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?

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.

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.

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.

"... 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.

Moments in my day
written August 7th, 2021

1.
I wake up
and look out the window
at the morning sun
shining through the leaves.

I look out the window again
and it is the dusk sky of day's end.
The day has gone somewhere
to someone.

2.
I sit and stare out the
half-circle window.
Somehow I
have arrived here
so I stay.
I'm not sure
where or when I am.
I don't move.
I wait for someone
to say it is ok
and hope
they don't notice me
if it is not.

3.
I am writing
about touching a man.
I write: "I grab him by the...."
and stop to think about what word to write.
One of the others inside boisterously says
It's an ***, grab him by the ***
it can't be those other words,
grab him by the ***!
I blush and don't write
"bottom" or "*****" or "buttocks"
I write: "I grab him by the ***."
The other is satisfied
and lets me continue on my own.

4.
I am suddenly in the body.
I am in bed with a man.
The others don't let me out
if it is dangerous,
so I smile and say "Hi."
He does *** things to me
and it does feel good, I think.
He has learned to say,
"Are you ok?" every few minutes.
I say, "Yes, I'm ok."

5.
I look through my binder of poems.
I know it is me writing here every single time.
I recognize the handwriting,
but even if it is dated yesterday
I don't remember writing the words.

6.
I am inside and hear
one of the others
I share this body with
giggle.
I come out to note
that I do not giggle,
because I do not giggle!
Then I go back inside
letting the one who giggles
giggle and be herself
in the body we share.

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.

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.

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 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.

~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.

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.

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.

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.

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

Of me—Being
written August 15th, 2021

Usually I have
no time or place
floating in the ether
until I whisper
my name
in your ear.

For a brief moment I am
here and now
known
anchored to this
time and place
with you.

In the index of my life
this moment will be listed
as one of the rare
occurrences
of me—
Being.

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.

One of these
written March 7th, 2021

One of these
is not like the others.

That one flower off to the right
in the field of flowers.
Do you see her
aglow with a quiet intensity
among all the others?

Always different-alone-apart
holding so many secrets.
What can she say?
What should she not say?
Can she really say
anything at all?

So she holds inside
all the things that burn
in the sunlight and the starlight,
buried so deep in her soul
even she doesn't know
some of them.

One of these
is not like the others.

~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.

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

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

Planting words
written December 26th, 2020

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

~You hear
yourselves in them
self after self
     ...
when I leave, I leave
alone, as I came.
—Denise Levertov, "Poet and Person", Gift of Tongues

Poems and people
started January 30th, 2021

Each morning I arrive
into this world anew
with a sigh and a memory
of day before day
self before self
that has tried to take up
permanent residence in this body
each one feeling right
until one morning it isn't.

This is my record of
poems and people
page after page after page.

At the end of the day
each one perches
on the edge of the night
to fly away alone into the dark.

I sleep and wait
to see who will arrive
with the morning.

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.

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

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.

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.

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.

~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.

Solitude
written January 30th, 2021

The writing prompt says
to describe someone
you wish to tell something.

It sounds so easy
except I have cultivated distance
and silence
even within myself.

The conversations I have
are of trauma and pain
and the crying for comfort
which even
the conversations with myself
rarely provide.

I plant and tend
these silent days
and silent years
that make this
silent solitary life.

If silence were currency
I would be rich
beyond imagining.

Perhaps one day
something or someone
will grow in these
well tended
fallow fields.

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?

~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.

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

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.

What substance do I have?
bone muscle blood skin.

I know there is more to me
than these.

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

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

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.

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.

~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.

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 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.

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.

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.

The real me
written July 1st, 2021

I sit on a low bluff
looking out at the ocean in Goa
age 18 and away from home
for the first time.

I can see sitting beside me
a version of me who is
female - compassionate - loving
my skirts and my bangles
the anklets Shankar and Ana gave me
soft and round and surprised
I want to be intimate with a boy.
This is the real me.

I see sitting on the other side of me
another version of me
who is sure they are the real me
male - logical - unemotional
calm under pressure.
My life is planned out
I will be an engineer like my uncle
interested in ideas and not people.
This is the real me.

Some "I"
sits on that low bluff
and sees both of us
for the first time
and it is a wonder.
There are no words for this yet
but these both are
the real me and in time
we will find more
of us.

This is the real me.

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.

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.

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)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.

~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.

~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.