an angel's wing will have to do

these days when i listen to you

you are quiet

the darkness of a waning moon

on a drizzling spring night

when everyone has gone home

but the deadlines will arrive soon,

and I

am not yet done

with this work

this slow song

like a ballad

between us -

I must admit

to singing many songs these days

not always sure

with whom I am really singing.

in my mind they dance and blur

because of course

none of them are real

for all that their touch stays

long after they've gone -

after I've declined.

reluctantly, for

life calls to life

and yours

has always called to mine.

He said it was my nature.

not to be fickle,

but to fall in love.

be warned, he cautioned me.

it is love you love

not the container -

the music that draws you

more than the particular instrument.

I like to listen.

but I like to sing, too

and i can only sing

one song at a time

broken though it may be

with these long silences.

So tonight I hum this song

to you.

i listen to your quiet

(almost, i can hear your breathing

in the cars spraying puddles over the sidewalks

and the wind nuzzling up to the quickly-closed-shut windows

and the ginger cat stretching besides the

cooling stove)

and i find myself wanting

to send you a caress

like an angels wing

softly brushing across your cheek

a presence at your back

there, just there.

yes, you can lean.

a caress - to

paint my finger across your forehead

the way my mother once did

to put me at ease

on those nights long ago

before you graced my path

before I knew i didn't know...

ah, to offer that warmth

of that large woman's embrace

such softness!

of course i knew (had to know) her tears;

but her fingers on my forehead

that magic paintbrush against time

drawing a world of savages and dancers

mysterious familiarity

binding all this craziness

towards something called meaning...

listening to your quiet tonight

i would reach across space

to - i don't even know where! -

a pub? a dinner table? a desk?

a bed

and give you a sweet caress

a caress

so much sweeter

than a text:

'hey there. soon. xx.

x.'

but of course, these days,

we both know what we mean (do we?)

in these quiet refrains.

though honestly

it is not my mother's hands

that would touch you,

cup your chin

trace the curve

of your jawline

finger then nail

biting the edge of your

skull.

i suspect my hands

which mostly rest on keyboards

were really made

for lovers.

and muses

are poor lovers

for lost singers

such as i.

So, perhaps,

the caress of an angel's wing

will have to do.

(easter simplicity)

The message is simple.

You do not have to look far.

God plays no games of run and hide:

Seek and you shall find

Reborn, Love walks by your side

S/He lives - inside

- Ministry from Easter Sunday

good friday

they say its all about love

(it, i suppose, being life)

love and peace and understanding.

not just any love

rather, that unattached, benevolent

fierce revolutionary love

the joy of early morning larks rising

the grace of the dying after living well

the promise

the reality

of rebirth.

The thing about rebirth

is that first you have to die.

There are so many deaths

the passing of fathers and wives

of friendship and lovers and promises

of flowers and pets and my brother

the dream.

What if all this

is just about getting out of the way

getting out of the way

so that love can come through.

Keeping it simple:

When he hit me

with truth

I was stunned.

When he knocked me around

with honesty

I froze.

When the time came

for the next part of me to die

I was shocked into

silence

Even though I had told the Light

That I was ready

that I wanted

Love

to run through me like a river

Service

to be my surname

Integrity

to be my bread and butter

Communion

to be my every day

Passion

to act itself out in my daily play.

I hadn't quite realised (recalled)

How much

Death

hurts.

Frazeled Frozen

frazeled till frozen,

i'm caught again.

captured by too much too quickly

and yet not enough

bad timing

again.

how to repair

broken bridges

to take this day

as enough?

somewhere between frazeled and frozen

is simple honesty

good hard work productivity -

your hand on my sholdure

focusing saying

keep on keepin on

you are here again

so be here

but this time

let this be

for the very first time.

those burnt folks

fresh spring

and i'll forgive

all the folks for

wandering around in

short shirts short skirts short shorts

exposing too-pale freshly burnt flesh

it really aint pretty

but then again

amongst all these tulips

even I must actively resist

throwing off all my clothes

to become a lobster

snuggled into lush green grass

(though lobsters

don't actually turn red

till they are boiled -

dead.)

muse

Dear Muse:

Do not grow too fat in the head.

