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.

I am not an apology
started June 9th, 2021

I wanted this poem
to be a song declaring
that I am not an apology
but I am not there yet

I feel like something born then broken
spending my life apologizing
for not being able to fix myself
for not being what people wanted

Trying to stave off danger and hurt
I hurl apologies at the world
and the people in it.
I am sorry for being me.
.
.
.
One day
I want to stand here
in all my broken glory
for the world to see
and not apologize.

My body mine
written August 13th, 2021

I stand in the shower feeling
my hands on my body
the water on my hands
me in my body mine

my mind flies away
as it is so practiced in doing
1 time, 2 times, 26 times
I gently return

my mind back to my body
my body back to my hands
my hands back to the water
my presence back into my body

27 times and 28 times
until one day
however many times it takes
124 times or 1,238 times

I can stay here
with this body
that is
my body mine.

Thinking about showers
written August 7th, 2021

I am laying in bed
thinking about showers
with you.

I type to you:
How many showers
are too many showers?

You respond:
Are you taking showers,
or thinking about showers,
or thinking about
someone taking showers?

Oh darling honey-bun
I am thinking about
you taking showers
and me in there with you

the water flowing over your body
as my hands do also
sweeping over your shoulders
brushing the soap off your back

you lifting your hands over your head
as my hands slide down
your arms and then your sides
stopping at the hips

so the water and suds flow
around my hands
and over your hips
tracing sensual paths

the water touching
that part of you
that we both
want me to touch

but not quite yet sweetie-pie
for now feel the water
and know that I am
thinking about showers.

Going in—Going out
written June 10th, 2021

I am an expert
at going—in.

My instinct is—to go in
into the hollows of my heart
where fragrant roses bloom
red raspberries are always ripe
and love never leaves.

My instinct is—to go in
into my mind
trying to chart
the optimal path
through this turbulent world.

My instinct is—to go in
away from this world
where there is no time or place
and I can drift
on currents of nothing.

My instinct is—to go in
but to find myself
the rest of my story
the rest of me
now I need—to go out.

~white clouds nesting dark rocks
—Cold Mountain, The Collected Songs of Cold Mountain

Dark rocks
written November 7th, 2021

Dark rocks rest
in a river bed
as rushing water
froths white in agitation
over their dark peaceful presence.

Dark rocks steadfastly witness
fish tails flickering
velvet deer noses drinking
and cicadas singing
as the moon sets
and the sun rises.

Nothing is lost.
Nothing is wasted.
All is known and seen
somewhere
in the depths
by dark rocks
resting.

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.

Pretty words - pretty poems
written April 3rd, 2021

I read looking for the pretty
words - pretty poems -  the
bright sparkling counterpoint to
the dark that so often resides
in me.

The bold descriptions
of every color under the sun
the pretty words - pretty
poems - the light I long for
in me.

Some days the search
leaves me frozen and mute
as I try to find the pretty
words - pretty poems
in me.

Depression sales into bay
written April 5th, 2021

Depression sales into the bay
our little town is built on
it is a frequent but unwelcome visitor
ominous, malevolent and stifling

Often it arrives in the night
creeping in on panther's toe pads
its sails blocking out the sun

Plants and people sit
in suspended animation
trying to carry on

Some boldly
give depression the finger
as they walk by

While others withdraw
to the sanitarium
dishes are left undone
and children run wild in the streets

Scientists are researching a vaccine
the librarian searches in books
soldiers plan attacks (which fail)
the priest prays and does exorcisms
the green witch burns toy ships in effigy
all hoping to find the answer

Until that day
we fight
we submit
we carry on
waiting
for depression
to sale out of
our petty little bay.

Precarious Balance (in 3 parts)
started December 3rd, 2020

(1)
My balance
has never been great
others walk paths
and look at the world around them

I
look at my feet
watching for things
that might trip me

(2)
I walk along a tightrope
strung a few inches over the earth
my balance precarious

not realizing
I could step off at any time
onto the stable earth.

