I imagine Mary Oliver after a nuclear holocaust writing of her sorrow that in our arrogance and anger we destroyed ourselves and most of our world I imagine her writing of her fear for the world and for herself denying nothing of her sadly changed expectations I imagine her ending But look at the way this little brown skink moves unhurried up the porch wall stopping and starting again enjoying its bit of life
poems
Here And There
Woody waits outside On the porch he made for us Sitting in the rocking chair We bought in Ohio Coming back from Michigan Not our last time in Michigan Just last weekend When we drove there For Jack’s memorial service Stopping for the night in Berlin, Ohio Because we don’t do the fast 10 hour interstate way But wind our way slowly Through the every season beauty Of West Virginia And Amish country Ohio We went the slow way Going up for the memorial service For Woody’s nephew Jack loved hunting, and his hungry chickens As Woody loves gardening, and his Japanese maple trees We came back the fast way on Monday Because the assisted living home called On Monday morning Mom was having another hypertensive crisis And they were taking her to the hospital Possibly So I drove us back Using the interstates and toll roads Not hurrying, but not stopping for the night either Mom is fine now And Woody sits in his rocking chair Waiting to take my hand And walk together through our garden
Uncertainty
I stare at the prompt, “Write about uncertainty” I sit, pen quiet, thinking thoughts Uncertainty, I think, is my life Uncertainty, I think, is my only sure possession Uncertainty, I think, is my only certainty Just as I pick up my pen to write My phone buzzes I have it nearby, on mute In case it is my mother calling Or, worse yet, her nursing home It is my mother I have to answer Nothing is wrong She just forgot this is my workshop time And wanted to tell me her blood pressure Is just fine Nothing wrong today Sigh Uncertainty is my life
beyond
the best of poetry ironically is that it takes you where words cannot go
Orans
I want no cathedral In my head or soul Unless it be The cathedral of nothingness Lifting unseen spires high Into its own nothingness And within that nothingness The sanctuary of Infinity And within that infinity The altar of Love And on that love The chalice of God And within that god Me In womanly orans Tall and uplifted As a cathedral spire Arms bent, spread wide Fingers cupped As though to catch and cradle Anointing oil Dripping forever From Sophia’s chalice
Cracked Light
Leonard told us It’s the cracks Through which we see the light I’ve been looking for them Those cracks in my shell My problem is this: Words keep sealing up Every crack I find As soon as I find a crack I name it As soon as I name it It is this It is not any other that As soon as I name it The name becomes glue And seals the crack On and on Around my shell I search Whenever I see light I know there is a crack What crack? God? Enlightenment? Satori? Savasana? Oh damn It’s sealing up again No more crack I give up I rest in the center And let the shell be Soon I am flooded And floating In many cracked light
God/Us
Imagine, if you will, a person No, wait, I don’t mean imagine the idea of a person I mean SEE a person How tall, how heavy What color hair, eyes, skin How old, how gendered SMELL that person Are they Clean smelling Slightly stale smelling Or really rank HEAR that person Is their voice soft or loud Their accent particular Or talking heads generic Do they snuffle Sneeze Cough Or just quietly breathe I don’t want you to sit there Reading and imagining a vague person I want you to imagine A flesh and blood person With girth and height Color and clothing Name that person Know that person Believe in that person Now here’s the hard part Believe that person In their very particularity Nothing more and nothing less Is God That is, that person is Divine Just like you Just like me
Of Soles and Souls
Spring brings daffodils - And crocuses, hyacinth, forsythia and nodding hellebores - Oh, look, my rosemary died, - but here is that invincible curly parsley - peeking up again But it is the daffodils In drifts and choirs throughout our property That sing to my eyes The grass grows tall The first spring mowing yet to come So, as I walk beside our gardens Admiring daffodils I fail to heed the smell Until I feel the squish Of that brown gift Hidden by one of the dogs In the growing greening grass That gift that means I will be scraping and washing The soles of my shoes Grateful even then For the garden springing In the soul of my senses
Permanence
Music is permanent, only listening is intermittent. from Bury your money by Jean Valentine Poetry is permanent, only the internet is intermittent Love is permanent, only like is intermittent Beauty is permanent, only pretty is intermittent Creativity is permanent, only cleverness is intermittent Learning is permanent, only knowing is intermittent Truth is permanent, only believing is intermittent Life is permanent, only living is intermittent God is permanent, only faith is intermittent Poetry, love, beauty, creativity learning, truth, life, God and me myself I inhabit eternity
Daffodils
One Fall Seven years ago Woody planted One hundred daffodil bulbs Most bloomed that spring Each year since then More than most Bloom each spring More and more than most Until Woody dug some up Divided and replanted them The next spring Yellow and white faces On green legs Nodded and smiled at me From unexpected places Just so My grandfather returns In a saluting man in uniform My grandmother in a woman In a fancy hat My father in a wave that Tickles my toes My grandchildren, Madeleine and Lorien, In a double stroller Gordon in every prayer And so I live among Ever more Golden daffodils
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