I do not care

about the rest of your

body

Do as you will

it is yours.

but your mind

your mind needs to be nimble

fresh and tender

washed and rested

for the right kind of play

of words and silence.

not that your mind

is mine.

Indeed,

that is what I'm trying to say:

I still remember

that you

are not mine.

Though I might

on occaision

seem to enter your mind

unbidden.

that seems to be

one of the hazards of musing.

But do not assume

that I am in love with you

for all that I enter

and leave as I please

for all that I write poetry

and drench meaning from a few

halting phrases

and long silences.

We have too much distance

We don't really know

one another at all

I'm just

playing

in a sandbox of words and feelings

creating - something.

walls, and flowers, and some sunshine

It was his unavailability

that drew her

his impossibility

that piqued her interest

the boundaries

that first she then he

had drawn

she immediately

now

so wanted

to break

them all down

make them crumble

make him

want her

even though she

had raised the wall first

knowing she

needed the safety

of tall walls.

and when he became

clearly

beautiful

growing deepening living fully

she resented her own

needs

for walls;

resented

her own desires

for skin;

yearned

for his

beauty

for a living

that was not hers.

but there

are some flowers

which need space

to grow

to garden

you must see

when the seeds are small

and how when they are

growing

they need protection

from the winds

and all those

outside of the garden.

especially

the beautiful ones

who seem to take all the

sunshine.

for a living that is

mine

garden growing deepening

keep turning

inwards

and then turn again:

the sunshine

is higher

than the walls.

already there?

On a small island

across the vast ocean

amongst sunbathing boulders

blackbears eating blueberries

and biking families

there is a small meeting house.

And in that meeting house

there is a rather large man.

When he quakes

he does so with gusto

and the rhythm of the Spirit

flows through him.

He taught me

to sing -

to sing when the holy spirit says sing

to be unafraid

of what the elders might say

but to lift your voice

so the rafters ring.

This morning

I lift my head up

and am surprised to find

that the rafters here

in this old meetinghouse

are painted blue.

It seems that sometimes

I need to open my eyes

in order to see

what has always been

in front of me.

Gray Cox

taught me a song

about a people

on a journey.

The song ends with this refrain:

Well

If you are gathered in Love

then you are already there

Yes if we are gathered in love

then we are already there

Oh yes if we are gathered in love

than we are already there

Sing happy day -

Today

may I gather myself

the past and the future too

the broken glass and the fresh tulips

the friends and those I never see

but who still reside somewhere in me

May I gather

Myself in Love

Lifting my voice

and give these high rafters

the opportunity to Ring

Today

let me see

I am already there.

Two emails: keep breathing

Monday morning

An hour before that meeting

it took two weeks to secure.

My inbox - not much here

(My pickings are slim these days)

but, what is this?

'Yes, please, do set your own conditions

do name your price'

Shock inhale quickly surprise: work!

Do I name my new price? how long? What's fair? Anxiety.

he said:

it is just excitement,

give it over.

(Hold on,

let go

keep breathing)

And then.

the other inbox.

'My dad died.'

Shock inhale quickly sadness: ah! death.

What can I possibly say? What is appropriate? What's true?

things come

things go.

(Hold on,

let go

Keep breathing.)

In the afternoon

a walk - legs warm, mind warped -

nothing I (ever) say feels

adequate.

and then the blossoms

the color of roses

they swirl around me

like snow

in a warm spring wind

they dance in perfect form

seeing my forgotten perfection i

laugh

are there blossoms

where you are?

(hold on

let go

keep breathing)

maybe

it is all quite simple

nothing

to be overwhelmed about.

just life

and death.

taxes.

sex

and love.

you too

are held.

