They want
written February 6th, 2021

They think they want
the body
the ***
the words

but it's not my words they want
the words in me
waiting to spill out

some listen for a while
but they know what they want
and it isn't
this body
this ***
these words
me.

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.

~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.

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

This silence
started December 26th, 2020

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

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

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

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

this silence which is
our only common language.

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

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

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

your branches
spindly fingers
clearly reach
for your lover the sun

this tree - winter tree - witch tree

every cell
strains upward
wanting to be one
with the sun

this tree - winter tree - witch tree

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

this tree - winter tree - witch tree

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

this tree - winter tree - witch tree

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

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.

Time reveals
written May 25th, 2021

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

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

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

together again
written November 9th, 2021

the terrifying silence
crashes around me
I'm afraid I will
be broken into pieces
that can't be put back
together again

I've done this before
pieced myself
together again
but I get so tired
of the fear that the
breaking will never end

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Trees!
written March 22nd, 2021

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Turn on the lamp
started January 13th, 2021

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

Turn on the lamp
let the light
warm this page

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

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

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

~In the song of the man in his room in his house in his head remembering
And then no more?
—Thomas McGrath, "Ordonnance", The Gift of Tongues

This poem has a soundtrack. 2 songs that play along with it are "The Knife Feels Like Justice" by Brian Setzer, and "Rock and Roll Dreams Come Through" by Meat Loaf.

Until there is no more
started January 31st, 2021

I remember the songs
crying from the radio
the words I couldn't say
giving expression to the searing pain
helping my soul fly away
until there was no more

I remember my room that was light pink
the color my fear still is today
the secrets in there breaking open
like the stains on the carpet
that everyone must have seen
the tears in your broken eyes
that could not be cried
until there was no more

I remember the house that room was in
a house that was no home
me a hermit crab without a shell
war without and war within
until there was no more

I remember what was in his head
the self-loathing, isolation
paranoia and bitterness
that were his gift to me
from father to beloved child
until there was no more

What remains
is the remembering
and the not remembering
reality shimmering
into and out of existence
until there is no more.

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

Visible
written June 5th, 2021

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

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

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

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

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

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.

Weft and warp
started January 22nd, 2021

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

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

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

We smile and nod
written March 30th, 2021

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

What can I share?
written March 29th, 2021

I talk to people
   who have done so much
   and traveled so far

I wonder what do I have
   to share with the world
   that is unique and worth sharing?

I can share the view
   outside my window
   of old trees growing wild

I can share the sound
   of my pen scratching
   across the paper

I can share the blue sky
   now always shining
   in this poem

I can share a welcoming silence
   that wraps itself around you
   healing protecting and comforting

I can share coolness in the heat of summer
   warmth from my flannel quilt in winter
   and a moment of home when you feel bereft

I can share the depth of my heart
   the world seen through my eyes
   the words that only I can write.

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

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

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

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

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

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

winter sun
written february 5th, 1995

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.

With wings made strong
written April 15th, 2021

I sit in the back
while you sit in the front
the favored seat
next to your father

you so icy and cold
he could have reached out
and touched your body
but not your soul

which was flying out over
the fields we drove by
desperately straining
to get as far away as possible
with wings made strong

before having to return
to this body of yours
to walk down halls
filled with students and teachers
who did not see

you or the others
with wings made strong.

Today do you still
fly out over the fields
wondering if
you will ever
take residence in
this body of yours.

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.

Written on my soul
written May 17th, 2021

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

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

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

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

What was written
on your soul last night?