Poetic Conjecture
A Monk in the Schoolyard
a monk in the schoolyard
awaits the rain
a monk in the schoolyard
plays the games
the children are running
and yelling in delight
a monk in the schoolyard
counts yellow beads of light
the word, the unspoken,
the young ones as they play,
the love and the grief,
all more than one may say
a day’s work, a drawing done,
a poem for an elder
and a pin for my chest
a promise for today,
a mystery if tomorrow,
a drawer, a drill,
a drum in the night,
a monk in the schoolyard
playing with the light
a monk in the schoolyard
awaits the rain
a monk in the schoolyard
plays the games
the children are running
and yelling in delight
a monk in the schoolyard
counts yellow beads of light
the word, the unspoken,
the young ones as they play,
the love and the grief,
all more than one may say
a day’s work, a drawing done,
a poem for an elder
and a pin for my chest
a promise for today,
a mystery if tomorrow,
a drawer, a drill,
a drum in the night,
a monk in the schoolyard
playing with the light
God and all the strangers
In their eyes I see
a rapture, whirling tornadoes,
a restless yearning--
or is it desperation
In their eyes I see a thirst
and a swimming in waves
in the nighttime.
I see pools of light, and caverns
that lead to dragons
with flowers in their hair.
In their eyes I see poverty
and tears, and regrettable decisions,
a spirited parade and a memory
that wished to be forgotten.
I see radiance
and a falling down the steps
toward destiny, a fateful
encounter with a shadow
of the past.
I hear a bird cuckooing
and an owl, watching in silence.
There, in what I see
I feel a mother’s love and
a lover’s heartache
and a question
to which my lips
hold no shape for
answer
I listen for words
and just hear a buzzing,
a whistling, a whirring…
Is that the angels
or is that your soul
making art, there,
in those globes
of light.
In your eyes, I see God
and all the strangers.
And lips that go on moving
as they ask what I do,
again, awaiting a response,
with words,
out loud,
in this strange public space
with talking and music.
They look at each other
and perhaps wonder
why it is
that I cannot seem to recall
what I do
or how to speak even,
and so,
I try to utter a sound
I open this God-given mouth
and they stare
and I say,
In your eyes
I see God and all the strangers
In their eyes I see
a rapture, whirling tornadoes,
a restless yearning--
or is it desperation
In their eyes I see a thirst
and a swimming in waves
in the nighttime.
I see pools of light, and caverns
that lead to dragons
with flowers in their hair.
In their eyes I see poverty
and tears, and regrettable decisions,
a spirited parade and a memory
that wished to be forgotten.
I see radiance
and a falling down the steps
toward destiny, a fateful
encounter with a shadow
of the past.
I hear a bird cuckooing
and an owl, watching in silence.
There, in what I see
I feel a mother’s love and
a lover’s heartache
and a question
to which my lips
hold no shape for
answer
I listen for words
and just hear a buzzing,
a whistling, a whirring…
Is that the angels
or is that your soul
making art, there,
in those globes
of light.
In your eyes, I see God
and all the strangers.
And lips that go on moving
as they ask what I do,
again, awaiting a response,
with words,
out loud,
in this strange public space
with talking and music.
They look at each other
and perhaps wonder
why it is
that I cannot seem to recall
what I do
or how to speak even,
and so,
I try to utter a sound
I open this God-given mouth
and they stare
and I say,
In your eyes
I see God and all the strangers
Rhapsody of the Moonlight
Plunge inward, towards
the engulfing of the white-speckled
darkness. Let it
swim into you with all it is,
its madness, waving in forms,
moving through sensation.
It burns, it tickles, it grips
for something that is not soft
or hard, yet has a form.
Tell me of the isness
that is the way of the something,
the Journey
If there is something,
is it necessitated
by some things?
Can there be a singularity
without the multitudes
which bequeath the singularity
it’s quality of aloneness?
Though do recall that aloneness
need not imply loneliness,
even in the unknowing
of this one strange and beautiful
isness, yearning
Tell me
of these words--
When I say love,
do you see the sun
or hear a Rhapsody in the
salted trickles of your mind's eye?
does your heart tighten
up in longing and heartache
and yearning for...
the face in the moon
And when we play these words,
do we tune ourselves to these instruments--
do we attune ourselves
and learn of
The Way
that teaches
the language of music?
See, in music,
we must learn to read
between the lines.
Be not mistaken--
the lines too hold importance.
They are dependent on the
in-betweens,
just as the spaces in-between
are made by the lines themselves.
One is nothing without the other.
Upwards is only so much
as the direction the other way
As in love,
giving and receiving--
one tuned to the other
one and the same,
for there is attunement.
So,
as you wandered,
what did you find
for the answer to the question?
Remember?
When we play these words,
and these forms,
do we remember to attune
ourselves, our bodies,
our minds, our hearts,
these instruments
in preparation
for the motion,
the waving and wavering,
slow and slowly quickening
vibrations ascending toward
a moonlit crescendo…
See, your attention
is always somewhere.
When it wanders,
is that where you want to go?
Tell me,
where
do
you
want
to
go?
There are many places
in this
One
Place.
For my heart
I am looking
for somebody
who is hiding
in God’s humming,
housed in the space
between an inhale
and an exhale.
An older woman
in a white robe, though,
let me know
that I will find
this being only when
I realize that it is
me I am looking for,
whom I will find, only
when I give up the search
and invite in for tea,
God, and all my shadows,
whom will sing a song with me
into a tearful ecstasy.
Then I will find me,
and I will be
seeing
instead of
looking
and listening,
instead of
hearing.
And my body will
be attuned to laughter
and birdsong,
and my hands
will be
so warm they could
kindle a fire
and my eyes and heart
will admire
the way the light moves
and these steps
will offer prayer
in as many languages
as there are flowers.
And I will be waiting for none
when my one
walks by
with the face I have
seen in the children
of my dreams
and a faint remembrance
of a melody
we will sing.
Plunge inward, towards
the engulfing of the white-speckled
darkness. Let it
swim into you with all it is,
its madness, waving in forms,
moving through sensation.