(breath in

breath out

let go

hold on -

lightly

cold hand, saying nothing

those things i can not say
because there are no words
love and death and sorrow
and the impossibility
of ever touching another
even
when they stand behind you
lifting you

the impossibility
that we make possible:
that we might ever
love
one another
that we are ever
here
at all

he lifted you once
i wasn't there but i can almost
remember
how you laughed with delight -
there, that bright blueness, is that the sea?
he carried you once
and later, there were times
when you carried him
he held your hand
yes, no, here, not there -
the gentle one, the protector, guide -
(you had to get it from somewhere)
and now,
at the end of the day
when the children are out
and the night is quiet
and the moon is waning
you hold only your own hands
do you see him in them?

ah, softly,
we are such soft creatures
fur and bones and naked skin
so vulnerable.

the things i can not say
because i do not know
the particulars
of this man (of whom do i speak)
of this death (yours or his?)
certainly not even of my own
life.
though i have held cold hands
stared at wasted wrinkles and veins
wondered where the movement went.
here and then gone? how is that?
hands that bore no resemblance to my own
and yet too much resemblance
in their growing stiffness
i felt the knots
in my back and the pain
in my spine:
the thousand ways i do not flow freely
the thousand ways i do not live fully

though as my grandfather
used to say
(before he - passed away):
at least I
still feel pain

footwear

(she woke slowly.

or rather

waking takes time.

time to climb through

to emerge

on the other side

of the darkness

where she was ruled

by the subconscious

isolated

from the collective)

isolated

from this reality.

she wrote of forests

but wore slippers

tender feet

not enough blisters

no real shape to them

except the imprint

of those

silk slippers

choice:

continue wearing slippers

or

put on boots

or

grow blisters

she

was one of those

who needed the blisters

more painful perhaps

but the connection

with earth

necessary

so she knew

she was not alone.

the slippers

were falling apart anyways

and did little

in the rain.

and in reality

it rains.

attitude of gratitude

when the blessing came

(all good work is always a blessing

even if you let it go)

it came only after i had let it go

after i knew i didn't have to say yes

after i knew it wouldn't necessarily say yes

to me

and mine.

when the blessing came

it came reasonably

gently

not too much and not too little

just - where it is

when the blessing came

i shook to my knees and fell against the warm brick wall

where the sun had recently been shining

sholdures fell down

relaxation entered

and i

was reminded

of where i come from.

not the first place the

good place

the

garden

where i and my cabbage patch kid

put yellow plastic shovels into thick dirt

and pretended

we were digging weeds

but really

saught the brightness of an orange carrot

not yet fully grown

but the other place

where i have spent too much time

the place of hiding

where i am not myself

but that other one

safe in her misery

fears uncertainty

pattern repettion

along the sinews of muscles ain the top of hte sholdures

you don't even realise

you are holding yourself

until you breath

until

the blessing comes

and you are breathed

through and through.

they say

practice

an attitude of gratitude.

Such a silly phrase.

But he said to me

when i told him the good news

do two things.

1. Say thank you to god.

2. Do something good for yourself.

Yes

I said

Yes

and still now yes again

The attitude of gratitude:

Not to some vagueness

some amorphous 'we are all loved'

But to the particularities

of this day.

thank you, oh blessed one

for this.

for blessings

that i do not yet see.

the first was easy.

the second - i find it here

on the page

resting

in that space

(where gratitude comes with

each breath

when it is pulled from me

when i find that it is i

who am being breathed

effortlessly -

life-work can be effortless, it can be - free)

that sweet space

i am coming to love -

it is

so much like that

garden

only now i

am learning to treasure waiting

as my carrots

grow

her father's white belt

it was her father's belt.

thick and white, leather, creased and worn

that was part of the appeal of it -

a proper man's belt, well used, wrapped around

and around like a cinch

on the horse

he used to ride -

such happiness, when he

taught her to fly

through grassy hillsides

on summer afternoons

after the fog

had rolled on by.

when he gave her the belt

it was such a delight

this was - vintage!

the kind of thing

girls do:

turn their father's old

60s clothes

into fashionable (sexy)

styles.

for once she was - normal?

And it was too big!

