poetry

quarantine

quarantine

every day longer and slower
than the last
filled with even less

the sun conspires
stays up even later
with a narrower lens

poetry

morning invocation

morning invocation

today the world is sweet
my eyes can and do open
hands clasp
tongue speaks
lips smile

I inhale the breath of trees
and exhale desert wildflowers
blooming at the slightest sign of rain

here we are
all having hit the jackpot
here on this same swirled sphere
together at this very moment

we draw breath
and open to hear the universe call out
a way to ease pain today
and we will

poetry

on guard

on guard

in these woods
I scan between
upright trunks like barcodes
looking for big blocks
of wild flesh
wondering
what might be
around the corner
for us all

poetry

not shopping

not shopping

almost a month
since I set foot in a store

probably the longest time in my life
except maybe college
(but I don’t think so –
College and Variety
Luigi’s and the Bookstore
Nothing but the Blues and Shaw’s
got a little of me here and there)

one month of gazing at the woods:
a terrible way to get better

poetry

the sleeping fox

the sleeping fox

when the horizon
is too filled with disaster
I train my internal eye
on the image of a sleeping fox

we watched him climb
the hill behind our house
on a day when
most of our world had melted

there in the warm
russet-brown of the pine duff
he circled then curled,
a fiery fluff of warm fur
lit by early spring sunshine

he knew nothing of our worries
and simply slept sound
and I watched in thanks
for the proof of a being
who could still dream
simple safe dreams
limbs loose, mind at ease

poetry

shut

shut

these are the days of closing doors
cutting off connections
cordoning off wards
identifying and isolating
the smallest unit you hold dear

slide the pocket door into the void
close the border
abandon the gate
leave your post
wring your own hands and none other
don’t open the post
don’t shake on anything

we’re all going inside very dark spaces
sitting quietly
with only a small candle’s glow
learning slowly bitterly desperately
how rich life was
when anyone could barge in
and disturb our peace

poetry

triggers

triggers

the triggering subject:
the proximal cause
setting your pencil moving
putting words in your mouth
and a bee in your bonnet

the generated subject:
the image that emerges from the ache
the harm that won’t be undone
the pain that makes it all personal
the meaning to your being here now
with something to say
and a need to be heard

let me be brave enough
to line up all these daily triggers
sharp and dangerous as daggers
all the goings-on that pierce my consciousness
and follow each one a step further
uncovering the wound each tears wider
until my fingers can probe it
pack it with a poultice of runes
then hold my warm hand over it
til it heals well

poetry

snowsmoke

snowsmoke

in the white woods
veils of snowsmoke
descend like drapes
unfurling from conifer crowns
cascading with a flourish and fizz
that sets the whole atmosphere asparkle
heightens the drama
anywhere you look
a cloud of crystals
may breathe down your neck
the very next moment

magical shimmer
and cold uncomfortable reality –
that’s how it is these days –
you gotta find a way
to make room for both

poetry

a striking truth re mothering boys

a striking truth re mothering boys

after 12 years of mothering boys
I still don’t quite get it

we leave for a walk and I ask them
to leave their PVC pipes behind

let’s not whack things
let’s not be violent
let’s be quiet
and look for animals

they grumble, but do it for me
and within minutes they’re clutching
big brown blocks of icy snow
smashing them against each other

after one starts crying
I try again
let’s not beat on each other
let’s just walk
and see the world

the crying one protests,
requesting more abuse,
but we continue plodding along

until they both spy a mullein
at the same time –
a ramrod-straight perfect sword –
they both fall upon it at once

after much wrestling and wresting
they strike a deal
as to who can whack with it

I still have not learned
how much they need
to feel their own bodies
through the vibrations
of something else striking them

how their muscles need to be told
where they are in space
how they need to be sure
they exist right now
with the solid reassurance
only a good thwack will give

poetry

the realm of the everywhen

the realm of the everywhen

what exists in the everywhen
(by my faith):
compassion
energy
creativity
love
truth
transformation

these are the forces of the eternal now
the flows that one must align to
the vibrations that yield harmony