It burns, it tickles, it grips
for something that is not soft
or hard, yet has a form.
Tell me of the isness
that is the way of the something,
the Journey
If there is something,
is it necessitated
by some things?
Can there be a singularity
without the multitudes
which bequeath the singularity
it’s quality of aloneness?
Though do recall that aloneness
need not imply loneliness,
even in the unknowing
of this one strange and beautiful
isness, yearning
Tell me
of these words--
When I say love,
do you see the sun
or hear a Rhapsody in the
salted trickles of your mind's eye?
does your heart tighten
up in longing and heartache
and yearning for...
the face in the moon
And when we play these words,
do we tune ourselves to these instruments--
do we attune ourselves
and learn of
The Way
that teaches
the language of music?
See, in music,
we must learn to read
between the lines.
Be not mistaken--
the lines too hold importance.
They are dependent on the
in-betweens,
just as the spaces in-between
are made by the lines themselves.
One is nothing without the other.
Upwards is only so much
as the direction the other way
As in love,
giving and receiving--
one tuned to the other
one and the same,
for there is attunement.
So,
as you wandered,
what did you find
for the answer to the question?
Remember?
When we play these words,
and these forms,
do we remember to attune
ourselves, our bodies,
our minds, our hearts,
these instruments
in preparation
for the motion,
the waving and wavering,
slow and slowly quickening
vibrations ascending toward
a moonlit crescendo…
See, your attention
is always somewhere.
When it wanders,
is that where you want to go?
Tell me,
where
do
you
want
to
go?
There are many places
in this
One
Place.
For my heart
I am looking
for somebody
who is hiding
in God’s humming,
housed in the space
between an inhale
and an exhale.
An older woman
in a white robe, though,
let me know
that I will find
this being only when
I realize that it is
me I am looking for,
whom I will find, only
when I give up the search
and invite in for tea,
God, and all my shadows,
whom will sing a song with me
into a tearful ecstasy.
Then I will find me,
and I will be
seeing
instead of
looking
and listening,
instead of
hearing.
And my body will
be attuned to laughter
and birdsong,
and my hands
will be
so warm they could
kindle a fire
and my eyes and heart
will admire
the way the light moves
and these steps
will offer prayer
in as many languages
as there are flowers.
And I will be waiting for none
when my one
walks by
with the face I have
seen in the children
of my dreams
and a faint remembrance
of a melody
we will sing.
the beauty and the madness
tangled up together, we are
these colored threads
woven into a weave
and if we pull on one string,
we might as well pluck a feather
from a bird’s wing
or pull the dissonant tone
from the melody we sing,
but what of resonance
without dissonance?
and would a blanket
keep us warm
if not for the knots,
if not for the storms?
perhaps serenity is
what we have sought,
though untangled strings
do not provide comfort
as do knotted weaves.
to cleave the confusion
is not to beget resolution.
if anything, it is naïve
to believe that cutting something
will make it whole.
we deceive ourselves
to relieve ourselves
of the madness,
but what of beauty
without madness?
what of beauty without
this maddening question
that screams and sings out
to us, morning and night,
in dreams and at the sight of light:
what is this beauty,
what is this madness,
what is this beautiful madness
tangled up together, we are
these colored threads
woven into a weave
and if we pull on one string,
we might as well pluck a feather
from a bird’s wing
or pull the dissonant tone
from the melody we sing,
but what of resonance
without dissonance?
and would a blanket
keep us warm
if not for the knots,
if not for the storms?
perhaps serenity is
what we have sought,
though untangled strings
do not provide comfort
as do knotted weaves.
to cleave the confusion
is not to beget resolution.
if anything, it is naïve
to believe that cutting something
will make it whole.
we deceive ourselves
to relieve ourselves
of the madness,
but what of beauty
without madness?
what of beauty without
this maddening question
that screams and sings out
to us, morning and night,
in dreams and at the sight of light:
what is this beauty,
what is this madness,
what is this beautiful madness
As the time goes by
As the time goes by
I listen to the trees more
and I whistle for the breeze
I consider my recollection of times past
and the spells I have unintentionally cast.
What of the ways of the birds
and of the herds who stay together
walking in the sunlit countryside?
There once, in me, was a yearning to be pure,
for maybe I thought there was a cure
for the pain that shudders through,
and makes my unfeeling lips tremble.
But as the time goes by,
I see there aren’t so many answers
for the questions I ask,
and perhaps not one cure for the cancers
of our bodies, or the tumors and tangles
of our thoughts and the ways we get caught.
Perhaps it is just a love sought,
a life wrought with searching
for an eternal flame
that will not just warm us,
but hold our weary bodies
in its very warmth.
Yet though there may be no one cure,
there are the multitudes of questions
that are answers to the one question;
and though my lips used to be unfeeling,
there was always the possibility of healing,
and now I feel the moving motion
of a wheel that once never turned.
So maybe nothing is set in stone--
even the bones that walk our steps
and the knots we’ve sewn,
in the breaths we've blown
and the feeling of being alone
because look at how we've grown
and see how our eyes glisten
and listen to those lips made to sing
out to the sky and let out a breathing cry.
Perhaps it’s all just moving then,
and little by little, improving.
And if we let go of the disapproving
of these steps we take
toward the beaming marigold star,
we’ll let go into an openness
that extends beyond, so far.
Remember we only just learned to walk
and talk and put on our socks
a handful of years ago.
So as we wake up a little older,
maybe we’ll learn to be a little bolder
and as things grow harder,
perhaps we’ll pause
to listen to the wind,
forgive what we once thought
were sins,
and soften our hearts,
soften our hearts,
who yearn and sing out
to be kind and free.
As the time goes by
I listen to the trees more
and I whistle for the breeze
I consider my recollection of times past
and the spells I have unintentionally cast.
What of the ways of the birds
and of the herds who stay together
walking in the sunlit countryside?
There once, in me, was a yearning to be pure,
for maybe I thought there was a cure
for the pain that shudders through,
and makes my unfeeling lips tremble.