(3)
Life is a precarious balancing
of the joy and the pain
singing-tears
holding onto each other
shatter-whole
the impossible duality
agony-bliss
found only in juxtaposition
love-destruction
we try to balance
not-enough-too-much
somewhere within
everything-nothing

~Enter now,
O bird on the green branch of the dying tree, singing
Sing me toward home;
Toward the deep past and inalienable loss:
Toward the gone stranger carrying my name
In the possible future
—Thomas McGrath, "Part One", Letter to an Imaginary Friend

Snowing up north
Started February 2nd, 2021

They say it is snowing up north
And I am back walking
over the roads I grew up on
the crunch of the snow
sings me home

past the fields
waiting spring planting
fence lines stretching off into the horizon

across the front yard
always needing mowing
now winter gives reprieve

up the front steps
mother's petunias growing riotously
ghosts from summers past

my fingers brush the doorbell
cats never learned to ring
now forever silent

I open the front door
and go into my memories
stepping on the black slate entryway

I wonder if his coat
is already in the closet or if
everyone is waiting for him to get home

in the kitchen
the table is set
the hot tea ready

maybe this is the time
everything will be properly arranged
each talisman in the proper place

so the ghosts who live here
will finally have
the longed for peaceful night

all of us keeping company
in these memories
that sing us home.

~I felt pain like an assault,
The old pain again
When the world thrusts itself inside,
when we have to take in the outside
—May Sarton, "Night Watch," Collected Poems

The world thrusts itself inside
written June 26th, 2021

The world rages through me
I wrap my arms around
cradling this body amongst the
flowers torn, leaves shredded, plants uprooted

until the fury passes
peace descends on the broken
some breath and start to mend
others their decay feeds the new.

The world thrusts itself
inside each of us
tearing and stretching
throw your head back and rage

with the pain and agony
of growth made possible
by the world tearing open
body, heart, and mind.

I never grow used to this
brutal process,
I dip my fingers into
the holes made in our heart.

The world has its way with us
this relentless thrusting ******
until we spill out over everything
this our mark on the world.

Not a haiku
written October 18th, 2020

crisp fall leaves
crunch under foot
moss roses furl open
___
Crisp fall leaves
crunch under my feet
giving their final sacrifice

while moss roses tightly clenched
wait for the sun
to unfurl their beauty for the day

Gray poems
started January 24th, 2021

There are poems
that are easy to share
that want to be seen-read-heard

then there are other days
when gray skies
reflect my gray disposition

silent be silent
say the critical voices
don't scar the world
with this

and so my mark on this world
has often been
one of absence

but to deny these gray poems
is to deny myself
is to deny the crocus
blooming through the snow

for if I don't give expression
to all of it including the gray
then the beauty in me
also stays hidden
unexpressed-unrealized-unknown.

Happiness
written February 3rd, 2022

Long ago I locked away
my happiness deep inside
to protect and keep her safe

It's been so long
I almost forgot
she was there

Now I try to remember
to reach inside to the spot
where she resides

every time I do
a soft smile touches
my lips and sometimes
                                          —more

Walls
written November 27th, 2020

I've built walls
rigid strong and nearly impermeable
forming this fortress around me,
nothing gets in or out.

Every sortie against them
leaves them a little stronger,
and me inside
a little more isolated.

Over time I have
grown into and through
my walls safe
from a war
that is long over.

floating and fleeing
written August 13th, 2021

floating and fleeing
I spin through the air
my hair flying out
my head thrown back

spinning and teasing
my throat exposed
to the graze of your teeth
catch me if you can

playing and following
far away from the world
until your hands
anchor me here and now

touching and caressing
each other.

~who shuts our eyes in calms of beastlike sleep.
—John Balaban, "Riding Westward", Gift of Tongues

Spinning off self after self
written April 20th, 2020

After a lifetime
of being afraid
to close my eyes
for what demons
might come
while I sleep
unable to defend myself

I ask who will protect us
as we sleep
unguarded
from the terrors of the past?

I shuffle through selves
like cards in a deck
spinning off self after self
searching for just one
who can close their eyes
in calms of beastlike sleep.

Those not heard
written April 13th, 2021

I write this poem
for those not heard and not hearing
long dead or not yet born
bound with chains in prison
wild children who never learned language
the feral and the afraid
the multilingual multitudes
whose language I never learned
the signs I don't recognize
those too busy or drowning in stagnation
the refugee walking alone across a barren desert
the mountaineer on the highest summit
the castaway on the island in paradise
the captive in your neighbor's house
those lost in their own minds
or lost in the country - the city - down the street
ones who took a wrong turn
we with headphones intent on our cellphones

I write this poem
thinking of all the ways we don't don't hear
                                reasons we don't hear
                                things we don't hear
                                people we don't hear.

