Poetry has long been part of the way I see--and process--the world. Here are a few samples of my visions.
DEEP LOOKING
Come, step into this photograph.
Watch out for those saturated greens
almost ready to burst,
and beware the low-lying blueberry
hiding beneath its leaves.
It's cunning how the mist comes
swallowing even mountains,
erasing their spines.
Hold your breath as you pass the pitch pine--
don't breathe its sap or let it touch you
oh yes and watch the needles
and the fire of the asters
and the moss that swallows rocks.
something will enter,
something will hold you
filling your body
Casual viewing will never be the same.
INCANTATION FOR NORMAN
The darkness of your tunnel
With its compression walls
Will start glowing.
The tightness will soften around you.
Silken fingers will touch you lightly.
Mindwebs will release.
The tunnel illuminating, you
Will not need the weight.
Ease, the birthright river,
Will spread from bank to bank.
Take a breath:
You are emerging.
USING THE LIGHT FOR FOOD
I ate the sun today.
The brightness of carrots
and richness of greens,
The wonder of plants
that take the rays
to grow and reach
up, using the light
for food, then feeding me.
Everything’s a miracle--
Einsteins’s words—or
nothing is. I say all,
all of it, inter-being,
eating the sun
through spinach.
AFTER MEETING AT THE PRAIRIE
Fragile, finding your footing,
trying to ground.
Touching back in
from such intense focus
like having a newborn,
and then coming out
to superstore bright.
Hungry for hugging
tears come so quickly
from even a touch.
This part of the journey
so jaggedly colored
not very spacious
not asked for, such burdens
not wanted, yet here
Fierce, fragile grace,
and the slant
of the sunshine
and your grief
near fresh grass.
INSIDE AWAKENING
The houseplants know its spring
Geranium leaves like ears, alert to
sounds beyond the human range.
Red petals with a clarion call
heralding the quickening.
Expectancy and enlivened green.
In their separate pots, their root hairs
quivering, they know the stirring of the soil
beyond the glass
As if the worms outside were calling.
PASSING ON
Birthing her through dying,
You hold her and weep.
Bottomless wells of feeling rise
and sigh down again with the inflated bed.
Tears anoint everything in this sacred place.
We surround you, witnesses
place roses in her hands
touch her wax-smooth skin.
New babies too are like this,
nails and body as pure and rich.
Your daughter is gone, passed on,
This child who so recently gushed her first blood.
What now—these unknown endless days?
What strange new life is this?
Heart pierced with the emptiness,
cry out as you take your first step.
Weep, and with this child
Birth yourself too through dying.
CULTIVATION
Gene works all day, in the hot sun
tending his flowers.
Neat, trim, organized,
lovely.
Asked if he ever sits there,
just looking,
he says no.
Tending is all.
Across the fence my berries
spread in disarray
not staked, not fed
more like a jungle
Sleeping Beauty’s brambles
holding the fruit.
Tending tires me;
I can’t keep up
my world has weeds.
Years now I’ve watched this drama
as we age and
trees enlarge.
We touch the earth
in various ways.
ALZHEIMER’S AHEAD
Jim, my Buddhist friend,
knew the signs
since he had been there
with his dad.
And it’s coming on.
Well, he says,
this is a journey
my ultimate river paddle
where I follow the current
and portage when I can.
Think of the frog,
its simple presence
unmoving for hours.
I will not
exchange pleasantries,
ruminate, plan.
I will hum, like
the bees I watch
I will vibrate
in nowness
move to
the quiet emptiness
that we sit for
and hope to attain.
GIFT OF THE LATER PHASES
When he would no longer talk,
Jim put broccoli
into piles.
Arranged things to be
pleasing, filling the senses--
driftwood, or carrots,
flowers from the yard.
A honed eye for beauty
framed in small moments
gifts to be savored
well beyond time.
SUMMER IDYLL
green bathing with my overgrown trees
the lushest year, thousands
of mulberries
abundant apples
grapes in the corner
great swaths of shade.
sand toys in grass,
face down, beneath
the pearless pear.
the million leaves, and more
just within my glance
breathing out for me
to breathe in
the green symphony
exuberantly playing
nobody's thirsty
chlorophyll feasting
reaching to the sun.
BY THE BEAVER BRIDGE
Collecting clams on a cold afternoon
shells, at least, minute winged pairs
Knees on the wet sand
There’s one! Another!
The White River, with white clouds
white clam bellies and
white glints off the flowing water.
Yellow bridge, since there was extra paint.
I hold the bag at the bottom
its growing weight making tiny tears.
There’s a greed for bursting sackfuls
Always another treasure, still one more
actually there is no end
this small piece of riverbank
ceaselessly yielding mollusk angels
for those who seek.
MOVING TO ETERNITY
She paddles into the mist,
into the open mystery
as the beach empties out
and the fog draws in.
Sandpipers, pelicans,
barely seen.
It’s eternity, this moment,
no edges, no conditions
only this.
Dearest mother ocean
Bowl of the gulf,
gracias a la vida
all the elements
all the senses
I am here
Te amo.