But as the time goes by,
I see there aren’t so many answers
for the questions I ask,
and perhaps not one cure for the cancers
of our bodies, or the tumors and tangles
of our thoughts and the ways we get caught.
Perhaps it is just a love sought,
a life wrought with searching
for an eternal flame
that will not just warm us,
but hold our weary bodies
in its very warmth.
Yet though there may be no one cure,
there are the multitudes of questions
that are answers to the one question;
and though my lips used to be unfeeling,
there was always the possibility of healing,
and now I feel the moving motion
of a wheel that once never turned.
So maybe nothing is set in stone--
even the bones that walk our steps
and the knots we’ve sewn,
in the breaths we've blown
and the feeling of being alone
because look at how we've grown
and see how our eyes glisten
and listen to those lips made to sing
out to the sky and let out a breathing cry.
Perhaps it’s all just moving then,
and little by little, improving.
And if we let go of the disapproving
of these steps we take
toward the beaming marigold star,
we’ll let go into an openness
that extends beyond, so far.
Remember we only just learned to walk
and talk and put on our socks
a handful of years ago.
So as we wake up a little older,
maybe we’ll learn to be a little bolder
and as things grow harder,
perhaps we’ll pause
to listen to the wind,
forgive what we once thought
were sins,
and soften our hearts,
soften our hearts,
who yearn and sing out
to be kind and free.
Unfurling and soil-stained
Where is it, that we
begin to know we
hold a compass?
When is it, that we
begin to see the way
we choose to,
or choose not to,
hold another hand?
Once, as a girl
I was digging in the sand
when I felt the wetness
of the ocean.
I found a treasure map
buried deep under
an abandoned sand castle
and wondered about
the whereabouts of the forgotten
map to a lost womanhood,
once given over in a red tent,
to girls with wine-spun lips
and soil-stained bodies.
In retrospect, perhaps
I am arriving
at the same place
as the ever-swelling destination
of an evolving flower,
petals unfurling, opening
to the sun and rain.
But there were those storms
that I had not known
how to navigate,
much less sail.
And there are those,
I know, now,
who we may call,
but a key must be
given over,
and first, you must
know to ask for the key.
And so, I wish
upon the lips of all the girls
approaching their field
of rain-grown wildflowers
to be held in celebration
and honored presence,
to be given this key
in the moment of their occasion,
and occasioning,
rather than
the present moments,
which more readily pull them
into learned vulgarity and relegation,
and so the doors are knocked
down
rather than opened
up.
For how may we--
the bleeding breed--
learn to hold space
if we are not invited into
space, held?
To hold a growing,
breathing being is a whole
world unto itself,
and the profundity
is hidden in a butterfly-
shaped gem, tucked
along the base of the spine,
invisible to all,
but the evocation
of ritual.
So come, darlings,
sweet girls, who are
watching always.
The old witches call.
The sages who whisper
into the midnight blue,
and send the breeze
to caress our mothers’
tired, ever-giving
nurture of her
blossoming bosom;
they too call your name.
You are first drunken
with milk,
then drunken by
spinning in the wind.
The stakes grow higher
as your height too
grows taller,
so be sure to
call on the sages
of sisterhood,
and prayers past
primed with blessings
to walk with them
into the darkness;
they will guide you
as you learn
to bring the light,
hidden in crimson seawater,
unseen unless your
eyes are closed
and hands open to
an invisible holding.
May all the sweet darlings,
then, learn to be drunken
with prayer
and the mystic soberness
of the provocative mystery,
sitting on the sand,
listening to the waves,
and looking, always watching
for the hidden treasure maps,
to unfurl in satin ink
on worn, linen paper,
buried underneath
forgotten melodies,
neglected sand castles,
and hands,
calling,
always
to
hold
and
to be held.
Where is it, that we
begin to know we
hold a compass?
When is it, that we
begin to see the way
we choose to,
or choose not to,
hold another hand?
Once, as a girl
I was digging in the sand
when I felt the wetness
of the ocean.
I found a treasure map
buried deep under
an abandoned sand castle
and wondered about
the whereabouts of the forgotten
map to a lost womanhood,
once given over in a red tent,
to girls with wine-spun lips
and soil-stained bodies.
In retrospect, perhaps
I am arriving
at the same place
as the ever-swelling destination
of an evolving flower,
petals unfurling, opening
to the sun and rain.
But there were those storms
that I had not known
how to navigate,
much less sail.
And there are those,
I know, now,
who we may call,
but a key must be
given over,
and first, you must
know to ask for the key.
And so, I wish
upon the lips of all the girls
approaching their field
of rain-grown wildflowers
to be held in celebration
and honored presence,
to be given this key
in the moment of their occasion,
and occasioning,
rather than
the present moments,
which more readily pull them
into learned vulgarity and relegation,
and so the doors are knocked
down
rather than opened
up.
For how may we--
the bleeding breed--
learn to hold space
if we are not invited into
space, held?
To hold a growing,
breathing being is a whole
world unto itself,
and the profundity
is hidden in a butterfly-
shaped gem, tucked
along the base of the spine,
invisible to all,
but the evocation
of ritual.
So come, darlings,
sweet girls, who are
watching always.
The old witches call.
The sages who whisper
into the midnight blue,
and send the breeze
to caress our mothers’
tired, ever-giving
nurture of her
blossoming bosom;
they too call your name.
You are first drunken
with milk,
then drunken by
spinning in the wind.
The stakes grow higher
as your height too
grows taller,
so be sure to
call on the sages
of sisterhood,
and prayers past
primed with blessings
to walk with them
into the darkness;
they will guide you
as you learn
to bring the light,
hidden in crimson seawater,
unseen unless your
eyes are closed
and hands open to
an invisible holding.
May all the sweet darlings,
then, learn to be drunken
with prayer
and the mystic soberness
of the provocative mystery,
sitting on the sand,
listening to the waves,
and looking, always watching
for the hidden treasure maps,
to unfurl in satin ink
on worn, linen paper,
buried underneath
forgotten melodies,
neglected sand castles,
and hands,
calling,
always
to
hold
and
to be held.