My fear is light pink
written April 26th, 1995

my fear is light pink
light pink painted over the walls
of the room i grew up in

a child's room painted pastel pink
the color of cotton candy
a nice color for a little girl
a little girl

little (from webster's)
small in size, amount, degree
small in importance or power
short in duration

a child small in size, amount, and degree
dependent on those around her
little body trying to hide
never succeeding

a child small in importance or power
little fists balled up
lacking physical power
lacking importance or value

a childhood short in duration
when do children become adults?
when the damage has been too great?

those little years
that are now the basis
of the rest of my long life
a life that sometimes feels like an eternity

pink is
the color of early sunsets
candy hearts at valentine's day
beads in a child's necklace
and the color of my fear
my fear

fear wrapped around me
surrounding me
blinding me with its
sickening sweet color
ever-present

not just any child
a girl child
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.

River rushing below bluffs
written July 7th, 2021

I dream of the bluffs
we visited that day
the river rushing below
demarcating freedom

these years of practicing
flying away across fields
in preparation for this night
have made my wings strong

can I reach the bluffs?
float out over the river below?
escape these fields and rows
encompassing my life

I fly towards my future
until wings collapse trembling
on the edge of becoming
or breaking into pieces
I fall to the ground

Not to the bluffs
with the river rushing below
not this time
but one night soon
with these wings being made strong.

The fox hunt
written April 20th, 2022

You think you want to know me?

People ask me
perfectly rational questions
not realizing that...

You see, it's like a fox hunt
the fox is backed into a corner
it doesn't stand a chance
and knows it

surrounded by the enemy
it screams in terror
stretching arms out in fear and rage
even though there's no help or salvation

oh, and it's not a fox
it's a child
without fox teeth and claws
and the enemy is your only love and safety

now a lifetime later
i look like anyone else
but that child lives inside of me

It wasn't that violent
but I don't know how else to describe
who I suddenly am

sometimes

The protector and the protected
written December 6th, 2021

The protector and the protected
created at the same moment
from the same material
by the same circumstances

one fiercely taking it all
laughing in the face of those
who think they can hurt her
those who would hurt her
unless they **** her she wins
and so far she has always won

while the protected
cries and weeps for the protector
the tears the other can not shed
yin and yang
always found together
if you look close enough

the protector protecting the protected
until there is nothing else to take
and she can withdraw back inside
while the protected
tries to curl around her
and silently scream
both of their pain away

the protector and the protected
two parts of a whole
eternally locked together
but always looking for  
yearning for  
separate from
their other half.

~Can someone just hold me?
Don't fix me, don't try to change me
Can someone just know me?
Cause underneath, I'm broken and it's beautiful
—"Broken & Beautiful", Sung by Kelly Clarkson. Written by Steve Mac, John Mcdaid, Alecia B Moore, Marshmello

Are you like me?
written May 25th, 2021

I look for
reflections of myself
in the world
that aren't apologies
or clinical definitions of hurt
more than
an easy cliche in a song
but it is a start.

I listen to songs
read books and poems
watch tv shows and movies,
when I see a hint of familiarity
I get so ****** excited
"Are you like me?!?
No? Sorry, my bad."

So I keep looking
trying to be brave
making expeditions into the world
while holding close
the book I find
the people I know and knew
who know me.

I don't tell anyone
what I am looking for
leaving it up to chance
hoping that fate
will bump us together
long enough to find out

Are you like me?

Fatigue
written July 16th, 2021

Fatigued
I swim
up through the years

overshooting
into a desert dry
future wasteland

so I dive
back down
trying to reach

today.

I want
written July 10th, 2020

I want blue skies
and sun on my face.

I want green plants
growing like crazy on the deck.

I want rooms full of books
like old friend and lovers.

I want someone
to wear perfume for at night.

I want to not be scared
lost in the past.

I want to be here now.

I want to always know
that I am home and whole.

I want all parts of me
to realize their dreams.

I want to be known.

I want to never stop wanting.

I want to want.


What do you want?

The halls of my mind
written April 6th, 2021

I spend my time
walking the halls
of my mind.

Parts are like
an Escher drawing
with stairs that go
everywhere
and nowhere.

I take a set of stairs
that leads to a spiral
circling inward
never reaching
the center.

Until my next step
almost takes me over
the cliff
at the outermost edge.

Sometimes I sit
on that edge of the world
looking out at
the neighboring universes
and wonder about wings.

Eventually I turn back
down a long unbroken hallway
which is as long as my life
and continue walking these halls
that are my world.

