Month: November 2012

Don’t fall in love with the pool boy;

it’s the light on the water

making him shimmer,

and probably the heat,

and you could be easily mistaken,

fooled by a mirage

into thinking that he could love you

in a new way.

 

Notice where the sight of him

touches you,

follow the ribbon into new places

without letting him know;

he doesn’t need the complication

and you have all the power

even though you are only

just now discovering it.

 

You can watch him as he works,

intently fishing flotsam

to clean the space for others’ pleasure.

You can notice his generosity,

the unconscious youthful grace

and practiced balance

at the water’s edge.

 

Draw your gaze back to the ribbon,

the thread of yearning

and spaces long neglected,

the pulse of desire.

Make room for the throbbing

so when light and water

call more clearly

you can slip into immersion.

Looking both ways

like Janus in January,

I find the dead buds

near the woodpile

hiding

in my warm smoke-filled hair.

 

Small and tight and never opened,

they speak to winter

and further back

the other deaths

and blossomings that never happened.

 

Such is the breadth of my rapture

in the protection of this year’s snowfall

that I can’t help seeing

their tiny perfection

as a promise of springtime.

One of you will have felt this,

the fear after sharing

that comes like a rattling ore car

through the body,

shaking the weak timbers.

The teeth knock atrociously,

like an old typewriter gone mad,

giving cacophonous voice

to the trembling.

Hiding does not help

and nor does more exposure;

it’s a movement of the long-ignored body

that needs to quake.

The only mild comfort I can offer

is the physical fact

that teeth can’t chatter

when the mouth is open wide.

Like a duck imprinted early,

these forms have taught me routes to love

— invocation, confession,

listening, joining together,

lifting up our burdens,

making room for the celestial.

 

Too much waddling in circles

has led me back to where I started,

contemplating flight.

 

This time I notice

my feathers are in place

and the wind

is rustling.

Come out to play,

Chastity Goodheart,

you have been scrubbing that floor

too cheerfully

for too long,

polishing that holy place

free of adornment.

 

Your skirt is homespun

and we all respect you,

the hardworking puritan

who knows the Lord in her soul,

who hums quietly

with worship joy

propelling all that work.

 

This is not a call of judgement;

hear in our voices

the free invitation

to be who you are,

just more fully…

there are warm breezes

that will touch your legs

if you spin with us,

and sweet apples

from the outstretched trees.

She sat at my table,

mostly a stranger;

I provided tea and small talk

as I have been trained.

 

Later when I heard the news,

I wondered if I should have been braver,

let my larger ears peep through,

hauled out my periscope

so we could take turns

seeing from the trapped place

to a wider world.

 

I wonder if by showing her

these other ways I see,

I might have helped her

save her family.

Look at all the ways

we shuck off our old skin;

cocoons and corn husks,

pruning old branches,

new cars, lovers,

madness at the mall…

 

I have seen the stunned sorrow

in the ones who are left behind,

as well as the riotous confusion

of the leavers that blew away.

 

Would that we had academies of peace

to help us hold our dying,

help us sew robes

for our next versions,

help us reach out to our dear ones

as we grow into newness.

Bite-sized pieces,

I keep minimizing

so that none will choke

as they feed

… and in the cutting down

I feel the loss,

as if this feast

is better consumed

like rich cuisine in a large pot.

 

Surely it is up to others

whether they sip or choose

to gorge themselves

or take one whiff and turn away.

 

Surely my talent

is in adding new spices

and offering spoons.

There is a community

of healers

who warm the lives of others

through true revelation,

standing with light exposed

through their work,

the artistry of their sharing

spread

through music, paintings,

gifts of stretching,

words on film or page,

loaves of bread,

hands on bodies

and even that macramé of crafts,

the poem.

 

Years I looked for their welcome

and plotted how to let their circle find me

so I could be anointed into belonging

with the deep oil of acceptance.

 

This morning in my sleep

a healer came

to press me to the floor

and soothe my aching back;

he rested on my warmth

and all the boundaries

of who heals and who is healed

were stilled

and I let him take what he needed

as my poor trapped back

began to tingle.

I’m not going anywhere

even if I travel

or fall off a cliff…

right now I have this sense of home

like a turtle with a porous shell

who can sleep anywhere

and be awake when the light tickles.

 

And I can sense something near my heart

that wants to know for sure,

that longs to know

whether home can ever be stripped off

or whether this time the safety

will endure over aeons.

 

And that cold speck

will just have to get used to warmth

whether it lasts a day

or past the threshold

when my heart no longer beats;

and I have to admit

that the speck will be my companion,

warm or cool.