Respite
In this vanity
we seek
our sanity
becomes bleak,
and character
grows weak.
What if
we women
woke
from our
woeful wilting
and decided
it is time
to say no.
No to this
mainstream
misconception
of merit,
no to these
fallacious facades
we flaunt
to veil our flaws.
No to these
obsolete absurdities
of what beauty is,
or what it
should look like,
because
below this
ostentatious existence
there is an
outcry,
a howling uproar
of opposition
to these
shallow shadows
that lurk
in our
misguided mindstreams
and materialistic
magazines.
This outcry
has been
silenced;
silenced through our
segregating systems
and the
selective sampling
of our
bodacious bodies
by the eyes
of proud,
pompous
passerby.
What I want
to know
is why
you are proud.
Why, in your
pathetic patronizing,
are you proud?
It must be
palliative,
--this pride--
for the peevish
palpebrations
that unconsciously
surface
in your eyes
when you
invariably have
a hard time
holding eye contact
with anyone at all,
for any
meaningful
amount of time,
at all.
But it’s understandable,
really--
why,
you are,
as you are;
why,
we are,
as we are;
why,
this society is,
as it is.
We must not
grow harder
in our hearts
despite difficult days;
we must
wake up
from this
tiresome trance
we tread,
and realize.
that the palpable
palpitations
that pulsate
in this
charitable chest
of ours
are patient,
pure promptings
for the precious
potential
of a peace
we can progressively
personify.
Each beating
of this
heartfelt heart
is a prompting
for a pause,
amidst the haste,
amidst the hate,
amidst the hollowness
that makes you
hesitate
to believe that
you are here,
you are here,
you are human,
and here,
and with a
harvesting
of humility
you can leave behind
all the haze
of the past,
the hypocrisy
or humiliation
that holds
you to this
holding,
this hardening,
because still,
there is hope.
Still there is hope
because your
heart still beats
waiting and beating
and waiting
for the momentous
moment
you meander
into the perfectly
imperfect
masterpiece
that is life,
to rest in respite
in radical recognition
of the reassuring realization
that you are
hopefully here,
hopefully here,
for every
measurable
moment
of time,
yours only,
for short time.
In this vanity
we seek
our sanity
becomes bleak,
and character
grows weak.
What if
we women
woke
from our
woeful wilting
and decided
it is time
to say no.
No to this
mainstream
misconception
of merit,
no to these
fallacious facades
we flaunt
to veil our flaws.
No to these
obsolete absurdities
of what beauty is,
or what it
should look like,
because
below this
ostentatious existence
there is an
outcry,
a howling uproar
of opposition
to these
shallow shadows
that lurk
in our
misguided mindstreams
and materialistic
magazines.
This outcry
has been
silenced;
silenced through our
segregating systems
and the
selective sampling
of our
bodacious bodies
by the eyes
of proud,
pompous
passerby.
What I want
to know
is why
you are proud.
Why, in your
pathetic patronizing,
are you proud?
It must be
palliative,
--this pride--
for the peevish
palpebrations
that unconsciously
surface
in your eyes
when you
invariably have
a hard time
holding eye contact
with anyone at all,
for any
meaningful
amount of time,
at all.
But it’s understandable,
really--
why,
you are,
as you are;
why,
we are,
as we are;
why,
this society is,
as it is.
We must not
grow harder
in our hearts
despite difficult days;
we must
wake up
from this
tiresome trance
we tread,
and realize.
that the palpable
palpitations
that pulsate
in this
charitable chest
of ours
are patient,
pure promptings
for the precious
potential
of a peace
we can progressively
personify.
Each beating
of this
heartfelt heart
is a prompting
for a pause,
amidst the haste,
amidst the hate,
amidst the hollowness
that makes you
hesitate
to believe that
you are here,
you are here,
you are human,
and here,
and with a
harvesting
of humility
you can leave behind
all the haze
of the past,
the hypocrisy
or humiliation
that holds
you to this
holding,
this hardening,
because still,
there is hope.
Still there is hope
because your
heart still beats
waiting and beating
and waiting
for the momentous
moment
you meander
into the perfectly
imperfect
masterpiece
that is life,
to rest in respite
in radical recognition
of the reassuring realization
that you are
hopefully here,
hopefully here,
for every
measurable
moment
of time,
yours only,
for short time.
Night blooming jasmine
Tell me
of true lies
and night blooming jasmine.
Tell me
you are not connected
and deeply dependent on
all the breathing beings
around.
Tell me,
if you weren’t so
entangled in your mind’s
personal troubles
that you wouldn’t fall to the
ground of breeding breath
to take in the stirring fragrance
of the honeysuckle
and the night blooming jasmine,
the tall, bushy lavender
and the generosity of the gardenias,
purists they be
Tell me
you enjoy spiraling
through your considerations
and manipulations
of the formulas
of your day-to-day
and yesterday and tomorrow,
more than today's ardor,
the intoxication,
the ecstasy-just-out-of-reach
shrouded somewhere
and everywhere
and nowhere to be seen,
it seems,
but I see
the petals have grown
more open
when I was looking elsewhere…
Tell me
you don’t wish
to be an acrobat
that stretches her spine
in nimble curiosity
of movement in the sky.
Tell me
you don’t want
your hands to smell
like woodchips
and your feet
to be reddened
from the soil
that grows lion’s mane
and blue oysters
and reishi as bright
and nourishing
for the brain and body
as is the depth of
the colored feathers
of maroon orioles
and those ones
who could be sisters
with a clementine, too.
You cannot tell me,
you cannot tell anybody.
Because you cannot tell a lie.
Perhaps your mouth can,
but your soul does not
have it inside
to give a true lie.
Perhaps you cannot tell me
because I can only tell you
that I am you.
And you are me, too.
And what are we,
but the reception
of the trees?
Can’t we see?
How this breath,
breathing me,
is the trees,
and you,
and this place
called
we.
Tell me
of true lies
and night blooming jasmine.