I don't want to
written March 14th, 2021

I don't want to
is the poem that doesn't want
to be written today
I don't want to
think write cry.

I look through
my unfinished notebook and
I don't want to
process revise reveal.
I don't want to!

I don't want to write
the same words
again and again
these same things
battering at my mind
day after day.

I don't want to pretend
everything is beautiful
just (pretend to) be happy.
I don't want
to be here lost in my head.

I don't want to
is the poem
that wants
to be written today.

North Star
written May 14th, 2021

I grew up with the stars
but nobody pointed out
the North Star to me

I still found my way out
with the luck of those
never innocent

Now I am older
and more innocent each day
in a city that has stolen the stars

I dream of getting into the mountains
for just a night
where the stars still live

Come with me
show me your North Star
so we can both stop getting so lost.

I want to know why?
written March 31st, 2021

I want to know why
you had to do
the things you did.

I know you hated yourself
and everything about your world
and I know
you loved me.

I know there were generations
of alcoholism and abuse.
Nobody told me,
but I know.

I want to know why
I have to live like this
the chaos and fracturing inside
on these bad days.

I want to know why
there isn't any answer
no balm or salve to sooth
this rampant infection in me.

I want to know why
it has to be this way.

Falling into
written July 7th, 2021

always a child      
never a child      
without a face      
suspended in this twilight      
no-where and in no-time      
floating in air      
my faith is      
the tight grasp        
keeping you from      
falling into the abyss      
where children are crushed      
like fallen fruit—      
or am I keeping you    
from falling into grace?

I want poems
written March 15th, 2021

I want poems with roots that reach down underground
and are best friends with the earthworms

I want poems that reach up through the sky
covered in dewdrops that glisten from the light of distant stars

I want poems that are so dark
you walk by them and don't realize they are there until you brush up against them

I want poems that tickle and tease
leaving gales of laughter drifting on the breeze in their wake

I want poems that say *******
when you ask what meter they should be read in.
These are not that sort of poems and my poems are not for you.

I want poems that are too sad, too angry, too revealing
because other's expectations stifle and are not who we really are

I want poems that touch you
yes you, the one reading this right now

I want poems that are awkward and unfinished
wearing mismatched socks and tripping over their own feet
because it is not easy to be imperfect or even downright homely

I want poems that are the kid that sits at the back of class
wanting to disappear into the ground
but raises his hand to be called on anyway

I want poems that know the question, that find the answer
that finally figure out all that is in me

I want poems that are friends and lovers and strangers
whether they are 1 poem or many,
but oh how I long for someone that is many poems

I want as many poems as I can fit
into this life and this world we inhabit
for a period of only
a finite number of poems.

Fishing for poems
written March 22nd 2021

I have a friend
who says he likes to fish
while his son
likes catching fish.

My friend's approach
always produces satisfaction
as he is happy just with fishing pole in hand,

while the other
leads to ecstasy or heartbreak
depending on if a satisfactory fish is caught.

I hope I can cultivate
a love of sitting here
my pen moving across the page
and when I have worn myself out
let me call this enough
and my day a success.

For you I would build
written May 9th, 2021

If I could build a life
if I was that kind of architect
I'd build days filled with sun
soft colors - soft light - soft surfaces

you would always have shelter
and never be cold
your nightlight
would be the steady stars in the sky

your world would be filled
with food music and books
to help you grow healthy and strong
nourished with delight

I'd be every kind of person
to hold you
to make you laugh
to inspire you with wonders
so you are never alone

I would build this
if I could
for you
___

I whisper to you
you are safe always
just be brave
and whisper back to me
if there is anything you want

I would pull down a star for you
plant a tree in the middle of your room
inhabit it with koalas
make an oasis in the desert
a bridge across the ocean
(I am an engineer - and so - you are also)

Each day I try
to face my fears
for us

I live waiting to hear your voice
to know you feel
safe enough to want.

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.

Lucky
written January 20th, 2021

"I've always been lucky," he says,
standing at his gate
talking to me on this dirt road,
"I survived an inoperable brain tumor, cancer
and they took one of my lungs,
but I had 2, so I'm fine.
Always been lucky."

He turns back to his home and dogs
rolling the gate shut behind him.

I am left to wonder
how does fate dispense luck?
Who gets it? What type? How much?

Is it years served?
arrests made?
women loved?
children raised?
dogs cared for and buried?

