I hated myself
No, that’s not quite right
I cursed my lack of self

Swaddled within the soft unyielding
Walls of the Holy Roman Catholic Apostolic —
Our Holy Mother —
The One, the only, the Church!

And what a mother she was
Those big firm breasts
Soft and unyielding 
Those generous nipples
Blushing roseola 
Swollen
Gazing straight at me
Promising eternal life if I
Just drank forever content
And sleepy, between those
Wondrous breasts

“Sshh, don’t cry out, dear child, don’t question
Here’s my nipple — drink deep and sleep —
As your Blessed Savior did —
Between my beguiling
Bewitching bedeviling breasts.”

Hallelujah 
For silver-lighted leaves 
Of evergreen nandina 
In my neighbor’s backyard

Hallelujah 
For noisy silence of bossy cardinals
Like princes of the church
Trying – always – to claim exclusive ownership
Of the bird feeder outside our bedroom window

(Natural born patriarchs
With no discernible wisdom
But lots of self-assured hallelujahs)

Hallelujah for me
Though I be but a plain brown sparrow
Yet I continue to claim my equal right
To the feeder
Singing hallelujah 
For 77 years of perching
Feeding
Returning
Sharing 
Swaying bird feeders
Suspended from squirrel-proof poles

Life increasingly
Becomes
Leaving behind the once
While holding onto the love

Here be not monsters
But eternity

The sometimes wild
Excesses of youth

The always insistent 
Demands of mid life

Even the necessary new
Realities of aging

Those challenges belong
But to the past

The present challenge
Carries forward
The love
From past to present
From memory to celebration

Celebration
For all that has been
Will be
Must be
Left behind
While love remains my reality

An Angel came to me
Today
To give me my word
For the new year

“Hail, Mary, full of grace”
She did not say

She threw a ball at me
It smacked me in the head
Because I was not paying attention
And did not catch it

I sat down in a funk
What kind of aspiring mystic
Gets only an angel
Who wants to play ball

“You are a budhisattva”
She did not say

She brought me a tiny nosegay 
Of late blooming vinca
And still green grass
And laughed as she sprinkled
Them on my head
And dance-ran away

Sighing I got up
And went inside
To wash some dishes
Because I

Like washing dishes; I
Understand washing dishes

There, in the kitchen, the little kitchen 
My love and I designed and made
There, with my hands
Plunged in warm soapy water
I shivered.

“You are earth goddess”
She did not say

But, with delicate fingers,
She flicked warm soapy water
At my face
And disappeared

My love came up
Against my back
“I don’t think I’ve had my morning kiss”
He said

I turned smiling
And gave him my lips
We lingered
Our kiss lingered
Until we looked at each other
And smiled

“You are fun”
My angel said
As she managed
A cartwheel
In our small kitchen

“Be playful”
She smiled
As she zip-flew
Tumbling and swirling
High and higher

To accept losing
as we once accepted adding
To learn to love ending
as we once loved beginning 
To live the quiet ending
as we once lived the noisy start
To be ignored
as we once were centered
This is to be a Boomer

Here

in the hills and valleys
the perched villages
the cliff top ruins
the Luberon

Here

my rooted toes
reach down 
into the past
clinging
bringing
deep nourishment

Upward

through my legs, my trunk
gnarly and rough
long lived
surviving
growing

 Upward

my branchy arms
my leafy fingers
grasp the future
lightly
lightly
through this 

Now

(Written from the prompt “The door is round and open” from Rumi’s poem, The Breeze At Dawn, translated by Coleman Barks)

“The door is round and open”
So, a hobbit door
Bilbo’s door
Frodo’s door
To there and back again

Back again
Ah, as Will would – did – say/write
There’s the rub

To duck through that hobbit door
Into that rich, dense, dangerous world
Whether it be once, middle, or soon earth
To shoulder your heart’s pack
To tug your hopes’ cap onto your head
To wrap your memory cloak close
To step into your courage
And tie the laces tight
That is one thing
No small thing
A very big thing, in fact

But to find your way back again
After you’ve lost what was most precious
To find your way back
Duck through that round door
Into that small and too well known space
Without your precious
With only your wounds
To put pack, cap, cloak, boots away
In the very back of the storage cupboard
And settle satisfied
Into a once-favorite chair
In front of a once-familiar fire
To leave the road outside
Untrod
And still be content and grateful

That takes even more skill
More luck
More courage
More grace
Than the outward journey

The home of my belonging
Is not four walls
But my love’s sheltering arms

The sanctuary for my restless soul
Is not a mighty cathedral
But our modest home
In this thoroughly middle-class neighborhood

The generosity of caring
Is not sharing money or even volunteering
But sharing this home
With those who need tranquility

The security of eternity
Is not a creed, belief or practice
But the ever more circumscribed life
We live
My love and I
In this our quiet home

Every day now the abundant portulaca
Open and close their small blossoms in rhythm with the sun
Every day now the gawdy canna blossoms rise on sturdy stalks 
Reaching high above their graceful green leaves
To made red holes in the blue sky
Every day now slender white blossoms rise on fragile stalks
Above the hostas’ abundant leaves
Every day now the coleus needs no blossom
To entrance with its showy leaves

Every day now I feel a little more
The possibility of joy
Blossoming like our garden
In haphazard profusion
Above the manure rich soil
Of America