Tell me
you are not connected
and deeply dependent on
all the breathing beings
around.
Tell me,
if you weren’t so
entangled in your mind’s
personal troubles
that you wouldn’t fall to the
ground of breeding breath
to take in the stirring fragrance
of the honeysuckle
and the night blooming jasmine,
the tall, bushy lavender
and the generosity of the gardenias,
purists they be
Tell me
you enjoy spiraling
through your considerations
and manipulations
of the formulas
of your day-to-day
and yesterday and tomorrow,
more than today's ardor,
the intoxication,
the ecstasy-just-out-of-reach
shrouded somewhere
and everywhere
and nowhere to be seen,
it seems,
but I see
the petals have grown
more open
when I was looking elsewhere…
Tell me
you don’t wish
to be an acrobat
that stretches her spine
in nimble curiosity
of movement in the sky.
Tell me
you don’t want
your hands to smell
like woodchips
and your feet
to be reddened
from the soil
that grows lion’s mane
and blue oysters
and reishi as bright
and nourishing
for the brain and body
as is the depth of
the colored feathers
of maroon orioles
and those ones
who could be sisters
with a clementine, too.
You cannot tell me,
you cannot tell anybody.
Because you cannot tell a lie.
Perhaps your mouth can,
but your soul does not
have it inside
to give a true lie.
Perhaps you cannot tell me
because I can only tell you
that I am you.
And you are me, too.
And what are we,
but the reception
of the trees?
Can’t we see?
How this breath,
breathing me,
is the trees,
and you,
and this place
called
we.
to give love a little more
Heaven cries too
and Earth needs rest.
Bears hibernate,
and when they
come out of the darkness,
they yawn and stumble,
and stretch back into
the stunning, startling
motion, ever slowly.
Imagine your deepest
longings come true.
What do you think
you might want to do,
then, when there is no
grasping or grit
no needing or moving
towards somewhere
Perhaps the only thing to do
then, is sit by a river
and listen to the splashing
and pattering of little
water droplets moving
in cascades towards a ravine.
And there it is again.
The towards.
Even in the nowhereness
there is somewhere,
moving,
something
changing…
towards
towards
towards an unseen
unspoken
longing
for
anything and everything that
cannot be named or summed up
except maybe in the whispered
gesture of love given
without waiting to receive.
In the rarity
of a moment
when I can even venture
into the suggestion
of a love given
like this,
there is only
the presence and depth
of receiving longing,
a longing that washes over me
like rushing water
that pours from the heights
of a waterfall,
clearing, cleansing, deafening
in the sound of an erupting flow.
And in the loudness that
wrecks my weary thoughts,
I can finally hear silence
and there is a whisper that says
not to ever wish away the longing.
not to ever wish away the darkness
or even the stumbling
or tiredness.
And so I bow
my lips,
and my hands
offer a kiss
because for a moment
I am only in gratitude
of love given freely
and I don’t wish away
any of the smatterings
of nonsensical beauty
that my little mind
cannot understand.
I only wish to learn
to see a little better
and to give love
a little more.
Heaven cries too
and Earth needs rest.
Bears hibernate,
and when they
come out of the darkness,
they yawn and stumble,
and stretch back into
the stunning, startling
motion, ever slowly.
Imagine your deepest
longings come true.
What do you think
you might want to do,
then, when there is no
grasping or grit
no needing or moving
towards somewhere
Perhaps the only thing to do
then, is sit by a river
and listen to the splashing
and pattering of little
water droplets moving
in cascades towards a ravine.
And there it is again.
The towards.
Even in the nowhereness
there is somewhere,
moving,
something
changing…
towards
towards
towards an unseen
unspoken
longing
for
anything and everything that
cannot be named or summed up
except maybe in the whispered
gesture of love given
without waiting to receive.
In the rarity
of a moment
when I can even venture
into the suggestion
of a love given
like this,
there is only
the presence and depth
of receiving longing,
a longing that washes over me
like rushing water
that pours from the heights
of a waterfall,
clearing, cleansing, deafening
in the sound of an erupting flow.
And in the loudness that
wrecks my weary thoughts,
I can finally hear silence
and there is a whisper that says
not to ever wish away the longing.
not to ever wish away the darkness
or even the stumbling
or tiredness.
And so I bow
my lips,
and my hands
offer a kiss
because for a moment
I am only in gratitude
of love given freely
and I don’t wish away
any of the smatterings
of nonsensical beauty
that my little mind
cannot understand.
I only wish to learn
to see a little better
and to give love
a little more.
Of the teachings
Tell me of the teachings
of the Way of no words.
Show me the direction
of the compassless wind.
Guide me through the conviction
of the melodies of the winged ones.
And there will be listening.
There is the listening...
The pleasure of the breeze
kisses the honeysuckle,
and has the flowers blushing.
Do you watch, as the watching is,
or you do you avert your gaze
and forget to laze
in the sunlit tumbling waters
of today?
There is a way,
to learn the beauty,
to learn to see what is.
There is a way,
to stay, here, today,
in the windy stillness
of the space
between the sun
and the moon.
Tell me of the teachings
of the Way of no words.
Show me the direction
of the compassless wind.
Guide me through the conviction
of the melodies of the winged ones.
And there will be listening.
There is the listening...
The pleasure of the breeze
kisses the honeysuckle,
and has the flowers blushing.
Do you watch, as the watching is,
or you do you avert your gaze
and forget to laze
in the sunlit tumbling waters
of today?
There is a way,
to learn the beauty,
to learn to see what is.
There is a way,
to stay, here, today,
in the windy stillness
of the space
between the sun
and the moon.
Untangling
The urgent need
for the white man,
and all of us really,
to gather the courage
to untangle his personal fears
and look up at the world
and all its breathing beings--
the winged ones and
the lanky rainbow-skinned ones too,
with enchanted awe and wonder,
is the significant of our very breath,
inhaling and exhaling, now,
waving for our attention,
wavering between life and death.
Where is your breath?
where is our breath!
and where is our respect...
