Credo.

I believe in the soft, distracted smile
turning my way and the girl who
draws vines on her white Keds
in permanent marker.
I believe in stately trees and turning
pages beneath their boughs
with searching hands.
The adept hand signing, “hello”
when there are no words to be heard
or knitting colorful yarns on
telephone poles. I believe
in gardenias that bloom between
the alley and the sun, the sounds
of Cohen from someone’s kitchen.
I believe god
is held in the mouths
of philosophers and children:
that beliefs are dangerous without
love and art is an act of goodwill.
I believe in ethics and the
responsibility of leadership but even more
in the resiliency of the human spirit
like a ghostly pounding heart
as we sleep.
I believe in the spaces between:
in pauses and think-backs and could be’s,
especially in “perhaps” and
I believe in the dog’s paw
that smells like sugar cookies
now that we are family.
I believe we should be careful
of words like, “inconvenience.”
I believe in the storytellers and song-
makers and especially in grandmothers
watching mothers turn the page.
I believe in simplicity of
needs: the hand that must be
held and the mouth that
must be fed. And, the
needs that go untended,
the boy clutching his teddy
as he dreams.
I believe in the untenable
breadth of the universe
and the starlit dust
inbetween it all. I believe
‘god’ is in the trees
and the wave tumbling
towards the shore and
the eyes of strangers.

many worlds

All the reasons the heart couldn’t form,

a humble stem/kitsch in your mother’s attic:
there’s a hundred hours left

still,and the sun won’t really set
just sway into someone
                  a world away, 

looks like you, looks like I,
holds a star like space holds/

limitless.

Even how love, was the baby frog I kept
in my pencil case to bring 
along to school,

‘little buddy,’ because the softness
of empathy is there before words
get in the way

but only realized when we talk about it.

It’s likely not many notice
the beauty of someone young
holding their space fully/

or how         outside of god
we hold the words of many gods
we have loved in our memory:

I still will sing
at the end of the world
walk into storms the same way

a ghost can only be ghostly.

Eat the cake! I really think it is fine
and to love peculiar things
like tiny frogs and funny-nosed sloths:
 
because love informs when chaos
gentle at the gate is hot
and all-to-ready.

When the War Ended

It’s a sad story,
the drowning man
in a cloud of fists

the first thing in morning
woken thinking of yesterday
and swinging wide like a boxer

finds the finish when he
splays on the mat, hair
absurd and wet for

just a fight in his memories
of fire and rush
of the way the sun

shocked when he woke seeking
like missiles seek below waters
a mid-night butterfly to take,

hunts

way of shore: soft
sand and dawn,
the cellar

where Geppetto carves a heart/
and how still is absence
of war. stillness

pulsing like a star grown
old or the shock of gardenias
in a scorching heat,

not a violin struck with flint
or the way a man can wail,

through city streets across
smelly kitchens and
mothballs clung to old coats

dark roads and alleys
in living of dying-
the flower unfolds

its self.

I think the man
questions if he can
swim in dark waters

and how will he meet
the sun, swinging
with those

wildcat fists? how
he could, like a shock
of gardenias, breathe

life of so-called dying;
make a home with
an artist in the cellar

where he is waiting
on the shore.

Who We Are

There are too many
versions of self lost from
many iterations/ I seeping
in tender aggression
over it/ I, containing
all echoes

resounds

and thinks in-between
such things where associations
flow without influence: I wonder
if the truth is there same
like a stem makes a leaf
makes a tree

in infinitum

‘the way of the way:’ waves
rising out of words we say
and up into another I
like dust from an old coat
rises the still air in
the light

like galaxies,

Because I need not define:
to wake and see a familiar
stranger constructed
from this seed (seed of
a stem or seed
of a leaf)

still rooting

maybe tangled
like The Beatles
Revolution 9 where love
was not enough, Lennon
planted everywhere
in pursuit of order

(like a theory of chaos)

because my words like fractals,
and my people like words
become recursive- appearing
infinitely complex, but
if you follow each statement
back there was only a person

‘simply,’ in the beginning-

and my love will find me in
the rainforest again where
mountains meet the sea/
sometimes I fear a great wave
will come like I dreamed when
young and frightened or

he will find me driving completely
unrooted and free with only my heart
like a beacon- I am in Astoria or
Sedona, back to the hot trails of
youth chasing spiderwebs
in the sunshine

to hold tight/ even the insubstantial

and every thing an animal
can perceive waves
bouncing from one onto another:
is wanting definition. Sometimes I will
antidote the need to define
with inattention/

until the echo goes on-

because people rooted
in sand: their roots don’t
tap the same way so
they grow them flying buttresses
scaffolding tender things
or like ivy choking

the heart(‘)s

like those grown in shade
of tall trees with small and
hanging pink flowers balloons
concerned with whether they are more
pink than red or more red
than is tender in

perception

and how silly,
(when I was a little girl
laying on the cool concrete
watching the night for lightning
that arced like a spider’s web
thinking it evidence

of god)

a state of wonder
a wave forming outside of
else, only echoes its self
is outside of definition
like a balloon
maybe lost/ maybe

let go

looks like a dot
from so far away-
maybe I watch with
required wonder
maybe it can still reach

into the sun.