THE SECRET OF TREES
A radiant May afternoon
With friends.
A sharp-focused hour.
Faint smell of honeysuckle, motorboats,
Creosote on the railroad bridge.
The pines, quiet sentinels by the water,
Gifted us.
The shaken branch released its secret:
fairy dust, seed, insistent life
The yellow pollen fanned out in waves,
Again and again and again.
We covered our faces.
Inhaling the power of dripping resin,
Sticky-fingered, exalting
We stood anointed.
Our cells quickened in
Patterns of green, circles of growing
Given wisdom and deep sight,
Taken into the secret of trees.
THE EXHILARATION OF SPRING
Cardinal in the water fountain, brilliant plumes calling
to mates, to me, to life
The bees out testing their wings
as flowers beckon
fat robins, scent of hyacinth
sun-warmed benches.
The stones rejoice, energized,
they plunge into aliveness
singing to the cosmos as
winter stillness cedes
to pulsing freshness and
lengthening light.
REMEMBER
I have seen the arrested
moment, stand-still time, no boundaries
seconds only
on the clock,
eons in the wide space
traveling well out beyond
limits, personality
separate self, separate
beings, distinctive me and you
I have felt it and know well
nothing to do, nothing to prove
Forgetting again, again
entangled, caught up in
life, emotions racing, feeling
fear, must re-member yet anew
only one, all unbounded all
arrest the moment
travel the cosmos, inner space
nothing to prove, nothing to do.
DEEP LOOKING
Come, step into this photograph.
Watch out for those saturated greens
almost ready to burst,
and beware the low-lying blueberry
hiding beneath its leaves.
It's cunning how the mist comes
swallowing even mountains,
erasing their spines.
Hold your breath as you pass the pitch pine--
don't breathe its sap or let it touch you
oh yes and watch the needles
and the fire of the asters
and the moss that swallows rocks.
something will enter,
something will hold you
filling your body
Casual viewing will never be the same.
INCANTATION FOR NORMAN
The darkness of your tunnel
With its compression walls
Will start glowing.
The tightness will soften around you.
Silken fingers will touch you lightly.
Mindwebs will release.
The tunnel illuminating, you
Will not need the weight.
Ease, the birthright river,
Will spread from bank to bank.
Take a breath:
You are emerging.
USING THE LIGHT FOR FOOD
I ate the sun today.
The brightness of carrots
and richness of greens,
The wonder of plants
that take the rays
to grow and reach
up, using the light
for food, then feeding me.
Everything’s a miracle--
Einsteins’s words—or
nothing is. I say all,
all of it, inter-being,
eating the sun
through spinach.
AFTER MEETING AT THE PRAIRIE
Fragile, finding your footing,
trying to ground.
Touching back in
from such intense focus
like having a newborn,
and then coming out
to superstore bright.
Hungry for hugging
tears come so quickly
from even a touch.
This part of the journey
so jaggedly colored
not very spacious
not asked for, such burdens
not wanted, yet here
Fierce, fragile grace,
and the slant
of the sunshine
and your grief
near fresh grass.
INSIDE AWAKENING
The houseplants know its spring
Geranium leaves like ears, alert to
sounds beyond the human range.
Red petals with a clarion call
heralding the quickening.
Expectancy and enlivened green.
In their separate pots, their root hairs
quivering, they know the stirring of the soil
beyond the glass
As if the worms outside were calling.
PASSING ON
Birthing her through dying,
You hold her and weep.
Bottomless wells of feeling rise
and sigh down again with the inflated bed.
Tears anoint everything in this sacred place.
We surround you, witnesses
place roses in her hands
touch her wax-smooth skin.
New babies too are like this,
nails and body as pure and rich.
Your daughter is gone, passed on,
This child who so recently gushed her first blood.
What now—these unknown endless days?
What strange new life is this?
Heart pierced with the emptiness,
cry out as you take your first step.
Weep, and with this child
Birth yourself too through dying.
CULTIVATION
Gene works all day, in the hot sun
tending his flowers.
Neat, trim, organized,
lovely.
Asked if he ever sits there,
just looking,
he says no.
Tending is all.
Across the fence my berries
spread in disarray
not staked, not fed
more like a jungle
Sleeping Beauty’s brambles
holding the fruit.
Tending tires me;
I can’t keep up
my world has weeds.
Years now I’ve watched this drama
as we age and
trees enlarge.
We touch the earth
in various ways.
ALZHEIMER’S AHEAD
Jim, my Buddhist friend,
knew the signs
since he had been there
with his dad.
And it’s coming on.
Well, he says,
this is a journey
my ultimate river paddle
where I follow the current
and portage when I can.
Think of the frog,
its simple presence
unmoving for hours.
I will not
exchange pleasantries,
ruminate, plan.
I will hum, like
the bees I watch
I will vibrate
in nowness
move to
the quiet emptiness
that we sit for
and hope to attain.
GIFT OF THE LATER PHASES
When he would no longer talk,
Jim put broccoli
into piles.