The urgent need
for the white man,
and all of us really,
to gather the courage
to untangle his personal fears
and look up at the world
and all its breathing beings--
the winged ones and
the lanky rainbow-skinned ones too,
with enchanted awe and wonder,
is the significant of our very breath,
inhaling and exhaling, now,
waving for our attention,
wavering between life and death.
Where is your breath?
where is our breath!
and where is our respect...
Birdsong of awe
There is birdsong moving in the ether
like the waves in the not-so-far blue sea.
Do you see when you close your eyes,
the majesty of today’s sunrays,
today’s wonder, and awe,
today’s one and only, always-expanding
melody moving, waving?
She waves for your attention, your attunement
your participation in the song
that is this breath moving through us all--
all the breathing beings,
the glimmering rainbow-colored swimmers
with gills and great eyes that can bathe in the water,
and the buzzing bees of divine symmetry,
and the trees
who grant us our breath
and can’t we see,
how we,
the lanky ones of skin,
colored like trees,
sepia and hazel, mahogany
and crème like crème-brule,
chocolate-colored, and weathered,
bronzed and tanned,
umber and nutty too,
textured and grainy,
each skin woven with a color and feel
as unique as the multitudes of birdsongs
for which our skin itself
was made to listen.
Did you know
we can listen with our skin?
Our ears are surely helpful,
pleasantly cooperative in our listening
to the melodies,
but our skin! our skin!
Look at what has been done
in this world, by this confused humanity
because of our skin!
You see, we know it is important,
that is clear,
but we are lost in a confusion,
we are looking down instead of up.
We are seeing and hearing
in confusion because we have forgotten
to remember that the listening
is with closed eyes and open, warm
hands, waving, moving, offering
up our attention
to the space between,
the liminal space,
with minimal movement,
a simplicity of mind,
and a depth of heart
in the stillness,
in the silence.
For the listening
the ones in robes say,
find the listening,
the winged ones offer, winking in the sky,
sending warmth to the back of the head,
pulling us by a thread,
up, up,
go vertical, the teachers say,
forget the horizontal,
look up, look up,
but close your eyes and stay still.
Find the way to look up
in the stillness.
Find the motion
in the inner space
that is not moving in time,
but is itself time
in a field of vibration
that is simply pure love.
See, we are floating here,
once warm,
once attuned to the beauty,
swimming in the elongated note
that expresses the numen
of our humble hearts, beating.
There is no knowing here,
and yet there is no confusion.
There is no knowing here,
and yet everything is known.
Wait! Listen!
Do you hear the pause?
Receive your breath.
Now… inhaling…
and now may we give it up, offer it back
into the circle, the never-ending spiral
as a gift to the angels,
as a gift to the singing trees.
A gift is always given
in the here and the now.
Constantly gifts pouring
out from the sky
as abundant as the rain,
as abundant as the stars.
Must we remember then,
to say,
to sing,
to really sing,
obrigada,
obrigada,
todah raba,
gracias madre,
thank you,
thank you,
thank you
for this medicine,
this medicine of melody
and gratitude and merriment,
this once-forgotten remembrance
to dance in the trance
of the butterflies
of awe.
There is birdsong moving in the ether
like the waves in the not-so-far blue sea.
Do you see when you close your eyes,
the majesty of today’s sunrays,
today’s wonder, and awe,
today’s one and only, always-expanding
melody moving, waving?
She waves for your attention, your attunement
your participation in the song
that is this breath moving through us all--
all the breathing beings,
the glimmering rainbow-colored swimmers
with gills and great eyes that can bathe in the water,
and the buzzing bees of divine symmetry,
and the trees
who grant us our breath
and can’t we see,
how we,
the lanky ones of skin,
colored like trees,
sepia and hazel, mahogany
and crème like crème-brule,
chocolate-colored, and weathered,
bronzed and tanned,
umber and nutty too,
textured and grainy,
each skin woven with a color and feel
as unique as the multitudes of birdsongs
for which our skin itself
was made to listen.
Did you know
we can listen with our skin?
Our ears are surely helpful,
pleasantly cooperative in our listening
to the melodies,
but our skin! our skin!
Look at what has been done
in this world, by this confused humanity
because of our skin!
You see, we know it is important,
that is clear,
but we are lost in a confusion,
we are looking down instead of up.
We are seeing and hearing
in confusion because we have forgotten
to remember that the listening
is with closed eyes and open, warm
hands, waving, moving, offering
up our attention
to the space between,
the liminal space,
with minimal movement,
a simplicity of mind,
and a depth of heart
in the stillness,
in the silence.
For the listening
the ones in robes say,
find the listening,
the winged ones offer, winking in the sky,
sending warmth to the back of the head,
pulling us by a thread,
up, up,
go vertical, the teachers say,
forget the horizontal,
look up, look up,
but close your eyes and stay still.
Find the way to look up
in the stillness.
Find the motion
in the inner space
that is not moving in time,
but is itself time
in a field of vibration
that is simply pure love.
See, we are floating here,
once warm,
once attuned to the beauty,
swimming in the elongated note
that expresses the numen
of our humble hearts, beating.
There is no knowing here,
and yet there is no confusion.
There is no knowing here,
and yet everything is known.
Wait! Listen!
Do you hear the pause?
Receive your breath.
Now… inhaling…
and now may we give it up, offer it back
into the circle, the never-ending spiral
as a gift to the angels,
as a gift to the singing trees.
A gift is always given
in the here and the now.
Constantly gifts pouring
out from the sky
as abundant as the rain,
as abundant as the stars.
Must we remember then,
to say,
to sing,
to really sing,
obrigada,
obrigada,
todah raba,
gracias madre,
thank you,
thank you,
thank you
for this medicine,
this medicine of melody
and gratitude and merriment,
this once-forgotten remembrance
to dance in the trance
of the butterflies
of awe.
A place inside
Despite the confusion,
beyond the delusions,
even amidst the
collective collusion,
there is gratitude.
And though that may sound
like the pleasantness of a placid platitude,
it's just a place inside
full of sunlight and wildflowers.
