This is that very first road
the one with that big hole.

Did we not notice and walk around it?
Did we float over it?
Is the hole gone?
Will it come back?

So many questions.
All I really know is
I am grateful for
the moments of not worrying about holes
while laughing with a friend.

The stars hold in their place
written March 27th, 2020

Now I lay me down to sleep
in this safe warm soft bed.

I lay on the bed
and feel the surface gently cradling
the parts of my body
heel calf thigh hips shoulders head.

I pull up the covers
to hold me and wrap around me
keeping me warm and safe
through the night.

I smooth the soft plushy over me
then snuggle it up to my chin.

I glance beside me to see my favorite stuffie
my long-time companion
who always sleeps with me.

"Alexa, play Pandora"
and soft music fills the cool room
this haven of safety and calm.

I sigh and close my eyes in peace.

The stars overhead no longer spin
but hold in their place.

The universe cradles me as I sleep
in depths of peace.

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.

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?

Lamentation
written May 25th, 2021

I want to weep
for all those lost

I rend my garments
for those without hope

I tear at my hair
for those in pain now

I bow my head
for those who will hurt
(which is all of us)

my lamentation sings out
so they know they are not alone

my words rise up
as my tears spill down
onto the page

let my tears - this lamentation
purchase a moment of relief from the gods
for the lost, without hope
hurting and in pain

the gift of one
deep sweet breath
filled with peace.

~the wind feels the smallest birds
It's got.
—Primus St. John, "Biological Light", Gift of Tongues

The winds blow and gust
written March 19th, 2021

Today the winds blow and gust
bending but not breaking the boughs of the pine
sending the last of the fall leaves swirling
along labyrinth paths only the wind can see.
We who can take shelter
in constructs we have sweated and sacrificed for
built to withstand the winds that blow
so proud of ourselves,
while the smallest bird
without a straw to it's name
lets go and rides the wind
letting fate take it where it will.

Sudden Grace
written July 6th, 2021

I wait
for these moments
of sudden grace

   light piercing dark storm clouds
   a perfect note improbably held in song
   the golden hawk on a suburban tree branch

when suddenly
I can breath.

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.

Some songs have no name
written October 19th, 2020

I come back to the same theme
of pain and the past
manifesting in my present.

I have tried ignoring them.
I have tried fighting them.
I have sought therapists and seers
who teach me new ways to battle,
but what I fight and avoid
just seems to get stronger.

Forgive they say.
I  WILL  NOT
say it was ok
tell you to go peacefully to your death
with no stain on your conscience.

I try accepting
living with the demons and memories
the hurt and betrayal
where there should have been safety and comfort.

Will I die an old lady one day
still crying and hiding?
Will I find a peace of my own?
Can origami cranes and butterflies
fill my skies?

I want to go home
started April 7th, 2020

I sit in a corner
a small child
and cry, saying:
I want to go home.

I have a lovely safe home
but I'm not sure
I always live here.
I want to go home.

What does 2020 or Atlanta mean?
Sometimes it feels like
they have no context.
I want to go home.

My first definition of home
was built of opposites:
comfort-pain
violate-nurture
shaping-shattering
love-h­urt.

When everything
is tainted what is left?
What is the opposite
of everything? Nothing?
I want to go home.

I cry for a home
that was my everything
and that was also no home.
I want to go home.

I learn how to breath
over and over again
trying to recognize - redefine - repair.
I want to go home.

Chameleon
written February 15th, 2021

the chameleon
delights
in finding vibrant
others
to reflect on his
skin
taking on one's
brilliance
until the next calls like a
siren
the beauty of each uniquely
intoxicating

until there is the inevitable
absence
no one to love
him
for the reflection on his skin of
them

without
them

who
is
he?

Bright star
written November 22nd, 2021

A star is placed in the sky
when each of us is born.
It is all the things we can be,
the brightest version of us.

Life breaks and makes us
but somewhere up there
we are always brilliantly
complete-whole-enough-perfect.

My sky may seem dark and starless
but I know I am up there
(and so are you) shining
without anything diminishing us.

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

~I look at the buds still wrapped
on the ripening kernels. I want
to be in there, unhatched and unpolished.
—Shirley Kaufman, "Poem in November", Gift of Tongues

Death's wings
written January 10th, 2021

The Angel Death
wraps his wings around me
I feel him there
when I stop suddenly
Death's wings
jostling around me
settling into place.

He holds his breath
so I won't have that proof
of his presence
or any other
reassurance in this life.

Are his wings protection?
or curse?
Their silence wrapped around
is my well known company
these many years
Death's wings my comfort in life.

Become myself
written July 24th, 2021

I say I want
to be a better poet

but I am also stubborn.
I don't want

people telling me
what my poems should be.

I want my poems
to become better

at being me. I write to
become myself.

~A man travels
from Mindanao to Kyushu and says his inner geography
is enlarged by each new place.
Is it?
Might he not grow more by staring for twenty-four hours
at a single pine needle?
—Arthur Sze, "Parallax", Gift of Tongues

Trees!
written March 22nd, 2021

I know the answer
to the question posed above
is of course the single pine needle
but I am tired of this pine needle
day after day, year after year
this same pine needle.