What a surprise

for someone always too big

to suddenly have a waist.

she wrapped it round her

a white band,

hardly for chasity:

its well-worn, masculine firmness

excentuated feminity

And now,

with loose worn blue jeans and a blue shirt

white scarf and blue earings

the white belt was -

tough, sexy, secure

A co-worker

an old professor

stopped her in the hallway:

my! have you lost a ton of weight!

Her shy akward smile.

the white belt (with new holes) snug against

newly discovered hip bones -

yes, yes i have.

she gave a shaky laugh

not because of her body size

and wished later she had said

something intelligent, such as -

The more weight i loose

the more i discover what

i thought i always knew

it is not

the exterior that matters

really, it is what's inside that counts.

Not to share the interior

- colleagues have no need

to know of such terrors -

just to point out

priorities

and a touch of wisdom

(real, and, painfully gained.)

still

the white belt

reminded her

of the man her father

used to be -

before.

standing, bending, seeing

How does one stand as a man

Backbone like steel

Bent over like a willow

Crying like a river

Rushing to the sea

In water there is a strength

Not even the firmest shores

Can withstand.

I know little of manhood

But what I know of womanhood

Suggests

That on your face

is etched

The beauties of the world

Reflecting itself back to itself

In your mind

The greatest chance She has

To become known

And that you will never see it

Not on your face

Which can never see itself

Not really.

Only in reverse, only backwards

do mirrors so deftly deceive us.

Only through the eyes

Of the other

Who looks

and looks at you, who sees you.

and when they pass

you look out

and others maybe

see the one who looked at you

looking at them.

To be grown:

To look

And be seen

To not loose yourself in the looking

In the reflections of those

Who mirror you shape you change you

But instead

letting the Presence

Practice the Art of Seeing.

To stand when a man

is at times

to bend and

to see

and be seen

and then to know

how to straighten

still seeing.

Strength to bend

You who find

Your throat closing

Do not rush your grieving

There is too much time for talking

In our world of saints sinners, bullshitting

Olives drenched in cocktails do little

To ease the catch in the middle

Where you once knew the steady

Rhythm - how to push pedal towards metal

You who find

Tightness encroaching

Keep the lightness by breathing

Both directions

Only gently pausing

Best not to be running now

Lay down your weights

And your whips –

(Fear not!

They will be there tomorrow!)

But today

Take to the hills and wander the fields

Of sheep and stable stones and small flowers

And remember your place in this world.

Not amongst the chatter

The problem solving

And kvetching

The whining gossiping posturing

Do you belong

Not among the flurry

Of models and fashion

Nor the abstractness

Of models and theory.

Fire in the dark wood

Tea and soup and bread

An ancient memory

Of an even colder time

And even then

you were held, warmly.

Tightness harshness

throat closing -

what a fragile thing

the neck

holding such a heavy burden

as the heart in your head

It doesn't take too much pressure

in the wrong place

to send you to your knees.

Strength, then:

to bend.

to fold prayer-like onto the floor

the water in your body

remembering gravity.

Returning to your first longings

of belonging.

when words must replace touch

I used to have

Your breath in my ear

Your hair in my mouth

Your smile in my morning

Your hands on my sleeping

Now my body feels weak

Even in its new found strength

My legs

Do not yet know how to stand.

I used to have

Your sholdure to lean on

Your arm to pull me up

You, telling me stories of love and episonage

Of far away lands and halted dreams

Your laughter

In the gentle sea breeze

Your cooking

(feasts of color smelling of love)

Welcoming me home.

When I pushed you away

For perchance another way

I had little else

For comfort

But this intangible language.

Words and song and myth

The delight of the morning sunrise

And the silence

Of these nights alone.

Little surprise

I keep writing

Desparately creating

Typing fingers flying

Restless mind wandering

fingers caressing keyboard,

desk, computer screen -

It's your skin I am (still) seeking

instead I have only

These lines

To wrap around me

Only words, flung together, to hold me

Against the dark chasm

That rises too quickly

between me and myself

Not that metaphor or rhyme

Image or sweet solliquoy

Could possibly compensate

for my first language,

the language of touch.

