poetry

mud people

mud people

Then there were the first humans, whose job it was to offer prayer, tell stories, and remember the passage of time. Made of the clay of this earth, the mud people of the first creation did not endure; when it rained, their bodies grew soft and dissolved.
– “Creations” from Dwellings by Linda Hogan

mud people
we soft squish
puddle and
wear away

tears run rivulets
into furrows into
cracks into
crumbles

we have no hard
to hang onto
no set stone spine

instead we bend bow sway
pray palms high
heart pressed low to
earth’s chest listening
to pulse and wave
pliant supplicants
consumed by awe

all we need
is to make:
prayer / tale
sound salve
time taste

and for you to please take
what our muddy palms
hold out open
trembling

poetry

a sweet offering

a sweet offering

early July and the trees smell like matches
each cloud is a blessing of shade
and (less likely) possibly rain

today the first wild strawberries are ripe,
ruby packets of pleasure
even the smallest souls can reach –
how can such sweetness come
from sun rain rock air?

and what comparable kindness
might I possibly make
given all the energy poured into me
these 47 years?

poetry

disappearing act

disappearing act

my favorite part of the concert
is when the house lights dim
my body melts into the seats
and my form becomes invisible presence
I’m there and transported
a silent witness
until my hands are invited
to beat the air into wild approval
percussive acknowledgement
of what the souls on stage have wrought
that we are here together
in this moment in this place
in this desire to see and be seen
to make something new
and be part of the making

poetry

gingerbread houses (without gingerbread)

gingerbread houses (without gingerbread)

made from materials
from the open minimart:
2 packets of biscuits
just-add-water Royal Icing
a box of food colouring
a bag each of M&Ms
and Sour Patch Kids
and (most importantly)
imagination

look what emerges:
sunflower gardens
Twister games
swimming pools
snowmen
Christmas trees
busy minds hands hearts
3 sugary scenes
and one yummy new memory

poetry

Trimurti

Trimurti

at Prambanan
my Irish Catholic shamrock days resurface:
three-in-one
Creator Preserver (and most prominently) Destroyer

I look at Shiva blankly
feel nothing

Vishnu at least smiles back

but Brahma is my favorite
looking out in 4 directions
making the world
one tremor-struck
cracked
easily-eroded
block at a time