I sit in my car and watch him walk
through the trees to the house he built
with plenty of room to turn around in

I see the inexorable path
the luck dispensed and choices made
that has brought him to this moment
he and his dogs
at the end of this dirt road.

If he could choose different luck
would he?
this man who has always been lucky.

Glorious
written January 26th, 2021

Come here dearest
shy happy one
smile and light up my day
for you are glorious
a light in this dark world

Come here dearest
waiting eager to please one
sit here with me
for you are glorious
company in a lonely world

Come here dearest
laughing embodied ***** one
teach me how to love this body
for you are glorious
fireworks in the night sky

Come here dearest
scared hurt hiding one
you are safe in my arms
find comfort with me
for you are glorious
show me the world through new eyes

Come here dearest
organized empathetic care-taker one
rest for a moment in other's arms
for you are glorious
always with a brave face in this fierce world

Come here dearest
for you are glorious.

This poem happened during the lowest point of my life after 3 failed suicide attempts. I went on a retreat to a nearby monastery. It was such a peaceful experience in the midst of so much pain, that words can't really describe it. This poem is about one amazing moment during morning vigils. I do not identify as Christian, but this poem still happened.

Blessed Beloved: The Crucifixion of Jesus
written August 11th, 1996

At the 9th hour
Jesus hanging on the cross cried out
My God, my God, why hast thou forsaken me?
Am I not your blessed beloved?

I know of a child
whose reality was anything
but blessed and beloved
who sat in the stillness of a monastery
watching the lights dim in the sanctuary
as the monks knelt in silent prayer

before the sun has risen
in the early morning
the soft light brings into focus
the simple crucifix at the front of the sanctuary

her eyes focus on the crucifix
on the myth? or man?
who died a horrible death
with nails through his wrists

the child who hurts so badly
finds someone like herself
in the eyes of the man not myth
who experienced such hurt
and yet is God's blessed beloved

she looks into his eyes
daring him with all the hurt there
but he doesn't look away
because he has also hurt

he has hurt so badly he cried out
My God, my God, why hast thou forsaken me?

in the eyes of the child he understands
that God so loved the world
that he made his blessed beloved part of it
he made his blessed beloved man, not myth
for only by having experienced
can God reach out and truly say:

I am the all powerful myth
but I am not some God on a pedestal
I am also you.
My son has died
not to become God
but to become you
so that you can look at him
in all his pain and glory
and recognize that you are also
God's own blessed beloved.

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.

Writing poems
written February 17th, 2021

These poems
don't seem like much
as I sit at my desk
with the blinds open
writing on the green graph paper
I have always written
engineering homework
and poems on.

The exhaustion doesn't hit
until I post them online
moving the handwritten original
from unfinished to finished notebook.

finished (for now)
finished (but not quite right)
finished (but not good enough)
finished (but not worth speaking out loud)
finished (and to hell with it post it)

Something about that act
makes me want to
go back to bed
even though the sun
is bright in the window
sure that
I will never emerge
to write another word.

Thank goodness
that feeling isn't permanent
or this unfinished notebook
now filled with bits and fragments
words forgotten as soon as they were written,
would be filled with blank pages.

And the finished (but not quite right) notebook
getting heavier each day
with MY words
that have been released into the world,
would only have that one poem in it.

I am always curious about how other people write. So here is how one poem developed for me.

I try to write each day. I sit down and sometimes there's a line or a thought that I know I want to write about. Sometimes I page through my unfinished poems notebook and choose one to work on. Other times I read from a favorite poetry anthology until something sparks a poem.

This day we had gone for a drive to pick up lunch, and I was back at home. I read some from the poetry anthology, and I loved this line by Jane Miller, from her poem "Poetry", in the anthology Gift of Tongues:
"We are being made into words even as we speak," and I write this:

I return to my room
cool dark and deep
words having
swirled around me
all day
tempting
me to reach out
to grab a few
to put together
into this poem
that is today.

I like it, but it doesn't really say anything about my day. I love the phrase, "this poem that is today." So what happened today? How can I incorporate something more specific from my day today into the poem?

I love writing about nature. Lots of neighborhood trees in my poems. I also often write about things in my head, or about things that are central to who I am. Self poems.

I try to include physical descriptions in my writing, so it's not just unattached thoughts floating around like they do in my head. Rarely, I write about people. Who could be made into words from today?

I remember a waitress from where we got lunch. I have lots of thoughts. (We were wearing masks, but you can still tell when people are smiling.)