So when you're feeling sour
remember your internal power;
just take a breath
and conjure up and into
the warmth of a smile--
quite the comfort
for the little while
we're here,
quite the comfort
is the smile of remembering
our power is near.
Despite the confusion,
beyond the delusions,
even amidst the
collective collusion,
there is gratitude.
And though that may sound
like the pleasantness of a placid platitude,
it's just a place inside
full of sunlight and wildflowers.
So when you're feeling sour
remember your internal power;
just take a breath
and conjure up and into
the warmth of a smile--
quite the comfort
for the little while
we're here,
quite the comfort
is the smile of remembering
our power is near.
How lovely it was
how lovely it was,
how short and sweet,
to bathe in leaves of fall
and help them learn
the inner call
and how when we fall,
we help a friend
and send them some
love and magic!
and yes, yes little one,
magic is real
I’ll miss the little chairs
and the wide-eyed stares
of wonder, and the laughs
like thunder from the angels
of the luminous clouds
speaking aloud
their love through little feet
that prance and dance
in the soil of this earth,
frolicking and free,
to remind us taller people
of the worth of this earth,
and her abundance
of love and nourishment,
if we just learn to give and receive
these deep and precious breaths
how short and sweet,
to bathe in leaves of fall
and help them learn
the inner call
and how when we fall,
we help a friend
and send them some
love and magic!
and yes, yes little one,
magic is real
I’ll miss the little chairs
and the wide-eyed stares
of wonder, and the laughs
like thunder from the angels
of the luminous clouds
speaking aloud
their love through little feet
that prance and dance
in the soil of this earth,
frolicking and free,
to remind us taller people
of the worth of this earth,
and her abundance
of love and nourishment,
if we just learn to give and receive
these deep and precious breaths
hardest on my sweet momma
you are the grounding strength
of the seashore;
the glistening luminosity
and warmth of the sand;
the unwavering form
that always is,
an ever-growing expanse;
old as time
and as gently young and open
as the skies
and I am the tidal waves
that crash and sway into you,
fierce, wild, a powerful force
that brings the storm to you;
I am the salt water of you;
the strength of your cells,
tumultuous waters
thundering in uproarious search
for a home as true
as you,
and the tender-lovingness
of your womb
you are the grounding strength
of the seashore;
the glistening luminosity
and warmth of the sand;
the unwavering form
that always is,
an ever-growing expanse;
old as time
and as gently young and open
as the skies
and I am the tidal waves
that crash and sway into you,
fierce, wild, a powerful force
that brings the storm to you;
I am the salt water of you;
the strength of your cells,
tumultuous waters
thundering in uproarious search
for a home as true
as you,
and the tender-lovingness
of your womb
HAIKU
to invoke a pause--
if I were punctuation,
a comma, I’d be
clouds of confusion,
information overload--
please see the Flowers
character—to teach
enough curriculum, as such;
soon, children won’t feel
space is not but time.
time is what, but,
presence sought
write Hai-ku, my friend,
five, seven, five, in poem--
what comes to you?
as Joan Didion,
wrote on self-respect—the scare;
self-awareness, the outgrowth
I will see you soon.
must I see the moon, to know,
your glow is always
there should be a word
for giving and receiving
love that is the same.
leaves no longer fall
and when seasons cease to be
what will be, Haiku?
lovers on subways--
sweet kisses given gently
held, yet with holding
love me tenderness
hold me in patience, reverence
in your empty well
so how do you fill
the empty spaces inside
empty for reason
implacable you,
your itching is palpable,
what will placate you?
erudition, gone
children only know their screens
what could wisdom be?
artful endurance.
grow not weary too hastily.
climax means uphill.
frigid hands waiting.
subways inspire in me
platform, perspective
we know not guru--
as, we disregard shishya;
like child, no mother
do you see in me?
clarify your intention
to unfog the glass
reticent to change--
rectify your mind, my son.
hard living in store.
forested landscape
quietude, togetherness,
our two barefoot hearts
to hold a being--
of what do we know embrace?
our hands must be empty.
she is here, there, here.
take her to the light of moon
where shadows that move
emptiness is it.
hands open, and heart as well.
attached to nothing
if I were punctuation,
a comma, I’d be
clouds of confusion,
information overload--
please see the Flowers
character—to teach
enough curriculum, as such;
soon, children won’t feel
space is not but time.
time is what, but,
presence sought
write Hai-ku, my friend,
five, seven, five, in poem--
what comes to you?
as Joan Didion,
wrote on self-respect—the scare;
self-awareness, the outgrowth
I will see you soon.
must I see the moon, to know,
your glow is always
there should be a word
for giving and receiving
love that is the same.
leaves no longer fall
and when seasons cease to be
what will be, Haiku?
lovers on subways--
sweet kisses given gently
held, yet with holding
love me tenderness
hold me in patience, reverence
in your empty well
so how do you fill
the empty spaces inside
empty for reason
implacable you,
your itching is palpable,
what will placate you?
erudition, gone
children only know their screens
what could wisdom be?
artful endurance.
grow not weary too hastily.
climax means uphill.
frigid hands waiting.
subways inspire in me
platform, perspective
we know not guru--
as, we disregard shishya;
like child, no mother
do you see in me?
clarify your intention
to unfog the glass
reticent to change--
rectify your mind, my son.
hard living in store.
forested landscape
quietude, togetherness,
our two barefoot hearts
to hold a being--
of what do we know embrace?
our hands must be empty.
she is here, there, here.
take her to the light of moon
where shadows that move
emptiness is it.
hands open, and heart as well.
attached to nothing
This Last Jar of Honey
Sink this spoon
into this
last jar of honey,
watch as this
golden nectar
oozes slowly
as it’s poured;
let your fingers
feel its warmth,
let your tongue
taste its core;
lick it slowly,
let it warm your palate,
fill your belly,
slowly, slowly,
this is the last.
What do you taste?
the joy of sweetness
or the sorrow of death,
the coy of humans
or what we borrow
from bees?
What do you feel?
Your cells expanding
or theirs lying
limp on the ground?
The smile of nectar
or the frown
of what’s left?