I am sure if my heart opened enough
this pine needle would teach me the answer
to the question I can't think of
that would make everything ok
but I want to see other trees!

I want to see trees I never imagined
armies of them marching over hills
and also the lone banyan tree in the desert in India.

I want to see the first tree after crossing the ocean
and the last tree before the tundra.

I want to see the Tree of the Year!
every one that is still alive!
and mourn the ones that don't exist anymore.

I want to see the 5000 year old bristlecone pines in California
and visit the seedling I planted in grade school in our backyard.

I want to see the tree of life Yggdrasill
and Anne Frank's chestnut tree in Amsterdam.

I want to see every tree
growing along every fence-line
on every field men have ever plowed.

Only then, maybe, will I be satisfied to return to
this same pine needle.

Poet after poet
written July 10th, 2021

Day by day, and poem by poem
my home and my life
fill with friends and lovers
who took the time to write to me
through the years and distances.

Jane Kenyon sits
on the corner of
my dining room table
a pool of calm
for me to dip into
anytime I need.

113 poets (I counted)
from Copper Canyon Press
are in residence between the covers
of The Gift of Tongues.
They enliven the desk where I write
always falling into respectable order
when I peak in before writing.

Mary Oliver, Pablo Neruda
Olga Broumas, W S Merwin
and other dear friends
sit on my shelves
sometimes amiably discussing
other times heatedly debating
each other's sock choices.

George Bilgere, Ellen Bass
and Gregory Orr
have seduced me
filling me with awe
as they stimulate my mind
my lovers far away
who talk to me in chapbooks.

Poet after poet
I wonder how many
I have not met
because I have not found them yet
or they were not preserved or published.

I bow my head
in a moment of grateful silence
to those known and unknown
who make my world
a more lively place.

Survival of the fittest
written October 10th, 2020

Survival of the fittest.
What does that mean?
Fit for what?

Fit for keeping a multitude of shameful secrets?

Fit for being able to fill multiple mutually exclusive roles?

Fit for loving the ones who hurt you over and over?

Fit for hiding in plain sight?

So you survive
and you are so good at being invisible
that nobody can see you.

You love passionately
moments from the past
and books from the present.

You are a multitude
but none is complete
or known by the world.

You hold the secrets inside of you
until you are the only one
that remembers them.

None of these skills
help you
in the real world.

Sometimes the result

isn't survival of the fittest

but just survival of those that survive.

~She said "Hello?" and only the echoes returned her greeting.
—Erin Morgenstern, The Starless Sea

Only the echoes answer back
written March 24th, 2020

She cries out to the depths
   opening her heart
   saying the unsaid things
   screaming in her muteness
   sighing her pain
   cradling her isolation
   begging for answers
   calling for connection
   giving voice to the wanting
And only the echoes answer back.

~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.

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.

Happy endings
written June 8th, 2021

I think about stories
with happy endings
that everyone recognizes
as appropriate and proper.

It is what people expect
resolution, the good guys win
happiness rules the day
the story is complete.

My life is a story
which I write in my poems
though I am not sure
what the ending will be.

I want to tell my story
with the ending unknown
I need for this
to be enough.

Koan me
July 24th, 2021


Who is writing this?

I am.

--------

Who wrote that?

I did.

Fragile beating heart
written November 8th, 1997, 1am

What would you do,
if every day of your life,
you carried with you,
your fragile beating heart?

Each day new risks,
that a bump or strong breeze,
might give wound to,
your fragile beating heart.

(Imagine trying to manage that and a briefcase.)

Yet you make your way,
through each day,
and finally at evening to home,
your fragile beating heart intact.

Each dusk, the time worn ritual,
of mending the wounds of,
tending the scrapes of,
your fragile beating heart.

Then finally to sleep,
everything secured and locked down,
body, mind, soul,
and fragile beating heart.

But really...

How long could you go on?
If every day of your life,
you had to carry with you,
your fragile beating heart?

Written on my soul
written May 17th, 2021

Some poems
are written
with pen and paper
in the light of day.

Other poems
are written on my soul
when the night is so thick
no light will pierce it.

They all come from the same place
and must be written
either easily or through hard labor
with trembling and tears
ink the color of blood
waiting for dawn
to reveal what was written
the night before.

Often I am scared to look
and fold it away
to look at another day
when I am feeling stronger.

What was written
on your soul last night?

The struggle of these poems
(of me)
written December 19th, 2021

I struggle so many ways
to write these poems
(to live each minute
of my days)

struggling to think they are worth
putting pen to paper for
(to think that I am worth
putting pen to paper for)

struggling to trust that I will find
the words to finish the poem
(to trust that I will find my way
to the proper end one day)

struggling to polish
the rough edges and gaps
the parts that tear the page
the parts too dark to say
the parts too bright to see
(to polish myself...
do I leave the jagged edges?
can I smooth them even if I wanted to?)

struggling to find the self-love
to take the time to write
(to find the self-love to be here
living my life not lost in my mind)

struggling to have the courage to share
(to be brave enough to speak out loud)

that these words are enough
(that I... am enough)

~And everyday it was difficult, walking around and knowing that people saw me one way, knowing that they were wrong, so completely wrong, that the real me was invisible to them. It didn't even exist to them.
   So: If nobody sees you, are you still there?
—Akwaeke Emezi, The Death of Vivek Oji

Visible
written June 5th, 2021

I slowly approach
the idea of
being visible
after a lifetime of
being afraid
of being seen.