Arranged things to be
pleasing, filling the senses--
driftwood, or carrots,
flowers from the yard.
A honed eye for beauty
framed in small moments
gifts to be savored
well beyond time.
SUMMER IDYLL
green bathing with my overgrown trees
the lushest year, thousands
of mulberries
abundant apples
grapes in the corner
great swaths of shade.
sand toys in grass,
face down, beneath
the pearless pear.
the million leaves, and more
just within my glance
breathing out for me
to breathe in
the green symphony
exuberantly playing
nobody's thirsty
chlorophyll feasting
reaching to the sun.
BY THE BEAVER BRIDGE
Collecting clams on a cold afternoon
shells, at least, minute winged pairs
Knees on the wet sand
There’s one! Another!
The White River, with white clouds
white clam bellies and
white glints off the flowing water.
Yellow bridge, since there was extra paint.
I hold the bag at the bottom
its growing weight making tiny tears.
There’s a greed for bursting sackfuls
Always another treasure, still one more
actually there is no end
this small piece of riverbank
ceaselessly yielding mollusk angels
for those who seek.
MOVING TO ETERNITY
She paddles into the mist,
into the open mystery
as the beach empties out
and the fog draws in.
Sandpipers, pelicans,
barely seen.
It’s eternity, this moment,
no edges, no conditions
only this.
Dearest mother ocean
Bowl of the gulf,
gracias a la vida
all the elements
all the senses
I am here
Te amo.
THE SECRET OF TREES
A radiant May afternoon
With friends.
A sharp-focused hour.
Faint smell of honeysuckle, motorboats,
Creosote on the railroad bridge.
The pines, quiet sentinels by the water,
Gifted us.
The shaken branch released its secret:
fairy dust, seed, insistent life
The yellow pollen fanned out in waves,
Again and again and again.
We covered our faces.
Inhaling the power of dripping resin,
Sticky-fingered, exalting
We stood anointed.
Our cells quickened in
Patterns of green, circles of growing
Given wisdom and deep sight,
Taken into the secret of trees.
THE EXHILARATION OF SPRING
Cardinal in the water fountain, brilliant plumes calling
to mates, to me, to life
The bees out testing their wings
as flowers beckon
fat robins, scent of hyacinth
sun-warmed benches.
The stones rejoice, energized,
they plunge into aliveness
singing to the cosmos as
winter stillness cedes
to pulsing freshness and
lengthening light.
REMEMBER
I have seen the arrested
moment, stand-still time, no boundaries
seconds only
on the clock,
eons in the wide space
traveling well out beyond
limits, personality
separate self, separate
beings, distinctive me and you
I have felt it and know well
nothing to do, nothing to prove
Forgetting again, again
entangled, caught up in
life, emotions racing, feeling
fear, must re-member yet anew
only one, all unbounded all
arrest the moment
travel the cosmos, inner space
nothing to prove, nothing to do.
THE WOVEN GIFT
I was caught up in my weaving,
the crossing shots of color and
the supple hand.
On the loom, those warp yarns taut and orderly,
enough to bounce on, and bounce back.
Cut off, then, arrayed on the sofa,
I could look from afar to see
the clothness of it, relaxed and fluid.
The cats always sat in the center
to feel the flow.
Imagine if I wove a veil, a cover for
your blessed head, intermediary
for you and the wide world
Imagine how much I would want
to keep you sheltered
in its gentle folds.
Imagine I would hold that shelter,
you safe inside,
not exposed
Yet the day would come, the light so strong,
the threads pressing down too far
I would let go.
The veil that clouds your eyes would be lifted,
raised by the hands that wove it.
I was caught up in my weaving,
the crossing shots of color and
the supple hand.
On the loom, those warp yarns taut and orderly,
enough to bounce on, and bounce back.
Cut off, then, arrayed on the sofa,
I could look from afar to see
the clothness of it, relaxed and fluid.
The cats always sat in the center
to feel the flow.
Imagine if I wove a veil, a cover for
your blessed head, intermediary
for you and the wide world
Imagine how much I would want
to keep you sheltered
in its gentle folds.
Imagine I would hold that shelter,
you safe inside,
not exposed
Yet the day would come, the light so strong,
the threads pressing down too far
I would let go.
The veil that clouds your eyes would be lifted,
raised by the hands that wove it.
HOMAGE TO HANNAH COHOON (who painted the Shaker Tree of Life, 1854) An angel brought you your drawing, a tree with ripe fruit. You were 66, living in your City of Peace. The angel’s breath can still be felt both in that place-- the green round land, the floors you walked-- and in your painting. So many love that image, a joyous tree its sense of fullness, precisely ordered, grounded well, a stylized version of the palampores of your youth. Angels bring us what we can translate from the spirit world. I too am 66. My tree did not come that way, though the breath was out there, and I’ve known your painting long and well. My translation is playful, less down to earth made though it is of earthly parts: bone, plant rib, gut, and wool. My tree alludes, abstracts, floats free, my world not held by your order But the life tree keeps giving, heaven still blesses, and the angels keep calling. |
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