a prayer,
this fog before
the dawn, crunchy
leaves so light
on the old elm
ignites wildfire
in the blue hour
dry | scattered
who couldn't
let go
and awakened
full but still thirsty
before the sun
could release
the moon's edge.
Like a river
effortlessly, truth
takes many turns
and hand-over-hand in
darkness, thoughts:
soot and smoke
on the water,
pray a choice
of stillness
despite.
And of freedom, a
life not owned
by shadow,
shake
instead like all things
shocked must do
as all living is shocked
until nothing of old
leaves any ember
that may spark/
even hope
and the cruelty
or the way
smiling
can be a rebellion
when loved have gone-
pray any fire,
a peacemaker
if the rebellion
must go on.
And for the wailing cat
hungry mouth
and mangy
coat
too messy
to grow love
or to have a
warm hand
upon it,
pray, too;
for daisy chains,
crowns on would-be
princesses and princes,
for baby frogs in pencil
cases, and lizards
clamped on
sweaty
ears
because
the children's play
is survival
and to smile at the abyss
at its ferocity, then
because we are fierce,
the same.
But, pray especially
for paper dolls
torn with rough edges,
the square pegs
in round holes
that they know
who they are
and are curious
of what they are not-
a rain held as it grows
having been brave
to accept their
beauty,
and that of others/
knowing need.
Pray for the thirst
the blue hour
sparks
every line of every
hill, clear as the
moon’s edge
when the sun so close
will soon arrive
or soon go,
a time to shake free.
Tag: Poetry
creases
like this-
barely shadows
thin clouds across
the sun
in a palm
and a brew
of lightning on
night sky
or love in sudden
tense regard,
bright and bitter
in the doorway
waiting to go
or leave
is how I remember.
Ghost in the door,
palm with its
reminders,
a mouth
closed
too tight-
all a storm
dark and a little
sweet
in its making
somewhere
along the Atlantic.
And this,
the reason
to go when I ran,
maybe
yellow could be
like dahlias
and black just
professional attire/
not reminders
to re-mind again
that the cracked
walk, the fractured
frown following –
a memory of
monsters
of grief and
abandonment
now held
in the bones that
must be un-done
and how tiring.
Could sing
unkempt and
broken vowels
like the hair that
wasn’t combed and
spoke instead
that the heart
is red, and bloody
but so quietly
and of fiery dreams
set ablaze
to burn hotter
than the very thing
that could have
taken them away
if not taken in a hand/
the broken relics
to find.
In the night
a coyote runs
along a river
telling the pack
how he runs
and I run with him
for awhile
every belief
left unchallenged
the held heart
shrieking to
be free,
to love.
Gray cloud,
same old, same
old ghost in
the palm,
in the fading lines
of barely there
maybe
a bright moon,
maybe a white moth
on the tufted ear
of an owl.
seeing the edge of a shape
A calm I first knew
in the warm sting
of Miami beaches
in the swell of
a wave was
enough to hold
my attention,
thankfully,
a relentless
press.
Could I be free
from chains I was
born in like my
mother and hers
before
to allow them
to break away
even as they
bruise
and clank.
Because this place
can make a person
unable
to feel or see
what is right
in front of them
when the image
blurred
by sad memory
or old pain
seems as real
as it gets-
so loud,
demanding
we remember
everything
to survive
and we
try to carry with
love, without
being angry
and with all
the fragility
still, so
we will not become
the darkness,
we might become
the very thing
that keeps balance.
Some say
this world is soft to
lessen the blow,
and I feel the
partiality of it
limiting-
I cannot
in hand hold
this beautiful place
the complicated petals
layer upon layer
like a chrysanthemum
without holding
the dark, as it is
between each
shining edge
a defined line
showing
this petal and that petal.
And instead of running
from everything
known
like I did at first
like happiness
was a thing
ran into, suddenly
behind a door probably
someone else opened
waiting to be found,
one day, I began to see
in places that
cannot be touched
by perspective
too much like
on a snowy, narrow
pass in the Cascades
where my heart
could still
its panic:
in that moment
a rush of wind
is beautiful
because I live-
I knew to go
looking after
the waves.