I return
to my room
cool dark and deep
words
having swirled around
like the waitress' full skirt.
I smile at her
and hope her life
will be one of
many smiles
I hope that
she will bend her world
to suit her
instead of being bent
by the traditions and proprieties
I see filling
the space around her
those things I grasp and find words in
to make this poem
that is today.

I copy the poem, making slight changes, moving sections so they make more sense to me, scribbling alternate words off to the side. I enjoy writing by hand. I enjoy copying the poem. Sometimes I make changes, sometimes not. The copying is soothing to me.

I read the poem out loud and think about line breaks. I try to imagine a stranger reading it. Would they know what I was talking about? I don't want to offend anyone's religious traditions, but that is part of this specific poem. She isn't just any waitress, she's a teenager who is clearly part of a very specific tradition.

I don't know if the finished poem is "better" than that above, but it's where I end up and feel wanting to share with the world. I come here to post my poem, and then move the original into my finished (but not quite right) notebook. I don't think it has much to do with that original quote from Jane Miller, so I will save that for another day.

The waitress
started March 3rd, 2021

I smile at the waitress
and she smiles back
so young and unformed
being everything
that everyone around her expects.

Words swirl through the air
like her skirt does
as she turns
lace covering her hair
speaking of conventions and traditions
that look so pretty
when you don't have to live them.

I hope that her life
will be filled with
many heart-felt smiles
and that she will
bend her world to suit her
instead of being bent or broken
by all I see crowding
the space around her.

I return home
to sort through
all these dense heavy thoughts
to find the words
to make this poem
that is today.

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

~In the cave of the ear, the bones, like stars
at the solstice, sit upright and still,
listening in on the air as the muscle and blood
listen in on the skeleton.
—Robert Bringhurst, "The Song of Ptahhotep," Gift of Tongues

This body which is mine
written June 1st, 2021

For too long
my body has listened for
phantom danger coming my way
my body tensed waiting.

Now I am training myself
to listen to the sound
of my solid solitary bones
the soft drumming of my blood
rushing and cresting
in the shores of my body.

I listen as my muscles
stretch and contract
moving lungs and limbs
part of the symphony
coordinated by my brain.

I listen to my body
and learn to hear the beauty
the coordinated song
of muscle and blood
bones and brain
wrapped in my soft skin
the miracle of this body
which is mine.

Being we with
November 17th, 2021

It can be a cold solitary world
but sometimes we are blessed
with people we can be we with

the sparkles and starlight
normally hidden inside
can burst out in dazzling displays

these lonely souls in all of us
can be seen for a brief moment
be known by another we are we with

some of these we may last
but most don't
seems to be the sad fact

so I wish moments of being we with
for you and I and we
moments we treasure and hold onto

for those long years we are we without
waiting for the alignment of the heavens
for a moment again of being we with.

I write myself
written March 29th, 2021

around the cracks in a window
through the looking glass
reflected in a tarnished mirror
sideways and from a distance
right onto the page
I write myself

in every tree and golden hawk
every person seen with my soul
every poem read and reflected on
I write myself

re-membering the dead
and secrets long kept
that I now declare out loud
I write myself

the lost-forgotten-sleeping
the denied-angry-hurt
the joyful-******-loving
I write myself

my present - my world
my head - my heart
that I hope nobody will understand
(or that I want them to understand?)
I write myself

a future healthy and whole
that I am scared to imagine
afraid to hope for or want
I write myself

connections to the world
physical - spiritual - natural
me reaching out to touch you
I write myself

My blood - My beating heart - My breath
all of my all
all that I am - was - might be one day
I write myself

I write to make solid
all those nebulous things
floating around and about and in me
I write myself whole.

The haunted halls of my mind
written March 18th, 2021

Walking the not so empty halls of my mind
I watch the phantom echoes from the past
dart to and fro before my eyes
the past intruding on the present and the future
claiming space where it does not belong
refusing to be abandoned or laid to rest
I search amid the chaos for the key
that will bring these phantom echoes into the light
integrating them into my now so my waking days
are not filled with ghosts from the past
who roam the haunted halls of my mind
defying time and space
until all find some kind of peace.

Pieces - poem fragments
written December 5th, 2020

things broken
in pieces
not finding peace

*****
shattered glass
shards reflect
the sun

*****
minnows dart
through shallow streams
as bright sun pierces

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.

"... 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.