~I wanted to find out in what way the specialness of my experience could be made to connect me with other people instead of dividing me from them.
—James Baldwin, Nobody Knows My Name

Alone together
started November 30th, 2020

We all at times
feel alienated.
Tell me about it,
that thing that
makes you feel
so different and alone.

I might understand
or at least I can listen
and for a brief moment
we can be alone together.

Have you been
   a stranger in the only home
   you ever knew?
I have.

Do you feel
   anger shame fear
   all the time?
I do.

Have you silently screamed
   for fear if you let the sound loose
   you and your world would shatter?
I have.

Did you find your people on a psych ward
   and know it was the only time
   you would be surrounded by those like you?
I did.

Have you ever felt so uniquely formed
   you are sure others
   wouldn't recognize you as human?
I have.

Do you fall in love with words
   shaping them into poems
   to show yourself and others
  that silence is not the only option?
I do.

Hear my words
find yourself in them
find your own words
and for a brief moment
we can be alone together.

~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?

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.

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.

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.

~Life looks like a white desert, a blaze of today in which nothing distinct can be made out, seen.
—Marvin Bell, "1. About the dead man", Gift of Tongues

Blaze
written May 2nd, 2021

I long to blaze
to be white hot fire
burning fiercely
without limit or restraint

take as kindling
all these collected seconds of tedium
the moments of curling into myself in pain
the flares of white hot passion
the kisses of comfort on the forehead

spark my soul
start the fire
watch me blaze so bright
you have to look away

wait until the coals cool
so you can sift through
the ashes that were me
looking for treasure

I am no longer there.
I have moved on and am
collecting the kindling
for the next
glorious
blaze.

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.

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?

Breathing space
written November 3rd, 2021

Space stretches
into the distance
I send my breath
towards you

soft like a breeze
tickling your hair
embracing you
pooling around you
making this space

for you
to be
to rest
to feel peace
a breathing space.

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.

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.

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?

~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.

~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.

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.

Definitions of hurt
written March 14th, 2021

My story is not
of physical violence and love withheld.
My story
is of violation and love mixed together.

When love is defined that way
with things that don't leave marks
on a child afraid to cry
different definitions of hurt
are learned by the body - by my body.

You reach out to touch my *****
I say, "Please don't hurt me"
you say, "I would never hurt you"
and then you touch me
pushing things into me
not understanding
that my body learned
my body knows
my body screams in pain
at that intimate touch that
the world defines as pleasure

"Don't hurt me?" I ask
you don't understand
my definition of hurt
my inability to say
I know you would want me to say
certainly any sane adult would say

"No. That hurts. Stop. I don't want this."

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.

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?

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.

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.

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.

~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.

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.

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?

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.

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.

Good girl
written February 27th, 2021

I have always been
a good girl.
It was a role
that fit me well.
I took whatever
society-family-church
said I should be
and tried to be all of it
to prove - to show - to hide.

Certainly nobody would hurt
a good girl
and I was
such a grown-up good girl.
What could there be
in the life of
such a good girl
that I couldn't take care of
myself?

It's certainly the face I presented
and all the things
that didn't fit
got put
somewhere else
because it was absolutely essential
that I be
a good girl
and that nobody notice
all the things that were wrong.

Such a grown-up good girl
even if it was wrong
it must not have hurt
because I always
took care of
everything and everyone
until one day
I didn't anymore
take care of anything
or anyone
or myself.

But really in all of that
the whole point
was to not need
because nobody and nothing
was taking care of
the good girl.

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

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.

~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.

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.

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.

How oceans came to be
written March 15th, 2021

Tears fall
from eyes
wetting cheeks
running in rivulets
down bodies
drenching the earth
until it can hold no more
so the waters rise
becoming a salt water ocean
created from tears
that fell
from eyes.

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.

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.

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.... ?

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.

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?

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.

~I want to eat my life
—Olga Broumas, "If I Yes", Gift of Tongues

I want to eat my life
written June 11th, 2021

I
me, us, we
he, she, they
singular
plural
all of us
all of me.
I

want
that aching sensual word
not the bare factualness of need
something born in the soul
it takes hope to want
and incredible bravery.
I want

to eat
slowly like little bites of chocolate
then voraciously like melting ice cream
all of it - every last bite
because it is my favorite thing in the world.
I want to eat

my
mine - not borrowed -
not shared - not apologized for -
not stolen - not ashamed of -
not asked for - begged for - pleaded for
mine.
I want to eat my

life
I want to love it - build it -
want it - claim it - live it fully
from top to bottom and side to side
every inch of it known, explored and claimed.
I want to eat my life.

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.

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.

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.

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.

~Jane Kenyon lived and wrote poems from 1947 to 1995.

Jane Kenyon
written April 17th, 2021

I want to ask her
so many questions,
like why she chose
to put that one
word
alone on that line.

But she has gone
where I can not ask
so I will have to find my answers
in the spaces between her words
in the pauses at the ends of lines
and in the silences between her stanzas.

Just write
written April 25th, 2021

The first
is relatively easy
just get thoughts on the page.
I repeat to myself - no past -
no future - no pressure -
just write.

Coming back
can be more challenging
to words that flow and stumble
down one side and up the other.
I reassure myself - it is ok -
it will be ok - there is time -
just write.

Some poems
seem so weighty
I don't want to start them
or work on them once started.
I tell myself that
one day will be the right day
to work on that poem
but for today -
just write.

Many days
I want to make excuses.
I say I just wrote yesterday,
or I will write tomorrow,
or I will read someone else's poems,
but my work is my self
and I find my self writing poems, so -
just write.

It doesn't have to be right -
just write.

Koan me
July 24th, 2021


Who is writing this?

I am.

--------

Who wrote that?

I did.

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.

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.