And the vast words
held too long
unsure of how
to say them
having not defined
what was indefinable
could split ice
and rock
beneath the places
I kept running
and I would simply
slide
for awhile.
It took some years
to become still enough
that my own shaking
could not unground
my thoughts/
and longer
for the hold
to take place
that is space kept
for knowing things
as they are
as much
as is possible
in any moment
without needing it
and with all
the uncertainty
where I could look
at what had happened,
these chaotic moments
and grief
that could crush
who I believed
myself to be,
to look back instead
with love for the sake
of love and gratitude
that I was myself
all along, especially
in the rainforest
walking, or with hands
digging into the ground
another living thing
having not much choice
in things, like lavender
with its sweetness
for no reason
to give it water
when it would not rain,
part of the learning.
Can you see
where the heart
will survive
by it’s aching,
running to be free
knowing what is
and isn’t worth
staying for,
is as basic as
need of air
if in a place
a person feels
their own thoughts
cannot be trusted
when it is mostly
the thoughts of others
like a sidewalk, broken
but you try to run
and trip.
But finally
to hold still
in the calm of
knowing the dark
as it is, dependent
upon that which grows
and thrives/ maybe
a glimpse
on a mountain pass
quiet enough defines
the edge
of your self
when it is difficult to see,
you have held it.
a cautionary tale – Zelda to F. Scott Fitzgerald from the hospital
Dear Scott,
Remember how I told you,
“I am really only myself
when I’m somebody else whom I have endowed
with these wonderful qualities from my imagination?”
I’ve been thinking, all those pieces of me
are like pecans in a loaf of bread
baking in the oven and as it bakes,
those pecans get further
divided by space
and fluffy dough stuff/
think that’s why space
with all its soundless,
cold in-between
was something
I didn’t care for at first
but now I look up
and see myself
in the reach between stars
in the places of nothing:
a soundless place
I can speak and
hear it.
I am not silent in a clothes basket,
4 years old and thinking I am hidden-
no, I am un-shelving continents
with my dancing
with my love
having everything to say
and nothing worth saying,
according to myself.
When I went insane, love
I was caught up
being every version of me,
a puppeteer holding the strings
poised but unmoving
uncertain in where
this one goes or
that one came from/
‘they’ see
an effervescent, socialite
dancing on tables, and
I believe I’m showing daddy
I don’t need hard work
to build character,
that my beauty is enough
but, truth is
I was working hard,
I could live off the wistful smiles
on boys faces and be plump
as a jelly bean
stuck to their cheek,
that sweet aching
they don’t really like
but take all the same.
I was many versions of myself
scattered around a sun
and I could feel a warmth
but it was skin deep
and these parts of me searched
one tip-toeing on the event horizon
with a spoon in her mouth
flask of vodka on her hip
and another draped along Europa’s
smooth surface orbiting Jupiter,
her tidally locked, lover
(they say Europa spins faster than its orbit,
because the stuff inside is unbalanced, Scott).
Remember when I jumped in the fountain
in my red swimsuit? The space between stars.
Remember how our feet burned on white sands
bright as whiskey fire when we lived
at the end of everything
and the beginning of anything?
That burning was close as we could get
to finding the sun I speak of.
I was most beautiful
picking all the things I love
about people all the things
I love about living: laughter, dancing,
drinking- all the things that please me
scant almost too much
the way men turn me
like hands turn the pages
of a book
a blank page
opened in the night
and wanting to be
filled, or to know
finally, what do you find
between the stars
and the sun?
and was it enough.
On that beach we lived for awhile
where I should have felt some peace,
my hunger just became greater/
all those versions of me I created
and not one sun upon which to orbit
like the pecans in that loaf,
I am lost now
foot stuck in an air pocket
in that fluffy stuff and
100,000 versions
scattered across the universe-
the paths are all broken
or were they just
never charted.
Before you sent me away
sometimes I would think of baby birds
when hungry, but I wouldn’t know
I was hungry or
I’d think of a zipper over the mouth
of little girls and all the stories
that could be told
watching our daughter reading
under the oak tree
and didn’t know
there was a sadness,
I just kept dancing
hours upon hours
so I could be as
worthy as you were
to be alive.