I am missing

the cadence of physical intimacy

the rhythm of two bodies breathing

the song of your arms, holding.

Sometimes I sing.

Voice reverberates

Crossing

the divide I didn’t know I had

Between myself and I

Perhaps in this word-wringing

I am preparing

this journey for the next

for what will to come to pass

before we all go

falling.

May you remember

May you remember.

May you remember the first smile of the day

(Perhaps it was accidental -

The sunshine in the window,

A stranger’s unlikely hairdo,

A father chasing his child’s bicycle

Tie flapping in the wind:

frazzled beauty.)

May you remember

The flowers of spring time

The dark roots of fall

The dreams of the winter time

When you dug into the dark deep

We have so much information.

May you remember

Meaning.

Each email each phone call each misrepresentation

There is no thingieness there

No screeching physical pain

Just the virtual – mind – immortality – space

But it is this mortality

This limitation of body and mind and spirit

That we must remember

May you remember your own death

Before you forget to live.

May you remember

Your immortality

In others and others and others

Who reflect and learn from you

Networks that may actually include humanity

You will never know not really

What you leave -

May you remember

That you are not your archives

Not your photo albums

Face books, journals, emails, music collection, books

Pants, paper, pens, google-books

May you remember

your very first name

Before all the others:

Precious Creation.

Beloved.

approaching: gently

How do we approach

the presence of time past and time future

of the before and the coming

the here and the after?

(Approach gently,

while singing,

softly.)

what posture do you take

when staring at the darkness

when startling at finding yourself in the moonlight

though you can not see.

what shape do you make

(can one possibly create?)

when you know his breathing is so shallow

a life is but a comma

or was it a period

that struck the right note at the wrong time

a question mark

rising against the shining sun.

what was more surprising

that he thinks he is dying

or that you are, somehow, still living

despite all the attempts

at shadow-dancing

cave-hiding and rocket-busting

when that other (pompous, ridiculous, well-paid) one

suggested the important things in life:

mortgages careers papers degrees

you thought

of him wheezing coughing bleeding:

struck by the fallacy of it all.

even the pale light of evening.

we (who) live our lives in twilight

despite an abundance of hot summer days

when as now

the world rushes -

and you - sitting.

gazing.

lost.

or found?

what do i say

to such a man

as one caught

between too many different lives?

and I (freshly feminine),

hardly free myself

from the bonds of undoing.

hold on. let go

keep breathing

no need to doubt

the curve of the earth

or that your time too soon

will arrive:

falling.

How do we approach

the presence of time past and time future

the before and the coming

the here and the after?

gently.

no need for words just

breathing.

singing

softly.

not.

ah, you.

you you you.

i could spend my days

dreaming of you

(better than the real thing?)

the way you looked at me

over a cup of tea

shook your head slightly

and smiled

and i knew

where your mind

had suddenly gone

and we would laugh

in the morning

when it was a bit cold outside

and the summer was over

and the work was piling high

and the world was surely getting worse

we would laugh

in the sheer

absurdity of it all

of you

and me

sharing oatmeal

and a dream

and a slim piece of music

we never

quite

found a name for

you you you

its too easy

to spend my time

dreaming.

not.

what i'm here for.

the beneficiaries of famine

there are always those who benefit

from a famine

without whom

we'd only have the weather

to blame

rarely

is it just the weather

when the sun shone hot hot

dry earth, shriveled stalks of baby corn

nothing for them in this heat

and the children

bloated grumbling faint

nothing for them in this family

while the will of the world

sent money, food, time, energy, prayers

towards the starving

and yet the children stared

nothing reached them

we never meant to abandon them

but they who never knew our names

wilting wasted coughing crying

death was a blessing

while some

not as far away as you might imagine

grew fat.

warlords and drug traffikers

chiefs corrupted and officials bribed

black men white men asian men

the occaisional woman

the suited man writing checks

the professionals who came out in SUVs and trucks

with cell phones and loud speakers

and not enough maize.