Being invisible
is a kind of protection.
If I can be invisible
disappear even to myself
maybe the pain
won't exist.

I can testify
to the pain still felt
even when
holding perfectly still
invisible to the world.

Self is something
we are alone with
by our selves
but also
something we are
in relation
with others.

I reach out with this poem
to declare my self
to you.
To claim my space
in this world.
To begin to reveal
me.

Him
written July 8th, 2021

This is painful stuff, for me to post. I need to get this out of my "In Process Notebook" and into the "Finished Notebook." For me part of ptsd is avoiding anything about the trauma. I don't even want to call him my father, but that is who this is about. There are not graphic details of trauma in this writing, but there is some graphic language. I would avoid it if words can trigger you. Please feel free to skip this one and move on to something else.

-----------------

The other day, I stood in the kitchen, and had velveeta on saltines, a snack indelibly associated with, him, like the big hershey bars with almonds, that he kept in the cupboard over his junk drawer filled with screws and nails, with the shoe polish for our Sunday shoes kept below.

I can smell the shoe polish, unexpectedly real, that drawer and the shoe polish, and my soul recoils, instinct to flee as far away as I can get. There are memories, of him, that I have practiced remembering, until I don't flinch, at the thought of him, in my home - in my mind - in me still.

This isn't one of them. This one comes crashing through me, like a tidal wave, the love and the hurt. If it was just one, love -or- hurt, it would be bearable, perhaps, but that is not what this is, one or the other.

Love and hurt, together, shatter me, over and over, and I am broken glass, on that kitchen floor, all over again. I resolve, to practice this memory, practice him, until I can walk over the glass of these memories, keeping the smile on my face, and not want to flee.

I wouldn't save much except...
written January 22nd, 2021

There is not much
I want to save from my childhood
growing up in a small farm town
except for...

Sunsets exploding gently over the fields
colors rolling as far as the eye could see
red orange yellow pink
marking the transition
from day into night.

Sitting on that swing
hung on the swing-set
we used to play on as children.
I would sit there at night
staring up at the stars
imagining the night air
wrapped around me
like a blanket.

Books sitting outside our garage
when I got off the bus
donations for my mom's club
would I find rabbits that talked?
architect's grand visions?
those books my ticket
to far off worlds.

Neighbors and pets
in the yards around ours
part of the fabric
of my life day to day
running through their yards
playing with their dogs
wondering about their lives
so close to mine.

The plum tree
  that profusely gave us
  bushels of plums one summer
   then died.
The walnut tree that my father
   and then the squirrels thought
   was a fantastic idea.
The raspberries
   that never made it into the house
   because I ate them
   still warm from the sun.

The ballet in Chicago with my dad
magical every time
but sitting at eye level that first time
for the Nutcracker
and being taken away
by dance, costumes, sets, and music
to a fantastical world.

Playing stamps
with Grandpa
in early elementary school.
I was the quiet child
He always said
he didn't know how
to spell the countries either
but I think he really did know.

There is not much
I want to save from my childhood
except for these things
which make me smile
and transport me
to happy moments
which did exist.

No more poems
written March 22nd 2021

This is it, I am quite sure
today is the day
there are no more poems

Inspiration is gone
not even a mirage of it
left in the desert of my mind

I will forever
read other people's poems
and there will be no spark in me

No answering yes Yes YES!
What a lovely word, idea, image
that makes me want to write

In the past inspiration was often my friend
lighting up my days and nights
but now no more mine

This is it, I am quite sure
today is the day
there are no more poems

But look! One just darted by
excuse me while I chase after
this one last poem.

from Webster's: Totem(n) - among some peoples, an animal or natural object taken as the symbol of a family or clan.

Totem scenes: My real home
written November 5th, 1997

I wonder
what is a real home?
It's a question I used to think
I knew the answer to.

My real home growing up
was of course the one I lived in
where bits of pottery and votive candles
formed totem scenes on end tables.

There was a mystery to these totem scenes:
candle stick, corn husk doll, pottery bowl;
all arranged according to some greater pattern
that I didn't understand, but knew was pivotal.

Each day, I came home from school
putting all the things in their places
clearing away anything that didn't belong
in the totem scenes.

Then I would dust,
moving each item from its place:
ornament, woven bowl, carved animal;
and polish with lemon scented Pledge.

I'd then return, each totem item
carefully back to its appointed place
trying to place each in the same place and order
as it had been in before.

But inside I always worried,
No . . . I knew that
because I didn't understand the greater pattern
of where each item belonged,

somehow my false reproductions
of the totem scenes
cracked the very foundation
of my real home.

"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.

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.