And, when I said to you,
‘People look like ants in a bottle’
I was just afraid I was the same as them,
these people that looked like strangers
walking in circles and
that I was a stranger, too
all of us like ants
marching in straight lines,
protecting the queen, carrying
bits of leaf back to our anthills, so
I needed to love you first
and live incidentally
and that’s really
the story,
don’t you think?
Now, all these grown men
try to fix what’s gone wrong
with shots that make me shake
with violence,
and my mind is hoarfrost clinging
to bare branches,
my self, a ghostly butterfly
too insubstantial
to rest on the flowers/
I wish
I’d stayed with the girl
in the clothes basket. She
liked to talk about happy elves
in a make-believe place
everyone told her she needed
to leave behind, but she
is real, can follow the path
from her smile to
the stories creating
who she will be
when she is stronger
if she trusts
she is strong
and not a woman
who needs you.
I am the empty cup
with no handle,
the handle is somewhere?
Maybe
it was your hand on my stomach
as you slept maybe
I am a little girl you told
could only bloom when
you were sleeping
so you could be
F. Scott Fitzgerald
without inconvenience.
No one could have survived us, Scott,
but everyone really did love me,
didn’t they? All of my
stars and the space
between them,
if I could choose again
to chart the paths
with someone by my side:
you, my family, this world
or even my own heart
if I would stop and
feel this hunger.
in caves
Sunflowers grow | beneath cliffs, a din heard in the mouth small sound of roots deep, stems bracing waves that crash high like a hand held to the face with eyes closed pauses all of it here, some will arrive by wandering but it is dark and so much unknown to wander freely or consider to stay. We see only their crowns as they breach the unseen, their beginning is close, just a step into a place the sun holds without ever saying, hello/ we could know them: their bright faces petals a happy yellow and lovely, framed in what some would say is joy but they are shaking their heads slowly no, yet again with each rising and setting, they follow from the place they would leave if only these deep roots inch by inch would pull free - Did you know stems grow in the night to the west so the head can sway to the east at sunrise. The stem guides like stars in the night, desert sky are persistent or pollen on a honeybee is small easy to miss but irrefutable/ they, are guided far round cold corners wide, clementine eye, happy and content/ how the heart keeps the mind stays the heart to keep on and the sound in this hidden place, brushing upon damp walls: the wind at the end of its journey over wave and accidentally in this hollow is song like woman who whispers, do not let me break, please but same way, rounds corners and rejoins the sky- wandering you may slide cliffside into deep ocean, not seeing it is a cliff where waves will slam the mark of this place, and will swim near a place dry but dark and cold when no one is around to see you. Wild sunflower grow, long stemmed and leave, I would say this old cave- eventually. Eye following the sun even as it sets with you, no madness or sad keeping of memory but growing round cold walls into the quiet beauty one day, of knowing nothing of the previously known.
paper crane prayer
Blooming in dark alleys these bullets called innocence: children who discover the world sting my eyes these bullets called innocence pepper on the page sting my eyes and they are wet like my father’s when reading, The Little Prince and they are wet between the pages when reading, The Little Prince and I am riddled with responsibility between the pages a crumpled paper crane, a bookmark and I am riddled with responsibility leaning between pages now a pause a crumpled paper crane, a bookmark this tired from saving the world leaning between pages now a pause thinking what kind of story is as good as: this tired from saving the world and knowing/ the beauty of night jasmine thinking what kind of story is as good as: children who discover the world not knowing the beauty is them, blooming in dark alleys.
habitant
The people we play
the ones remembered
from memory or some story
a ghost beneath the nail we
scratch at hunting fathers'
tender and mothers' dreams
splintered beneath unkindness/
it's the mantle of yesterday
of what is loved and not
yet owned or even known.
Still we choose to be brave
to live a life kinder, flowers are
on the table because we thought
to walk to a garden, coffee brews
on a Saturday morning, little feet
already rushing beneath the sun.
My heart, does
a war rage outside the window?
Are the people who wage it
good? When I blow upon
the palm, even in this
dim light dust looks a little
like stars, and I decide
there the universe is
in my own hand,
and the children receive
this debt, a path lit
by this child we stay,
a joy that is owed.
In Due Proportion 