Stock brokers who gambled

on the price of wheat

law makers who shrugged

diplomats who wrung their hands

while protestors filled the streets

never again, never again

this massacre, this holocaust this famine

they cried

but the little one

in the desert

watched her families herds dwindle,

legs buckle, crooked, can't stand

collapse.

we who have that rare gift of memory

rarely learn.

There are always those who benefit from famine

the girl now a ghost

who still only sees fatness

when the mirror shines back her bones

that goblin

who delights in evading responsibility

laughs in her head

eat less eat less eat less.

she has no control

except here

and now

she has no control here.

but the goblin, oh the goblin

the wicked creature

he still dances.

Those who benefit from famine:

he who went for decades without touch

needed to not risk his heart.

she who went years without sharing

needed to not risk shedding her shame

we who starve ourselves of truth

need not stand up to take action.

Those who benefit from famine:

that force that always creeps

into the hearts of men who fear

grace.

Nothing matters like peace

ask the warrior who lost his humanity

the father who lost his daughter

the leader who lost his people

the woman who lost her pride

Nothing matters like peace

ask the woman caught in her own self-hatred

the prisoner trapped behind someone else's laws

the child in the alcoholic household

the adult who remembers what he had to forget

Nothing matters like peace

ask the warlords in Washington

the businessmen whose trades are stopped

the families forced to grow drugs and deal guns

the families who watch their children take up drugs and arms

the fields salted, wasted, drugged, spoiled

the earth, groaning.

Yet for all that

We still speak far more of conflict

far more of defense

far more of security

where is the talk

realisation recognition

of community?

why is there any course but a course towards peace?

of course we know why.

there are always those who grow fat

from some one else's famine

april spring morning

resisting resisting

putting myself forward

saying yes

committing

not kicking

myself in the mouth again,

me and my tendency to throw

the (my) baby out with the (very dirty) bathwater

then he walks in

just like every morning

but this morning

i notice the sway of his hips

the turn of this chest

the focus of his mind

work work work -

few things as provacative

enticing

as the focused mind

suddenly he is attractive?

No.

It is his concentration I want.

Pay attention to me!

but who, really,

am I talking to?

this strange lightness

I know little about truth

and am only just learning of love

But in the early morning,

while seeking, it occurs to me -

there is a great lightness

that arcs across the heavens

buries itself into stones

and sparkles in the drops

flying from fishes leaping

in and out of the great waters.

she comes like a child

laughing and dancing

play now, here, with me.

a tease, a nymph -

catch me if you can.

a gentleness, a mothers soft touch:

I will never leave you.

the itchy crackling voice of the old woman:

put the kettle on, fetch me yarn, sit, stay,

while I weave you into this ancient tapestry

of family, history, stories familiar, stories untold.

the voice (i almost missed it) that says:

fear not

you need not be ashamed.

Fierce compassion

extreme love:

Lay down your shield

Lay down your sword

By the riverside

where the lightness

baptises the waters.

Between this world

and whatever comes after

this lightness curls and travels around us

an unending connecting thread.

This mystery:

that in our heavy finite-ness

the thingness we can never be rid of

until it is too soon, too soon

there is this connection:

this strange lightness.

A blessing for One in Overwhem

May the deep peace of the deep waters fill you

never leave you, irregardless of what fills your days.

may you know you do not need to do everything by yourself.

may you see, and then accept, the help that is being offered to you.

may you feel the web of connection

and interconnection that holds

you

and all you love.

may you feel held.

May you be guided to the right next steps.

May you accept that guidance.

May doorways open. May you

see the doorways that are opening. May you

find the courage and faith and serenity to walk through them. May you

bring your full self to your father, to your work-partner(s),

to your children. May you

let go,

perhaps (yes even) cry:

be cleansed.

may you experience

and not just hear

these and all other blessings

currently traveling towards you.

may pain and loneliness

grief confusion overwhelm

also be blessings.

may you feel safe

even in the dark forest.

may the howl of the wolves at your door

remind you that you are not alone -

may the door be secure

the hearth warm

the milk fresh.

may you feel the deep drum,

even if you can not always

hear the music.