Drink it slowly,
ever so slowly,
this must be the last,
as they’ve already passed.
What do you see
when you smell the smoke?
Are you eyes open
when you go numb
with coke?
Do you sometimes
feel the universe
giving you a poke,
but then just as soon
forget,
and call that old friend
a bloke?
Do you feel awake,
or are you in a daze,
your mind a delusional haze,
just trying to find a way
back to bay,
to just lay,
or at least
feel okay.
Is your mind stuck,
and all you wish for
is a buck
so you could fix
that old tape recorder
that goes round and round
and round and
you just want to stop
the sound
or give someone a pound
or sit and cry
and give your clock
a ticking wound.
Can you see me?
Can you look
into the mirror
and actually see me?
Look at my dimple,
see that it’s all
much more simple,
go sit in a chair,
go brush your hair,
but don’t do it so quickly,
don’t do it so fast;
you won’t always have that hair,
so do it slowly,
ever so gently,
and stop thinking
about that stupid Bentley,
that would just as soon
make you as unhappy
as that line you took
with your so-called friends
off the kitchen counter
that your mom
helped you pick out
while you were busy
texting or sexting
or whatever they call
this lunatic-version
of modern flirtation
that is so far from love,
it makes me feel like crying.
And through all of this,
have you thought
about the bees?
Have you thought
just once
about the bees,
and how these tiny,
beautiful creatures respect
their mother
with a love
of divine grace,
and how they work
and work and work,
and go and pollinate
all those beautiful flowers,
which we rip from the earth,
and spray with toxins,
and put in a vending machine
to sell to husbands
who forgot
it was the anniversary
of their so-called love.
And once again,
we’ve already forgotten
about the bees,
and how they work
and work and work
all their lives away,
and then they finally fly
all the way home,
to see that their
brothers and sisters
are lying limp
on the ground,
their beautiful, divine
home of Godly symmetries
set aflame, burning with smoke,
and all that sweet nectar,
gone.
their only food,
gone and gone,
now sitting in a jar,
in a grocery store aisle,
filled with so many toxins
and carcinogenic bullshit,
that we, who are stealing love
from the womb of God
will die before we ever realize
the immensity
of this last jar
of honey.
Sink this spoon
into this
last jar of honey,
watch as this
golden nectar
oozes slowly
as it’s poured;
let your fingers
feel its warmth,
let your tongue
taste its core;
lick it slowly,
let it warm your palate,
fill your belly,
slowly, slowly,
this is the last.
What do you taste?
the joy of sweetness
or the sorrow of death,
the coy of humans
or what we borrow
from bees?
What do you feel?
Your cells expanding
or theirs lying
limp on the ground?
The smile of nectar
or the frown
of what’s left?
Drink it slowly,
ever so slowly,
this must be the last,
as they’ve already passed.
What do you see
when you smell the smoke?
Are you eyes open
when you go numb
with coke?
Do you sometimes
feel the universe
giving you a poke,
but then just as soon
forget,
and call that old friend
a bloke?
Do you feel awake,
or are you in a daze,
your mind a delusional haze,
just trying to find a way
back to bay,
to just lay,
or at least
feel okay.
Is your mind stuck,
and all you wish for
is a buck
so you could fix
that old tape recorder
that goes round and round
and round and
you just want to stop
the sound
or give someone a pound
or sit and cry
and give your clock
a ticking wound.
Can you see me?
Can you look
into the mirror
and actually see me?
Look at my dimple,
see that it’s all
much more simple,
go sit in a chair,
go brush your hair,
but don’t do it so quickly,
don’t do it so fast;
you won’t always have that hair,
so do it slowly,
ever so gently,
and stop thinking
about that stupid Bentley,
that would just as soon
make you as unhappy
as that line you took
with your so-called friends
off the kitchen counter
that your mom
helped you pick out
while you were busy
texting or sexting
or whatever they call
this lunatic-version
of modern flirtation
that is so far from love,
it makes me feel like crying.
And through all of this,
have you thought
about the bees?
Have you thought
just once
about the bees,
and how these tiny,
beautiful creatures respect
their mother
with a love
of divine grace,
and how they work
and work and work,
and go and pollinate
all those beautiful flowers,
which we rip from the earth,
and spray with toxins,
and put in a vending machine
to sell to husbands
who forgot
it was the anniversary
of their so-called love.
And once again,
we’ve already forgotten
about the bees,
and how they work
and work and work
all their lives away,
and then they finally fly
all the way home,
to see that their
brothers and sisters
are lying limp
on the ground,
their beautiful, divine
home of Godly symmetries
set aflame, burning with smoke,
and all that sweet nectar,
gone.
their only food,
gone and gone,
now sitting in a jar,
in a grocery store aisle,
filled with so many toxins
and carcinogenic bullshit,
that we, who are stealing love
from the womb of God
will die before we ever realize
the immensity
of this last jar
of honey.
A prayer for the flowers
A prayer for the flowers,
a prayer for the yellow leaves;
yellow leaves, yellowing deeds,
slowly dying with a sighing
that is slowing,
for budding points
all over
are nourishing
their sisters and brothers...
rain falling,
the leaves are not stalling
their descent,
despite the painful drop,
pulled from their mother,
ripped away
the wind hushing
their cries
are they,
in the span
of a momentary galnce
are separated,
pulled back into the earth
to nourish those
who come next
for there are always
always watching
those who come next,
those who await our descent,
mother crying,
leaves swaying,
Mother Earth calling
A prayer for the flowers,
a prayer for the yellow leaves;
yellow leaves, yellowing deeds,
slowly dying with a sighing
that is slowing,
for budding points
all over
are nourishing
their sisters and brothers...
rain falling,
the leaves are not stalling
their descent,
despite the painful drop,
pulled from their mother,
ripped away
the wind hushing
their cries
are they,
in the span
of a momentary galnce
are separated,
pulled back into the earth
to nourish those
who come next
for there are always
always watching
those who come next,
those who await our descent,
mother crying,
leaves swaying,
Mother Earth calling
